Smallville: A Place In The Country
"The first few nights we quaked under the sheets listening to the thunder of approaching hooves as Red Rum tried to steeplechase over the caravan...'' With many a chuckle along the way, Peter B Farrell tells of his introduction to country living.
At one time the thought of living in a barn would have caused my brain to cloud over. Recent TV programs however have convinced me of the ease and rapidity by which one can buy, convert, renovate, makeover and transform any old pile of bricks, wood, wattle and thatch into an idyllic country retreat, with space for the ponies and paying guests.
With the obligatory Aga, butler’s sink and butcher’s block, produce from the kitchen garden and the expertise of Delia Smith and the delicious Nigella Lawson, the prospect of moving to the peace and tranquillity of the countryside was a tempting one.
My wife gave me a nudge “Wake up. You’re talking in your sleep again.”
Round about the time of the Cuban missile crisis we were looking forward to moving abroad for a three-year stint in the Mediterranean. In the meantime, I was expected to fill a temporary post for eight months in rural Norfolk.
“Think of all the fresh air, do us the world of good,” was my reaction to moving from a back-to-back house in the Industrial North to a caravan in a field.
Our landlords were the local butchers. The family enterprise spread beyond the shop into the surrounding countryside and we shared a field with hens, chickens and geese. Only inches away, separated by three strands of wire were horses, pigs and, occasionally, cattle.
The first few nights we quaked under the sheets listening to the thunder of approaching hooves as Red Rum tried to steeplechase over the caravan.
We took to the new life like fish out of water. Often, armed with a torch and constantly aware of the geese, Red Rum and the odd fox, I had to escort Margaret in the pitch dark to the outside loo, a ramshackle and draughty structure containing the customary bucket and plank arrangement,a few yards downwind from the pigsty.
The mystery of "when and how'' was solved with the arrival every Tuesday of the "Squit'' wagon driven by "Bill and Ben'', two jolly characters who cheerfully roamed the surrounding villages and removed and emptied the unmentionable into their usually overflowing tanks.
“Found this my beauties.'' And I stared in disbelief at the tennis ball they had salvaged.
In a surprisingly short time we were accepted as part of the family and Margaret was dragooned into decorating the farmhouse. “Just don’t move the piano. There wasn’t enough wallpaper,” she advised our hosts.
Meanwhile I quickly learned which animals to dodge, what to feed them on and who was due for an appointment at the adjacent slaughterhouse.
Very little hard cash changed hands. The rent and plentiful supply of fresh meat, poultry and eggs was paid for in kind by collecting eggs, feeding the geese and chickens, cleaning out the pigsty, and lime-washing the slaughterhouse, with the odd bit of car washing in between.
The technique I employed with the egg collecting was to storm the coop, frantically flailing away at the angry Rhode Island reds and Porterhouse blues with a rolled up newspaper and snatching their eggs before they could strip my fingers to the bone.
“...and we need more Elastoplasts.”
The Annual Fete in a nearby village required the presence of the family pony to provide rides for the children. In an effort to impress the natives I volunteered.
“I’d be glad to take him.” And I set off for the village green to a rousing send off.
As soon as we were alone the pony became immobile, “I’ll show you who’s boss” he neighed, and just stood at the side of the road despite my tugging and pleading.
A passing vehicle slowed down.
“Why, Fiona, is that the young chap who, after a very short time has grown completely accustomed to our rural way of life and as such has earned the admiration of us all?”
“The very same Tremaigne. How well I remember when he and his wife first came here and they couldn‘t tell the difference between a White leghorn and a blacksmith’s anvil. We must have them back to the Manse for drinks. Send Dawkins with the Rolls“
All right, but they could have said that.
They drove off laughing. Luckily a passing farmer was taken by my plight. Cutting a stick from the hedge, he showed me how and where to whack the pony. In no time at all it successfully dragged me to the village green.
Our date of departure for overseas finally came through. “That’s the one, I’m fattening it up.” said the youngest of the family. an experienced ten-year-old, indicated the main course which would grace the table for our farewell dinner. The chicken was a fine looking specimen, and from then on I took an active interest in its well-being and development, avoiding eye contact.
Decapitation day arrived. We declined the invitation to assist. “Quite busy, packing you know,” moving upwind, eyes closed with fingers in our ears.
The dinner proved to be a jolly affair with all the family present. Thankfully all good things must come to an end and we said our tearful farewells vowing never to return.
There’s a lot to be said for the green fields, meadows and rolling hills, especially when viewed from 15000 ft. We should be landing in an hour and I have my Big City guidebook at the ready.
