Inside Jeremy Clarkson’s Diddly Squat Farm Journey: Tractor Trouble, Pig Chaos, and a Harvest Under Pressure

In the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, former Top Gear host turned novice farmer Jeremy Clarkson is turning heads—and turning over fences—with his latest agricultural escapades at Diddly Squat Farm. Fresh off a test drive that sealed the deal, Clarkson has splashed out on a colossal Lamborghini R8 tractor, a behemoth weighing 10 tons with 40 forward and 40 reverse gears. “This thing is enormous. Everything about it is just vast,” Clarkson enthused, ditching his smaller Massey Ferguson for what he hopes will be a farming powerhouse.

But size isn’t everything, as Clarkson quickly discovered. Upon arrival at the farm, girlfriend Lisa Hogan was unimpressed: “That’s too big.” Land agent Charlie Ireland, Clarkson’s guiding hand for the year, pointed out a critical flaw: “It’s got the wrong hitch on. That’s a European hitch.” Sourced from Germany, the tractor proved incompatible with local equipment, leaving Clarkson unable to attach implements. “I think it’s a vast tractor… too big,” Ireland concluded, echoing concerns about its practicality on the modest farm.

Undeterred by mechanical mismatches, Clarkson dove into other farm woes. A limping sheep crisis prompted a deep dive into veterinary texts obsessed with “sheep’s vaginas” and ailments like cod ulcerated hooves and hair loss stretching. Out of his depth, Clarkson summoned vet Dillwin: “I’ve only got 78 and I’ve broken four of them.” The diagnosis? Swelling and bleeding, treated with antibiotic sprays and injections. “Don’t be hard on yourself,” Dillwin advised, though the bill left Clarkson pondering: “Think of a number and double it.”

Watering woes followed, with Clarkson hauling 1,000 gallons to irrigate a parched field for pumpkins and sweet corn. After five hours of effort, the tank emptied after just one and a quarter runs. “You’ve just put a millimeter of rain,” Ireland lamented. “It’s evaporated already.” With no rain forecast for a fortnight, Clarkson’s Halloween pumpkin dreams wilted: “How do I make them live?”

Piggery pandemonium ensued when a young gilt escaped into the boar’s pen, sparking jealousy and an impromptu “orgy.” Clarkson distracted the older sow with ginger nut biscuits while the boar got busy: “He’s on already… Let him finish.” Caleb, the farm’s straight-talking handyman, was horrified: “You put the boar in here and then in a week’s space you put it in with the other lot? You’re joking… You’re going to have 50 piglets at the same time.”

In a bid for “new farming,” Clarkson turned to blackberry jam-making: “1 hour’s work… pure profit.” But Ireland rained on the parade with regulations: “Have you done your food hygiene test? What pH is it? Does it contain any allergens?” Unweighed berries and unlisted ingredients like potassium metabisulfite scuttled the plan. “You can’t use that… You need to start again.”

Fences fell victim to sheep vandalism, keeping local waller Gerald busy. Clarkson’s chats with the enigmatic Gerald—filled with cryptic tales of quarries, masks, and “animals of a horse”—provided comic relief. “I love chatting with him, even though most of the time I’m never entirely sure what we’re chatting about,” Clarkson admitted.

Harvesting brought more drama. Teaming with 72-year-old Gerald (no relation) on the combine, Clarkson navigated cryptic instructions: “If you didn’t go too fast… I can sink in the morning.” A security upgrade for valuable fertilizer involved smoke canisters and sirens, with head of security Tommy quipping about “big men with axes.”

Drilling seeds proved baffling: “I reckon you could drop a cruise missile on Damascus more easily.” Environmental gains from no-till farming were noted—”Greta Thunberg likes this”—but mishaps persisted, including a missed patch: “You missed a bit… Guarantee if you make a cock-up in the middle of nowhere, someone’s going to see it.”

Erecting a telegraph pole turned chaotic: “You’re mad,” Caleb said of Clarkson’s rope plan. A smashed fence later, blame flew: “That was your fault… Every single hand signal was perfectly fine, but you just wasn’t looking.”

Pigs impressed despite rushed fencing: “Lisa and me… in a rainstorm at night.” Caleb critiqued: “You haven’t even got all the posts the same height… Did you use a string line?” But escapes were nil, though the synchronized breeding raised eyebrows.

Harvest climaxed in storage strife: 10 acres filled a lorry, with 140 left. “20 lorries you should have organized,” Caleb chided. Rain loomed, barns overflowed: “I made the mistake about 9 months ago… That barn’s perfectly big enough.” Fencing fixes involved precarious maneuvers: “This is totally safe, isn’t it?”

Gerald’s return post-cancer treatment—37 radiotherapy sessions, described vividly as “a big round mushroom whizzing around… like mowing grass with a mower”—warmed hearts: “You have no idea how much we’ve all missed you.”

Clarkson’s farm life, riddled with mishaps and mateship, underscores the gritty reality behind the glamour. As he quipped amid the chaos: “I hate farming.” Yet, the passion persists.