Introducing myself as a ‘farmer’s daughter’ is a bit of a liberty given that more obvious descriptors for me would be ‘pensioner’ ,‘granny’ or ‘boring old bat’ but as we are now living in a brave new world of fake news and alternative facts, it is unusually accurate and welcomingly truthful – I am a farmer’s daughter and have been all my life.

So, having established my agricultural credentials, I shall now go forth and declare war on – oh any number of things as you might care to share with me over the next few episodes of this column.

Having spent the past 40 years working in newspapers, film and television in various urban centres of the UK, the momentous decision by my husband (aka Him Inside) and me to up our metropolitan sticks and retire to the back of beyond has posed the odd problem or thousand.

From a main access artery that is anything but rested and thankful, through the bew build planning nightmare to man eating mice – no, really.

But let’s start with the biggest, baddest beastie about – yes, for my inaugural rant, I choose bracken.

I have been battling bracken ever since we first encountered this piece of Argyll which has since become home to me and Him Inside.

We were looking for the perfect plot to build the house to die in and fulfil my dreams of returning to my agricultural roots after decades in city exile.

You would have thought that the two mile hike across bog, bramble and bracken would have put us off.

But somehow, six years of pain and purgatory to rival childbirth and Defra form filling combined, we have built and are now living in the house to die in.

When I say we ‘built’ – obviously an accountant (Him Inside) and journalist/farmer’s daughter (me) are not best equipped to do anything more practical than price PV panels and pick paint pots, so, in the pursuit of truth and honesty, I must clarify that it has been an army of proper builders, joiners, electricians, plumbers, plasterers and therapists who have built this house in which we shall surely die... one day hopefully far in the future, but if, and only if, we can beat the bracken.

Trying to carve out a ‘garden’ in deepest darkest rural Scotland is a battle on many fronts.

First, there were the badgers. Special, very expensive gates had to be created for them to cross our land if the notion came upon them to stroll out from their sett.

Then there were the deer. They need high fences (expensive) and deer repellent trees and plants (expensive and ugly). And then what I believed to be the final combatant in the evil anti garden triumvirate were The Sheep.

Obviously, this corner of rural tranquillity has for centuries been the fertile playground for Blackface sheep and despite my lifelong aversion to all things sheep, being more of a horsey farmer’s daughter, even I appreciated the sensitivities of carpet bagging their pastures.

However, that’s exactly what we proceeded to do, with sheep proof dry stane dykes, chainlock fencing and big five barred gates springing up all around to defend our Argyll acre.

Finally, I believed we had created a safe house for horticultural high art with a rigidly enforced all white and green colour scheme and set to work spending small fortunes on oaks, acers, fruit trees, heathers, hydrangeas, viburnum, willow, oaks, beech, birch, rare rhododendrons and – daffodils. Millions of them. All white. Trust me, they’re called ‘Cheerfulness’ and they are practically white in every way.

The seas of mud and building debris receded. Green and pleasant land began to emerge. My vision of cultivated countryside was taking physical shape.

Unfortunately, also taking shape before my eyes were little green curly tendrils that looked cute and as they seemed to be for free, I thought “How marvellous – some naturalised, indigenous plant specimens!”

Huh, that’s how they start, the bracken beasts. But at a rate a proper plant would envy, they explode into rampant, tick hoarding, snake concealing, midge loving, daffodil smothering briffids.

As far as I can establish there is absolutely no point in bracken. Nothing eats it. Not even goats which will eat dirty old knickers given the chance. They are the well poisoners of the weed world. And boy, do I hate them.

I’ve looked up bracken on the Scottish Natural Heritage website, so there is nothing fake news about this statement: “Bracken (Pteridium aquilinium) is a vigorous and aggressive fern, spreading rapidly by means of strong underground stems or ‘rhizomes’... a major weed in many upland and upland margin areas, causing management problems in agriculture, forestry, conservation, game management and recreation.”

It goes on to witter about being known to support more than 40 species of invertebrate and providing shelter for reptiles and ring ouzel – but, seriously, who cares?

So, bracken: it is war. I have made it my mission to eliminate every filthy frond and fern. From dawn to dusk, I will be cutting and stamping and bending and beating. It’s my new full time job.

But as the bracken corpses mount up, what to do with them? Burning is too good for them. And it was then it came to me. There is a use for the evil red rubbish after all.

You see, in this neck of the back woods, one of the most important events in the calendar is the annual Scarecrow Competition. And I had decided to create the scariest crow in the world: the current President of the United States of America. And what makes a perfect hair piece for The Donald Scarecrow/ dead bracken. A true, non alternative fact, folks.

PS We didn’t win the Scarecrow Competition – too big on concept, too light on craft – but I understand we’re in the running for best hair and make-up.