Edited by Old Rotorhead

You have good days and sometimes bad days, but the majority are somewhere in between. Just occasionally though, you get one that really goes up and down, or perhaps down and up, and ... and that describes this particular day. It started well, a bright sunny autumn day, not quite time to cut back the hedges and attack the brambles, although heaven knows there’s enough of those. But one thing I wanted to do was burn up the stuff that had accumulated during the summer, the prunings from the plum trees, some stuff that had been trimmed because it was overhanging paths, some stuff that had blown down in a summer gale, and you know the sort of bits and pieces. Oh, and a lot of nettles which were still green. And I have no shortage of those, and being green they caused some smoke. Since I have no near neighbours it shouldn’t have caused a problem, but you can never rely on ‘shouldn’t’.

I took some paper and cardboard up to where I have my fires, and where everything was waiting. Now I know at this time of year hedgehogs are going into hibernation, and could well be doing so in the pile, some of which had been there a while. So I set the fire a few feet away, lit the paper, and moved stuff from the pile onto it, finishing off with the nettles. The idea was that the stuff underneath would dry out the nettles and away all would go.

And indeed, away it went. I was leaning on the fork I’d been using, watching the fire, as you do, when I heard a loud ‘Oi!’

I turned round to see a woman walking up from the road towards me. She had a substantial figure and was wearing the uniform of an organisation dedicated to preventing cruelty to animals. Now, I’ve no problem with that, but unfortunately they interpret that to mean prosecuting, perhaps that should be persecuting, people who go fox hunting. Foxes kill my chickens, so you’ll guess where I stand on this one. Now, as I understand it, if the dogs pick up the scent of a fox and start chasing it then that is okay because you obviously can’t stop dogs doing what they do naturally. So the question comes down to a variation of, did they fall or were they pushed?

I said nothing, just watched as she got closer. Turned out, as she got closer, I could see that despite being no lightweight, she was very attractive. I’m quite eclectic in my tastes in ladies, but whatever the eye perceives, I’d say the brain is much more important. Look, you can spend just so much time doing ‘physical’ things, okay let’s not be coy, shagging, but afterwards it’s nice to have a conversation. I use the rather vulgar term ‘shagging’, because if your brains don’t engage I don’t see how it can be making love.

I digress. I had turned to look at her when she called, and as she got closer, she announced the reason for her visit.

“Did you check that fire for hedgehogs before you lit it?” she barked.

There are ways and there are ways, and this opening wasn’t the best way.

I turned round to look at the fire.

“Nope”

I was now treated to a lengthy harangue concerning the dwindling numbers of this charismatic little animal, which ended up with, “I’ve a good mind to report you!”

“Ah.”

Now that isn’t an exclamation, just an acknowledgement, ‘I’ve heard you.’ And why would I use that? My normal accent is fairly neutral, although you can detect a touch of west country in it, but whenever I have to deal with ‘official’ people I turn up the accent of my youth. You see it gives you an advantage because for some curious reason people think anyone with a rural accent isn’t very bright. We tend to speak slowly too, with longish gaps. Irritates the hell out of most people when they want an argument. If you want to hear it try Robert Newton as Long John Silver in the 1950 version of Treasure Island. ‘Arrhh Jim Lhad’.

“Did you understand me?” she demanded.

“Ah, did. Youm reportin’ I ter some un. You’m gunna look a roight twat.”

“What did you say?”

A long pause. “Yew ‘eard.” I turned to look at her. “Thik stuff there.” I indicated the burning pile, “came f’m there.” I indicated the original pile.

“Well why didn’t you say?” she asked indignantly.

“Yew dint aask,” I told her.

I deliberately looked at her crotch, and then up to her bosom, and finally her face.

“Now ‘less’n yew wants anythin’ else, Oi ‘llow yew shud piss off.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone colour up to quite that shade of red before. Or disappear back to her car at quite that speed.

That went well, didn’t it? Never piss off old folks: we can always fall back on a lack of knowledge concerning political correctness that didn’t exist in our youth. And in the final event remember ‘life’ in prison won’t be very long.

Well that kind of put me off doing anything else outside, so I went in and had a shower, and decided that I’d take a ride on my bike.

Did you know that there was a United States warship, well, patrol boat really, called the USS Velocipede? Yes, honestly. As far as I can tell it was propelled by an internal combustion engine, and not, as you might imagine, by human power. I’m not sure that the US Navy ever had galleys. I mention this simply because when I looked up velocipede on Wikipedia it was the first item at the top of that page. The first patent for a velocipede dates from 1817. It had most of the elements of a modern bicycle, except that you sat astride and propelled it by, well, running I suppose. Obviously, man being man, it wasn’t too long before someone decided that some form of pedals to propel it would be easier, and what had become known as a ‘Dandy Runner’ disappeared into history. But not quite.

