Just past the Alms Houses, the narrow road begins to climb up through the valley; there are wooded slopes on either side, which in springtime, are carpeted with the brilliance of bluebells. Halfway up, there is a gate on the left, and a track; this rises through the woodland and into lush green pastures, which are dotted with fawn coloured Jersey cows, there are sheep on the distant hillside.
Ahead – the house, pale sandstone, 18th century, solid and handsome. To the left of the house is a smaller track, leading down to stables and an ancient barn, which is said to be Tudor – it houses a tractor that looks almost as old as the barn itself.
We had finally left Manchester after another poisonous, smog-filled winter. I had been ill again; I was every winter. The doctor had said it was imperative, considering my bronchitic condition, that we moved somewhere with fresh air. We moved to a village in Cheshire and for the first time in my life, I began to feel well.
My father had told me that now I was 15, I had to get myself a weekend or holiday job, to help with the family expenses. I was heading up the drive to answer an advert – “Youth required, as a general farm help. Some heavy lifting”.
This became both the steepest learning curve, and the most enjoyable year of my life. Rather a lot of lifting it transpired; bales of hay, full churns of milk, large stone troughs, the list was endless – plus driving a tractor, building work, and eating!
My appetite became enormous, eating huge sandwiches in the big farmhouse kitchen, and when I could afford it, fish, chips, mushy peas, pies, tripe; everything I could buy from the local Chippy!
A new life of the farm began to unfold. The realisation dawned that whenever I took a cow on heat into the yard and went to get the bull, mysteriously, the whole family from the youngest to the oldest would turn up, and just as mysteriously disappear when the bull was taken away.
I grew stronger and happier, and by late summer haymaking, brown and tireless. The sun set on golden fields, at the end of each satisfying day. Soon, a frost followed, and the warmth of the kitchen became a retreat from the increasing cold. An Aga, to warm the odd lamb abandoned by its mother; the grandfather clock, which ticked away time, and seemed to say “E-tern-ity, e-tern-ity”; the kitchen was the heart of the house.
The farmer broke his arm. With his instructions, I delivered a breached calf. I managed to turn the calf around inside the cow. The calf fell onto the straw and lay still. The cow began to lick her, then the calf seemed to wake up and began to suckle her mother; I had just witnessed the beginning of the miracle of life.
The farmer’s daughter, who was my age, became my first love; we vowed that one day we would be married. Ah! Teenage love!
The sound of cattle lowing, distant sheep on the hillside, chickens clucking in the warmth of the barn and the sweet smell of silage were ever-present.
All of this is gone now. The farm fields are a golf course, with a few artificial hills, sand pits and ponds. The Farm house is an ‘Exclusive Club House’. The old barn, a Themed Restaurant, and the stable, where I took part in the beginnings of new life, the ‘Pro Golf Shop’. I have never been back to see it – I have never wanted to.
“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there”.
L.P. Hartley
© Jim Anderson, 2024
Jim Anderson 