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It started with a flicker on the roadside. A glint of sun off twine. One big yellow brute of a bale sitting squat in the corner of a freshly razored field—a rectangle of resurrection.
Then another. And another. The straw is back. And not the neat little squares your uncle used to stack in his Land Rover for the village fête. No—these are giant rectangular cubes of agricultural intent, each one weighing half a tonne and looking like something you'd use to block a runway. We're in a straw boom. And hardly anyone's talking about it. |