Very heartily I agree with W. H. Davies. In spite of the fact that I was not born in the country, I must admit to a great inclination to just lean on a gate and gaze at a field of ripening corn, or at a cow contentedly grazing amongst the buttercups. It gives me a sense of peace, and peace was at a premium in war-time.
There is something very satisfying about standing still and looking at something which is naturally beautiful; a satisfaction which is not often found in a town.
I must admit, though, that while living in the country I did not seem to have much time to stand and stare. Yet in some way the feeling of being very close to the things of nature was always there, and whenever there was a spare moment there was always so much to be seen. Often in the middle of a job, a scent would be wafted across to me, and I would pause for a second to identify it. The scent of hawthorn blossoms in May, the loveliest of all months; or the good scent of earth after a shower; the perfume of the sycamore flowers, accompanied as it usually is by the buzzing if the bees which seem to love the inconspicuous flower. But the scent which I consider to be loveliest of all I came upon quite by accident. I was cycling out to a small village some miles from Easingwold one Sunday afternoon. It was a beautifully hot, sunny day. As I reached the top of a small hill, a breath of warm air brought to me a scent which was so sweet that I dropped my bike against a hedge, and went to investigate. It was a field of beans in full flower, and a scent I will never forget.
There are sounds, too, which belong to the country, and which are mostly unnoticed except in those moments when you really stand and stare. The sound of cows cropping the grass - a nice tearing sound as its tongue winds round the stems and snaps them off close to the ground; the ping of the first squirt of milk into a bucket; the first surprised and almost startled grunt of a new calf; and the many songs of the birds, which are the best sounds of all.
I often thought what a pity it was that the days were so full that there was not enough time to examine everything in detail. So many things seen and hea rd in passing, would warrant a closer study, if only there was more time to spare. But farming, especially the care of the stock, is a full time job.
Thinking along these lines, I came across a suggestion with which I heartily agree. The author was Miss M. M. Leigh, and her suggestion was - 'That it might not be a waste of time and money if the Trades Union Congress, instead of dabbling in high finance, subsidised livestock breeders to evolve a six-day cow that would skip Sunday and produce a double quantity on Monday.'
What an intriguing idea! Though I might be one of those very fortunate people who can choose their place of retirement, and retire while they are still reasonably fit. For my chosen place would be among the country people and within sight of the fields.
I came to the farm wondering how I would fit in with the country people, and with the vague idea that you had to live there for twenty years at least before you were even accepted and could begin to feel at home. Nothing could be further from the truth in my experience anyway. The people of Easingwold were, almost without exception, very friendly and helpful, and I quickly felt at home. Easingwold is just the right size - I almost said 'for a village', but that would not do, for it is proud of being a market town, complete with a small Town Hall, an oblong building, the lower half of which was a cinema.
I was soon roped in to do various jobs in the Methodist Church, and the people there were especially kind. Of course, I began with the big advantage of being with the Picks, who treated me as one of the family. So much so, that after I eventually left the farm, Mrs. Pick would write and tell me if their boy, Sam, was ill, 'because' she said, 'you are part-owner!'
On the morning when he was born, I cycled up to Easingwold to ring the hospital in York. 'Yes,' said the voice on the phone, 'Mrs. Pick has a little boy, and both are satisfactory.'
I flew back to the farm, and up to the fields to find Mr. Pick and give him the news. Then in to tell Maud, my sister-in-law who had come to live at the farm while Mrs. Pick was away. Then back to Easingwold to tell Mona, Mrs. Pick's friend. We didn’t do much work that day!
As time went on, I grew to love the feel of the soil under my feet and on my hands - and I still do. I knew that I was part of all this - the earth, the trees, flowers, grass, corn. Part of the life which ran through it all. Life was not part the haphazard thing it sometimes seemed. It was part of a plan - the plan of the Creator, and had a purpose.
This, then, was the faith of the country-side. I often thought of those lines written by Norman Gale,
Here in the country's heart
Where the grass is green
Life is the same sweet life
As it o'er hath been.
Trust in a God still lives,
And the bell at morn
Floats with a thought of God
O'er the rising corn.
God comes down in the rain,
And the crops grow tall -
This is the country faith,
And the best of all!
The country faith - yes, and my faith too, and assuredly the best of all.