I recently found myself in rural Herefordshire in western England during the wettest period in recorded history. In order to justify my existence, I undertook a photographic project documenting local farm life. I saw more than my share of sheep, rain, mud, and friendly farmers. I was enthralled by the way the ubiquitous border collies work the sheep. They are smart and incredibly enthusiastic. They obviously love their work. Sadly, it is said that the kind of small family farms that I visited are endangered by the trend toward big agribusiness.

In the evenings, the farmers tended to congregate at the local pub, the Kings head, which was the center of social life in these parts. The farmers that I befriended imbibed copious quantities of the local malted beverage, beer that is. Even though my companions drank considerably, they considered themselves lesser men than the man who used to frequent the pub who could drink 18 pints of beer, get up at four the next morning, work all day and come back and repeat the process the following day. About this time I began to feel somewhat judgmental about the glorification of alcohol abuse. One evening there was a new face amongst the regulars. He was somewhat disheveled and teetering around on his stool spilling beer on himself. This is the price one pays for alcoholism I might have self righteously thought. Then came the lesson. The man, called Ivor, has Parkinson’s disease. In spite of this he still runs a successful farm, which among other things is home to a legendary racehorse ranked as one of the top 10 mares of the 20th century! He is also a sportsman and former athlete and, as mentioned earlier, still makes the effort to come to the pub to share time with his mates. Another data point for the don’t judge a book by its cover axiom! By the way, the evening at the pub when I met Ivor, I had humble pie for dessert.