TRULY RURAL 1942

After my mum died, I found this typewritten essay in a folder labelled 'Creative Writing'.  Reading it brought back such vivid memories of this time of my life, I've copied it faithfully and would like to share it here.

We arrived at the house one sunny morning in August; Sycamore House, and there was no mistaking why. A really enormous tree stood in the front garden and as we entered into what was to be our temporary home, we felt that even though the rooms were dark from the shadows of the tree, it was a comfortable house, and we would stay as long as the dictates of fate decided.
Our hostess was old and sweet and delighted to have company, and as she showed us to our rooms, I gradually became aware of the lack of comforts to which I, as a city girl had become accustomed.  There was no water at all, no gas or electricity, hence no bath or toilet, and only an oil lamp for lighting. A coal fire and a primus stove were our only means of heat for cooking.  A walk to the well about fifty yards away was necessary before we could have a cup of tea, and for soft rainwater, we found a tank at the back of the house.  But surely rainwater should be fairly clean!  I found to my horror, minute living animal life swimming about, like very tiny worms.  They were a reddish colour, presumably from the rust of the tank.  Oh dear, my sensitive feelings were already revolting, but I was determined to make the best of the situation.
The real test came only three days later, when the dear lady suddenly became ill.  She was unable to get up, so I was asked to feed the animals, and she told me what to give them.  There was the cat, a pig by the name of Jinny and about a hundred hens, housed in two cotes in a fair sized field at the rear of the house.  The cat of course was easy to cope with, but the thought of the pig was much more frightening than she actually turned out to be.  I prepared her bucket of food, and arming myself with a stout stick, undid the door of her shed, positively trembling with apprehension.  How did I know that she would lie down at my feet simply asking to have her tummy rubbed?  After that first encounter we were great friends.
The fowl presented no great difficulty that first afternoon, though my walk and voice sounded much more confident than my heart felt.  Until then, I had hardly known one end of a fowl from the other.  I was learning fast.  It was the evening performance of getting them all safely under their roof, which caused me the most worry.  I went out armed with my stick, round by the barn to the gate leading into the field, and there to my consternation was a flock of sheep, with the hens all in the same field, and my path to the hen-cotes barred by a group of the biggest sheep I had ever seen.  I ran back to the house to our good lady to tell her.  “Oh yes” she said, “Farmer so-and–so rents the field off me and the sheep go in some part of most days.”
Oh dear?!! How was I to get past those terrifying animals?  On previous rambles and cycle rides, I had always kept at a very respectful distance from any animals, but this emergency had to be faced, so out I went once more, and on reaching the gate again, I shouted like, I hoped, a real farmer, and brandishing my stick marched forward into the field.  The effect was not miraculous… they scurried away in small groups, then stood and stared momentarily before cropping at the grass again.  I seemed to do an awful lot of shouting and waving of my arms until I finally reached the hens, then I had to coax the little blighters to bed. I seemed to be in that field for hours.  The hens were more stupid I think than the sheep.  A whole group of them would respond to my call and flutter in. then as I turned to coax a stray one from a far corner, a really naughty one would saunter out again, and almost fly off out of my reach.  Not that I handled any.  Oh dear no; I couldn’t have caught one, even if one had let me.  I just chased and shoo-ed them as patiently as I could, until they were all accounted for.  Then past the sheep again and beyond the gate home.  I felt almost brave, but a little hoarse and tired.  However, there was more to do.  I had borrowed a bicycle from a neighbour and now I was to go to see the Doctor for our dear old lady.  He resided in a village three or four miles away: incidentally, he was the nearest Doctor, and our village had no bus service at all, except to the nearest town, on Saturdays only.
I left my little girl safely asleep in bed and set off on my borrowed bicycle.  Only then did I discover that it had no bell.  Never mind, I said to myself, I can shout.  I felt for the brakes; they didn’t work.  I optimistically thought that I probably wouldn’t need them.  How wrong I was.  The village was in a lovely little valley, very cosy and picturesque, and the last two miles at least of my journey was downhill.  I enjoyed every second of that ride, but I had to shout each time I saw anyone on the road; there were no footpaths of course.  The evening was calm and still, with a deep setting sun in a cloudless sky.  Birds were high, and those in the hedges were twittering.  How beautiful our countryside is, and even though the war was at its height, I felt in another world that lovely night.  After my harem-scarem ride downhill, I had a slow ride uphill back home, and so to bed.
I now knew how to cope with the animals, and collect the hens’ eggs, which was also a tricky procedure, and I was quickly learning how to use water sparingly.  It was no joke carrying a couple of buckets of water from the well.  The primus stove seemed to require a lot of attention first thing in the morning, in order to boil the kettle, and the fire and oven seemed slow to heat, but we managed and certainly did not go hungry.
There was a good crop of plums on a couple of trees in the garden, and I was asked to make some jam, which meant that I first had to get the plums.  Now I had never climbed a tree, but here was my chance, 30 years of age or not, and with the help of a ladder, a stick and a basket, I proceeded to strip the trees.  The one element of nature I had not bargained for was wasps, and not a few groups of plums were left untouched when these wicked looking insects were observed hovering around.  Our lady hostess soon recovered from her illness, which left me with more free time to enjoy my leisure.
We found it rather unsatisfactory not being able to have a proper bath, so each Saturday morning found us on the bus journeying to the nearest town, and indulging in a general clean-up at the Public Baths, then a shopping expedition calculated to last us the week, returning home in time for tea.
The country around invited us many times to explore and enjoy it, but each night saw us retiring early as the daylight shortened, for reading or sewing by oil-lamp was tiring to the eyes.  The weather was indeed glorious that summer, and I remember one particular day, helping the local farm workers with the harvest.  Stacking the sheaves of corn into pyramids of three was my job, and I well remember the feeling of pride when I surveyed the part of the fields that I had worked, and I remember too the ache in my back at the end of that day.  Modern inventions and improvements must have shortened the farmers working hours considerably in the last ten years, and even revolutionised his way of work.
And so we came to the end of our visit to a Truly Rural Village, and returned to the rush and bustle of city life, to taps and running water, to the switch for heat to cook a meal, and light at a touch, and yet I would not have missed the experience.  I have lived since in other similar places, but none quite so primitive as the little village in Rutland, of one shop, one bakery, one church and two pubs.
Win Croden.  4/2 /1953

Although mother doesn’t mention it, after staying with the old lady, we moved in with a family nearby, whose several children, older than me, I remember very little of, except that I was allowed into their den, an ancient barn, where they practised ‘Doctors and Nurses’ with other village children.  I escaped being practised on, though I was intrigued by what was going on!  It was a busy noisy household and on washday the clothes were hung out to dry, not neatly pegged out on a washing line, but thrown over branches of trees and bushes, a very primitive practise to my superior mind.
I recall very well the Harvest, when it seemed all the villagers turned out to help. The men went out with scythes, while others followed, bundling the stalks into sheaves. My mother, along with others, was busy stooking the sheaves into neat piles.  All the children, including myself, were set to glean, picking up fallen ears of wheat from the ground, as old women and children have done for as long as harvests have been gathered, in the dust and sweat of sun baked late summer.  At noon refreshment was provided in the rectangular cobbled farmyard, formed by barns and outhouses on either side of the farmhouse.  Trestle tables laid out and filled with pies, sandwiches and cakes enough to reward all the helping hands for a hard morning’s work, with jugs of lemonade and beer or cider for the men.
I treasure these memories; the sights, sounds and smells of the countryside when cows still grazed contentedly in their fields and happily came in for milking at the right time. That way of life that had lasted for countless centuries has long gone, but I feel privileged to have experienced rural England, however briefly.