We've always been farmers. If you check the parish records you'll find us Marshvines going back all the way to the Domesday Book and probably earlier still. For as long as there've been farmers in this county. there's been us and our own records proudly saying that we were here and we are here still.
As a child I'd spend hours going through the old family photos, looking at long-dead cousins who had the same smile as me or aunts who did their hair like my mum does hers. It all seemed to connect to us and the land around us in a perfectly endless circle.
Until my grandad died and grandma put out a scarecrow in his honour - he'd always loved making scarecrows you see, dressed them for every occasion and even managed to sell a few. They were just another part of his farm and I never even minded them but this one was different.
He seemed to move every single day, following when you aren't looking and somehow always managing to make me jump a mile out of my boots. It wasn't in the same way as Grandad's old good-natured pranks either, it felt intentional. It felt malicious.
It felt like someone's hateful eyes were burning a hole into my back as I turned around and saw him.
The scarecrow's straw face contorted into a parody of a smile, one I remembered seeing in the family album.
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