Thanks to the spell casting prowess of Cindy (see, I married a witch). The field that was adjacent to our garden was now part of the garden of No3 Forsham Cottages. We paid way over the odds for what on paper was agricultural land. But we were not buying agricultural land we were buying garden and DTS (Despite The Spell) our farming neighbour did not actually want to sell land, so a classic case of a seller’s market.
Like a couple of seventeenth century homesteaders we started to clear OUR land of its Logan and Blackberries. This we did before the ink was even on the deeds, let alone dry. We were excitedly anxious to claim our patch and had a notion that the more we stripped out the evidence of cultivation, it lessened the likelihood of bloke next door changing his mind.
There was a lot of posts, a lot of wire, countless fencing staples, and multiple hay stack size mounds of sadistic, bramble briar’s in three acres. Usefully we found a lot of bagging hooks (local term for a sickle) and various pruning tools in the pickers shed which had come as part of the deal. Other than that we had very little in the way of tools and absolutely nothing that could be deemed agricultural machinery. As the plot was ‘land locked’ with the only access being via a six foot wide alley between our house and garage, we were a bit snookered as far as getting any mechanised help. And as we were in yet another one of our ‘dosh free times’ buying or hiring was not an option.
Our tractor and trailer was an old tarpaulin with ropes tied to the corners, on which we stacked the ‘fire fodder’ and manually towed it to the bonfire. So that Cindy could carry on ‘towing’ when I was at work, I made her a ‘lady size’ towing sheet…. those eyes said it all .. and it wasn’t thank you!
Having to construct a new boundary fence, as part of the deal, we recycle the posts, wire and staples that were serviceable. Cindy was the post holder, I hammered in the posts whilst standing on a kitchen chair and swinging a nine pound sledge hammer. When in full swing, and beyond the point of a controlled stop, I just had time to say … “the heads coming“……… before the head parted company with the shaft and hit Cindy in the stomach. I know cavemen are reputed to have clubbed the lady of their choice and drag her back to the lair. But in my case a nine pound sledge hammer head in the belly did nothing to impress!
Tracey (daughter) or as we called her ‘the Kidlet’ was very young at this time, and feral. Her wardrobe consisted of red wellington boots and a miniature tractor suit (overalls) or when she went casual, just red wellies and her pants! The Kidlet spent hours doing nothing, I say “nothing” because whenever you asked what she was up to it was always ‘nothing’, or in her parlance “nutink!” One day whilst doing ‘nutink’ she managed to find some white stuff in an old sack which had been long buried in the tangled grass of the headland, we found her slightly foaming white at the mouth, with a white chalk face pack which extend down to her hand smeared white chest … and she now had fast going white parents …………. she lived.
A really nice local farmer called Bob, delivered some hay, ‘Bob the farmer’s wife’ emerged from the old transit van (she was nice as well) and asked Cindy if she could meet our little girl. We whistled her up (which worked with the dog well) in time our little darling came around the corner. A bit miffed to be called up, because she had been washing her hair in a puddle, golden blond curls were liberally smeared with an Anita Roddick style blend of wet clay and oak leafs, she looked like a cherub version of the Green Man Surprisingly, Kidlet did have her tractor suit on, which went someway to lessen the shock, when the feral Pellett kid met the nice Mrs ‘Bob the Farmer’.