I was having one of those days, sitting at my desk with a pristine but worryingly empty pad in front of me — and nothing would come. Normally words pour forth and my pen approaches melt down as it endeavours to cope with my flying scroll. But not this day!

Through the office window Salty wandered into view. He is our old donkey and in many ways smarter than me. He doesn’t have to work for a living. I have to work, not only to support my wife and old tractors, but also him!

Then I got to thinking — how many people read what I write anyway? With my books I can judge fairly accurately, simply by how many are sold. On the other hand, often the only feedback magazine writers get is when irate readers write in complaining about a perceived inaccuracy. Generally they are wrong, but sometimes they are right.

In this regard I am like Salty — lucky! During the light years I have been writing for this and its sister magazines I have never received a complaint. Perhaps it has to do with the subject matter. After all, old classic tractors are like old dogs, or old slippers, or even old donkeys. They are much loved benign things. One doesn’t find fault with them, or with those who write about them.

In fact, if it was not for my tendency towards modesty, I might even believe my articles have engendered farmers to look with renewed interest at (for example) Grandpa’s old Fordson abandoned under the peppercorn tree. Nobody is sure, but the popular belief is it was parked there after the flood. The ‘55 one that is.

Then there is the old Inter with the steel wheels down by the creek, half buried in the bank. Even old Uncle Fred cannot recall how or when it got there. In fact nobody can recall when it wasn’t there !

So, if in fact the above scenarios occur and aged Fordsons and Inters, plus of course Olivers, Hanomags, John Deeres and so forth, are recovered from their places of abandonment and restored to their original magnificence as a result of my articles, then I am well satisfied.

Perceptive readers of my offerings will have noted that at the conclusion of each, I produce a challenge in the form of a mystery classic tractor quiz. Now I can say with certainty, even perhaps with a slight degree of perverse satisfaction, that this stimulation to the reader’s little grey cells is considered by many to be a provocation that requires immediate confrontation.

For instance, I am aware of a normally quiet unassuming farmer named Harold who, upon receiving the magazine, immediately peruses the quiz, then rushes to phone Gus at The Four Mile in order to compare notes. Naturally being gentlemen of impeccable character, neither would dream of turning to the answer page prior to airing his knowledge.

Thankfully following my period of soul searching and contemplation, I have finally responded to Salty’s accusing stare through the window. Perhaps some of his intelligence has been communicated via the celestial waves to my cerebral region, because (at last) herewith is a series of tractor brain teasers, which I trust will not over excite the normally placid Harold.

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