By James Stone

Only mad dogs and Luton men choose to spend their hard-earned holidays digging up potatoes and mucking out horses on a Scottish farm. Or so went the sniggering chorus of my friends when I told them I had signed up to Wwoof, an organisation offering World-Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms.

And I must say, as I stuffed my wellies and gardening gloves into my backpack, I did glance longingly at my sun cream and, for one brief moment, wondered what I had got myself into. What had I done? I thought. Why would I choose mucking out horses when I could be riding them on the beach?

But, as I sat on the train to Scotland, these thoughts were soon replaced with romantic fantasies of hearty English dinners – lamb, tatties and beans – cooked in an Aga and served on a big wooden table. Images of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall sprung to mind and I felt organic and wholesome and green.

One coach journey, and four imaginary roast dinners later, I arrived at the farm on the Isle of Lewis. There I was met by Gill and Andrew, who greeted me with freshly cured ham sandwiches and welcoming smiles. They took me to my room, which was comfortable and homely and without a digital television box or soap sample in sight. I set down my luggage, pulled on my wellies and headed out to the farm to do a couple of hours work and earn my evening feed.

There was something primal and reassuring about being so close to the food – if you don't dig, you don't eat. I paid nothing for my accommodation and food, instead putting in my time on the fields, where my tasks ranged from pulling potatoes to cultivating the organic hayfields. And yes, I did muck out the horses which, surprisingly, wasn't as hellish as I'd imagined.

There were also chickens, sheep and Shetland cattle on the 20-acre farm, as well as two ducks who I affectionately named Tilly and Milly despite the fact I knew they would probably end up in my belly. Eating the very animals I had been rearing that day was a bit difficult at first, but at least I knew they had been properly looked after. I also felt better knowing that not a morsel of meat would go to waste – Gill and Andrew put in sterling work on the stripping, stewing and carving.

In the evenings I was shattered, and I rested my aching legs by the fire as I chatted to my hosts, or spent them in bed reading. I returned home mud-splattered and barking madly about my adventures with Tilly and Milly and Gill. Golden brown I was not, but, covered in mud and filled with a week's worth of shepherd's pie, I felt fit, energised and thoroughly deserving of my beach holiday.

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