Open Writing

The first thing I am conscious of as I sleepily open my eyes is the ringing of the church bells from the parish church nearby. So it really is Sunday, but is it wet or fine? Fingers crossed as I creep to the window, pull back the curtains and sunlight floods the small bedroom. We can go.

Downstairs I can hear movement from the kitchen as Mum cooks the Sunday breakfast, bacon and fried tomatoes. What a wonderful way to start what promises to be another exciting expedition.

Ours was a typical working class family in so many ways. Dad worked as a labourer for the local council, and the only day off was Sunday. A 48-hour week included working on Saturday. Most of our friends were packed off to Sunday School to give parents a breather. In the winter and if it rained, so were we. But if the sun shone during the spring and summer we went on a picnic.

Today would be such a day. They would both have been up for some time, cutting sandwiches, collecting the paraphernalia the expedition required, and as soon as breakfast was over we would be away, off to Ashey Downs.

A necessary piece of equipment was the high pram which, long after its conventional use was finished, became our ‘donkey’. The false bottom was filled with the cups, plates, food, etc., the lid replaced and then coats and waterproofs laid on top. It might be necessary for either my sister or I to have a lift on the return journey. After all it was quite a way to The Downs. Three miles in fact, but such a distance was no deterrent in the days before nearly everyone had a car. The doctor, a few tradesmen might, but not even schoolteachers were the proud possessors of a vehicle -- for us it was shank’s pony.

The small town of Ryde was soon left behind. The roads narrowed, the banks telling the season by the variety of flowering plants they arrayed. From the primroses of early spring to the berries of autumn there was always something to admire. At last the lane leading to our special place was spotted. We turned from the road and began the final part of the journey.

Tarmacadam gives way to chalk as the road is left behind, and a narrow lane opens up before us, climbing steadily to the hill top, beckoning ever upwards. The rough path lies between hedges thick with brambles and saplings where secret rustlings betray the presence of many small creatures to whom this place is home.

The copse on the right hides the nests of robins, thrushes, chaffinches and other small birds. Here too the blackbird has his haunts. His piercing alarm call often fills the air. The dense undergrowth provides excellent cover for his scratching and scrabbling as he hunts for worms and beetles. Wild clematis (‘daddy-man’s beard’ to the locals) festoons the branches of hazel and hawthorn, whose nuts and berries will provide winter feeding for so many of the animals who make this their home.

Soon the path becomes a track, the hedges get thinner and then finally disappear as the open space of the downs takes over. Startled rabbits scuttle in either direction aiming for the banks which are riddled with holes, the entrance to the honeycomb of burrows which undermine the whole area. Everywhere clumps of gorse bushes flash golden in the sunlight. They provide a temporary shelter for those rabbits who don’t quite make it home.

This is where the first primroses bloom, pale against the scented yellow blossom towering above them. Sometimes there will be hiding a clump of early violets, adding their fragrance to welcome the spring.

Now the path dissolves under a carpet of close-cropped grass where the sheep, who wander freely, have mown the ‘lawn’ to perfection. The air is full of the song of the larks as they climb higher and higher. A kestrel hovers, ever watchful, its wonderful eye able to detect the slightest movement of mouse or shrew.

Soft round hills roll on either side, a cuckoo calls across the valley, fluffy white clouds dot the sky -- all is peace. Far away small fields surround even smaller farm buildings.

A puff of smoke reveals where a toy-town train winds its way through tunnels of trees. Before they became too elderly my grandparents came to the nearest railway station, a mere mile away, and from our vantage point we could watch their slow progress to join us. On a clear day it is possible to see sunlight glinting on the sea miles away. Now we are at the top -- we are there!

Dashing forward, eager to be the first to reach the sacred spot, we fall to the ground, laughing. Meanwhile my brother, being the eldest and a boy, has gone to collect water from the nearest farm. Our duty is to find enough dry kindling to start a fire. Dad retrieves the large flat stones, hidden since our last visit. These form the hob on which the kettle will sit.

Mum is in charge of the food. Sandwiches are unpacked, lettuce removed from its damp packing. The fruit, the cheese are spread on the special picnic tablecloth. Soon the kettle is singing, the teapot produced, cups, milk and sugar appear.

Was there ever a taste quite like that? Dry and thirsty after our long climb, it was more like nectar than the smoky brew it was in reality. No Coca Cola then.

As soon as the picnic was finished we were supposed to have a rest. Mum and Dad were soon dozing. This was our cue. We were away, perhaps to play hide-and-seek. French cricket was my brother’s favourite. (I was always out after the first ball!)

When he bored of any game because he always won, he would attempt one of his reckless pursuits. This might be to climb a favourite tree, whose spreading branches at the top became the cockpit of a fighter aircraft. He had recently been to a local air show, all the rage at the time.

If he was feeling particularly adventurous, off he would go, my sister and I trailing behind, to where he had hidden an old tin tray. A few more steps and we were on the edge of a steep chalk pit. From here, using the tray as a sledge, he would career down at a breakneck speed while I would stand rooted to the spot waiting for the inevitable crash. I was always the nervous one. Miraculously he never failed to get to the bottom in one piece, from where he would wave the tray triumphantly in the air. We would creep back to the picnic site, exhausted.

Mum and Dad knew where the first flowers were to be found, violets, primroses, bluebells, bee-orchids and many more. They knew too the best places for blackberries, sloes and above all mushrooms.

As soon as they had left on a foraging trip and were out of sight, the most daring exploit was possible. We all three knew where hung the long strands of daddy-man’s beard, whose hollow stems were perfect for the ‘adventure’. Smoking! Carefully approaching the dying bonfire, dipping one end of the twig into the heat, then sucking as hard as you can on the other, spluttering and coughing. We were smoking. The day was complete.

Soon Mum and Dad would return with their bounty. Time to pack up. We always seemed to go home with more than we brought. How lucky we were. Tired and grubby, we reloaded the pram, said goodbye and began the homeward journey, which was eased by the choruses of the current hits. ‘If I Had a Talking Picture of You’ was the favourite. The miles seemed to disappear.

Many, many years have gone by since those halcyon days. Only photographs remain of those loved ones. But the joy and wonder they brought to my sister and me remain, and our lives have been so enriched. The memories we pass on to our grandchildren. May they be as lucky.