In my first few weeks, as I sailed down the lane on my bike, the fields I passed were just fields, all very much alike, and I was really more interested in the far view of the Hambledon Hills with the vague outline of the white horse to be seen on a clear day - vague because of its wartime camouflage.
But after a few months I found that each field began to have a character of its own. I noticed how much the land varied; how a light sandy field, ideal for carrots, lay next to one with heavy clayey soil, and so on.
I came to know on which gatepost I might expect to see a yellow hammer, and where there was usually a wren to be heard. I know the exact spot where, in the spring, the scent of violets drifted across the lane from Donaldson's field.
At first I thought I preferred the hedges which grew tall and unchecked, leaning over the overgrown ditches. To my mind they were more beautiful than the closely cropped ones further down the lane.
And although I still like to see a hedge which is left to grow in its own sweet way, yet at some time in the years since I first saw the lane I have learned to look upon such a hedge as a sign of a careless farmer. On the other hand, a neat, well-cut hedge with a ditch down which the water runs clearly and freely usually denotes a farmer who is conscientiously looking after his land in all details.
A couple of fields distant from the lane is the railway line, down which, three times a day, the one and only engine known as the 'Coffee Pot' chugged back and forth. I times my watch by its movements, as everyone did, for although it was not particularly punctual, at least it was not far out. And this was useful in a district where wireless sets were dependent on batteries which often managed to peter out just at the wrong moment.
'Coffee' was a very accommodating train, in spite of the regular jerks and jolts which gave rise to the theory that it had one square wheel.
The station is at the top of the lane. One of its chief features in my L.A. days was Wilf. He was the proud possessor of a large walrus moustache, and he seemed to be for ever running up and down issuing orders. It was Wilf who usually came to make sure the cart was properly on the weigh whenever I drove in with a cart-load of sugar-beet, and who told Mr. Pick which was his truck.
The first time I went home for the week-end, I found that I was a bit late for the train, so put on speed as I neared the station on my bike. Being used to City trains, I could hardly believe my ears when the driver leaned out while I was still on the road outside the station fence, and called, 'Don't hurry, we won't go without you.'
And sure enough, he waited while I parked the bike, bought my ticket and climbed in. Often I found that I was the only passenger to the main line station (the sum total of Coffee's run) and if I looked out of the window it was quite usual for the driver to put his head out and hold a shouted conversation with me as we travelled along.
The booking office clerk, the ticket collector, signal-man and guard seemed to be rolled into one, so that it was the usual thing for the same man to go into the office, open the window and sell me a ticket, then follow two yards behind me into the carriage and collect the ticket, then wave off the train, and as it set off get into the guard's van and travel with it.
Many and varied are the things I carried up and down the lane on my bike, ranging from broody hens to drain rods and stook lifters.
The drain rods I collected from Baldrance Farm one day in early March. As I went along the track, I saw that the ground under the trees was carpeted with hundreds of snowdrops. They were a lovely picture in the spring sunshine.
The stook lifters were needed one very wet harvest, to move the stooks in a field which was under-sown with clover.
I had to collect some very strange cargoes at times, and sometimes I had not the faintest idea what I was going for. One day I was told to ride up to the butcher's yard in Easingwold and bring back the 'pluck'. I knew that it had something to do with the pig which I had helped Mr. Pick to put into the float the day before and which he had taken to be killed. So off I went, taking with me six rabbits. These I handed in at the slaughter house, and asked for the pluck. I was given the pig's liver!
Another time I went to Baldrance for a 'pole-end'.
One thing I became quite expert at balancing on my bike was a large butcher's basket full of eggs, which I took at regular intervals to Easingwold. On market days I often took a basket of live hens. At other times it would be a large sack of sprouts, or I would ride home with a live hen under one arm. But what I would have done without my bike I can't imagine.
Near the top of the lane is a corner which always was an eventful place in my travels up and down. It is a corner I like, because over the gate is a nursery-man's field full of young chestnut trees which were always favorites of mine. This gate always reminds me of the time I tried to mount Prince. I led him to the gate, and climbed on top of it. So far it was easy, but every time I attempted to reach across into Prince's back he moved away - never very far, but just a foot or so out of reach.
I dare not tie him there by the halter rope, because I would never have been able to reach down far enough from his wide, slippery, bare back to untie it. We must have done this at least a dozen times before I gave up the struggle and led him back. I am sure he thought it was a great joke.
At the same corner I nearly fell my bike one dark night, when something white came through the hedge within inches of my face. I was nearly home before I realised that it was only a white faced cow looking through a gap!
On this eventful corner I really did fall off my bike one night. It was one of the darkest of nights, when you just couldn't see anything ahead. Having left the houses behind, and being in our own lane, I did what almost all the country people who know every twist and turn by instinct usually do - I turned off my headlamp. I was sailing along merrily, when I suddenly hit something, flew off my bike, and landed on some grass. I fished out my flashlamp from my pocket, switched it on, and nearly collapsed with laughter. For my bike was lying in the road with Mr. Donaldson's on top of it, and he and I were sitting side by side in the ditch!
It was a head-on collision, but no damage had been done, and we were both soon on our way again, having grinned at each other as we turned both our headlamps on.
It was near here, too, that a cow broke through the hedge and led us on a fine chase across fields and gardens. We were taking this particular cow to the butcher's, and though never before had we seen her so much as walk quickly, we had no sooner got her on to the road when she began to run. It was all we could do to keep up. Mr. Pick and I were both wearing our raincoats because of the fine, misty rain which was falling, and by the time we reached the top of the lane at this speed we were far from cool! On the corner, without any warning, she saw a gap in the hedge, and was through it before we could head her off. So through the hedge we had to follow her, into a meadow of long grass which was dripping wet. I believe we went twice round this field. But worse was to follow, for she suddenly shot through another gap, and following on we found ourselves in a garden, picking our way over rows of young vegetables. Up the garden path we followed the cow, through the gate, through another garden, and finally up the middle of the main road, still running. Fortunately she took the right turning, and putting on a final spurt we headed her into the butcher's yard. We both heaved a sigh of relief, which turned to gasps of dismay, for an office boy came through a door into the yard - and left the door open! Thinking, no doubt, that here was another gap to be explored, our cow trotted straight into the office.
But worse was to follow. We gathered from the noise and shouting, and from the speed with which the office boy ran for a floor cloth, that something had happened which does not usually happen in an office!
We beat a hasty retreat out of the yard, and waited till the tumult had calmed down and we had recovered somewhat from our laughter (which was not shared by the office staff!) Then we walked back in, looking as innocent as we could.
It would make life much easier if the hedges in the lane had fewer gaps. All the same, I enjoyed out lane, whether I was trudging behind cattle, plodding along beside a cart, riding a cart horse, driving the wagon, cycling or just walking.
It was lovely in all seasons, but especially so when the hedge parsley was in full bloom and the road wound between banks of feathery white, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted down from the hedges.