Set down on a loose leaf kept with field notes and wages.
7 January 1924
Frost been down hard all week. Ground’s set right through. You can hear it ring if you strike it, and there’s no getting a blade in without iron and swearing.
I shifted the stone by the lower gate yester morning. It was off, leaning in, and that won’t do. Got the bar under it and prized it out, then dragged it clear toward the fence where it ought to sit. Took some doing. Had to rock it and curse it both. Packed what I could about the foot, though it was all like brick.
Stamped grit round till my heel ached and left the mark plain in the frost.
Hands were dead after.
This morning it was back.
Not over. Not sunk. Back. Same lean as before. Same face to it. The chip on the corner was where it always is.
I stood with it a bit, to make sure I wasn’t being daft. Frost hadn’t lifted. No rain in the night. No soft patch round it. Ground was tight same as the rest.
No heel where I’d set it.
Told myself I’d not pulled it as far as I thought. Cold makes you careless. Makes you think you’ve done more than you have.
Shifted it again. Further this time. Near two foot, and clear of the old hollow. Wedged it with broken stone and stamped grit round till my heel ached again. I looked back once from the fence to be certain.
Didn’t go straight back this morning. Had pens to see to and feed to get out. Left the lower field till after.
It was back when I came down.
Set as it had been. Ground about it clean and hard. No mark of working. It sat there as if it had never been touched.
I left it.
There’s no sense fighting ground in winter. You’ll only break yourself and get nowhere. Gate swings well enough. Stone does no harm where it stands.
Marked it on the paper.
I’m not moving it again.