Summer 2003

Mrs Hannah Stanners

Rest here a while, let go the cares of another busy day and take a glimpse into one magical day five summers ago, far away to the South, in rural Dorset.

Close your eyes and feel the hot sun on your skin and the warm air seeming to envelope you on a cloudless, late July afternoon, the only sounds you hear are raucous chirping birdsongs of the dusty sparrows and the steady drone of the unseen tractors in perfect harmony with the combine harvester, intent on the gathering in of the ripened crops that spread before your eyes in a water colour patchwork of yellow and gold and green.

It feels like the hottest day so far and we all reluctantly leave the shade of the farm yard and climb aboard the trailer, that affords little in the way of comfort as we lurch and bounce our way to the next field, hanging on tightly, but thankful at least for the rest and so very glad of the cool breeze that fills our carriage. The fields stretch away into the distance to the left and right, ahead the dusty, rutted farm track meanders into the distance.

We rumble on until at last we reach our destination, there is no shade anywhere in the vast field, not a cloud in the sky, thankfully, just a hint of a warm breeze stirs the ripening corn, and sends a magical ripple of almost fluid movement to the skyline. We take our positions across the field and begin to move through the waist high crop that rustles and swishes as we make our way forward, searching out the tall bright green stems of the wild oats. Pushing on through the yielding golden crop, stooping to pull as much of the bright green invasive wild oat we are tasked to clear, our bags become heavier as the cunning weed seemingly makes sure there is more and more of the sticky clay earth hanging fast to the roots, as we strain to pull it clear of the baked earth.

Briefly standing straight to stretch our aching backs and to wipe the sweat from our brow, we all notice with a sinking heart how the end of the field seems to be getting impossibly further and further away, sighing, we carry on.

Suddenly, just up ahead there is a sudden commotion as deer, startled by our rustling approach, sense a threat ,break cover and bound away to safety, leaping effortlessly through the tall stems that envelope us and seemingly hold us fast. It is quite wonderful to see such wild creatures so close up, to see the shimmer of the sun on their glossy coats, to see the spark of life in their eyes, even for a moment and to watch mesmerised the graceful, if somewhat hasty departure. We all feel a pang of conscience at having disturbed these beautiful creatures on such a hot afternoon.

We are all glad of the diversion and a chance to rest, there is a buzz of conversation amongst us and the sound of laughter, then reluctantly and quietly we carry on, the incline beginning to take its toll on our aching legs as we move forward once more until at last we reach the top of the field and are released from the grip of the waist high crop stumbling onto the empty dusty track we are glad to drop our heavy bags.

Around us the fields and cool dark green woodland stretch away into the distance, looking south, through the late afternoon heat haze, we can just make out the shimmering blue sea and beyond that white chalky cliffs of the Isle of Wight.

It was a bewitching afternoon, precious and brief a time my late husband and I never forgot and now at times when I feel most lost and alone I think again of that incredible day that we were fortunate enough to share together.