Dirty hands and rocket

We have created and planted a raised vegetable bed outside the kitchen door with rocket, various salad leaf, herbs, and tomatoes.  It was my idea but not entirely my own work.  My wife designed the bed and did most of the detailed planning.  She also bought the wood and built it. I provided the heavy labour: digging, turning the sod, driving the wheelbarrow, hefting this and that, hewing where required, etc.  The finished bed looks good, everything is growing fast in the warm, wet weather, and we can of course eat the results.  Rocket salad with shaved Parmesan is a particular favourite. However, I have been reminded again that I would not have enjoyed being a peasant farmer regardless of the satisfaction to be gained from 'growing my own food'.  Son of the soil I am not.  I was impressed too with the quantity of compost the raised bed took to fill, the huge number of stones sifted from the soil, the variety of bugs and creepy crawlies to be found in a few square metres of ground, and the length of time it took to scrub my hands and fingernails clean.  If time suddenly reversed back to the Middle Ages, I would definitely want to be a monk in the scriptorium.  Or, failing that, a handmaid for Hildegard of Bingen.