Like so many old ideas, it didn’t quite die, as I discovered one day when I was visiting a craft fair at a local ‘National Truss’ property. Now, please don’t get me started on the subject of that organisation, or craft fairs, which I rarely attend because so much is bought in, and the rest is usually very home made. On top of that there is usually the lady who makes vegan pasties in a variety of flavours of cardboard. But it was here that I saw the latest iteration of the velocipede. Odd, I thought, that’s a bit daft, but then I thought about it, and decided perhaps it wasn’t. There were several small children zooming about on bikes with no pedals, velocipedes. Now, I must have been six when I first learnt to ride a bike. It was very small, with I suppose twelve or fourteen inch wheels, and it was brown coloured, because there was no paint on it. Of course you had to learn how to balance and pedal at the same time. Obviously not too difficult, because I managed it, as have many other people before and since. How much easier, though, to scoot along and learn to balance, and then learn to pedal later.

I must have been almost eight when we moved to a small village, from a large south coast town whose main claim to fame was a transport system consisting of yellow trolley buses. Large ones with six wheels. The move took place on the 3^rd June 1953. I’ll leave you to work out why that was a very good day to bury bad news! Once we were settled in, I was given the chore of collecting the daily milk from a farm at the other end of the village, almost a mile. This was carried in what I will call a churn, although I am not sure that that is the correct word for it. It held four pints, was conical, like an old fashioned full sized churn, made of enamelled steel, with an ill fitting lid and a handle. To start with we only had one, and I had to walk because if I carried it on my bike the milk slopped everywhere, and since we only had one churn I had to take it back ready for the next day, but I could do that on my bike.

In due course the little bike disintegrated, and from somewhere a full sized ladies bike was acquired. It had a badge on the front proclaiming it to be a ‘Hercules’, apart from which, like its predecessor, it had not one speck of paint on it. All the kids in the village had bikes, and races around the village were run, followed by slow races when you were knackered. I recall hide and seek around the village too. The village was a large oval, rather like a speedway track with almost all the houses on one side and end. On one occasion during a game of hide and seek, I was on the back road where I checked a field entrance, and found one lad’s bike just inside. I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I slacked off his brakes, and went on. He turned up some time later, somewhat dishevelled. The gateway sloped down to the road, and as he got to the road he discovered he had no brakes, so he crossed the road, hit the low hedge on the other side, went over the hedge, leaving his bike behind, and ended up in the field at a slightly lower level. Curiously, he didn’t find this as amusing as the rest of us.

And then disaster struck! One day I managed to ride into the back of a local farmer’s car, and the front fork broke. The car was an ancient Vauxhall, and if it was marked by the collision, you couldn’t tell. I picked myself up and dragged the remains of my bike home. From then on wheels meant a go-kart, until I broke my leg on the hill at one end of the village. Curiously my elder brother broke his at the other end of the village, but he was on a motor bike. Whilst I was in hospital my granny died. After what he considered to be a needlessly extravagant funeral, with what my father had from her estate, he bought me a brand new bike. I was thirteen and, if not the world, then at least the local towns, lay at my feet.

Of course time went on, bikes went from pedals to motors and eventually cars. And there it all stayed for many years.

When you are seventy you have to renew your driving licence, and declare that your eyesight is still up to the mark. And there was my problem. Now I don’t think my eyesight is that much worse than many people my age, but unfortunately I couldn’t tell fibs, because I had an eye surgeon who was already telling me that I shouldn’t be driving. My family didn’t think it was a good idea to continue either. They do say that having to give up your driving licence is a similarly stressful to getting divorced. Take it from me, it is far, far worse.

But I could still ride a bike. However, I had now moved to an area where there were a good number of hills, some of them classed as mountains, and the idea of pedalling up those didn’t appeal. Then I discovered the ebike, ‘e’ for electric. And the wheel turned full circle.

So that’s where things stand today. Riding a bike is a pleasure that I’m sure most of us have forgotten, I certainly had. But whether it is popping into town for some shopping, or just enjoying the countryside, with a little extra help from an electric motor, it is a childhood pleasure rediscovered. Riding along listening to the sound of the wind, the birds singing, and sometimes the roar of a tractor or the whine of a forager, smelling the sometimes not too healthy smells of the countryside is all part of the pleasure. I cannot understand why anyone would want to listen to some sort of noise delivered through headphones, and miss all of this good stuff. But whatever lights your candle.

And so, thanks to the woman from whatever organisation, in the afternoon sunshine, I was riding along a winding lane, when my olfactory organ was alerted to a herbal odour that brought back many memories. I am told that it is a common smell on city buses, and outside university campuses. But in the depths of the countryside? I don’t think so. I stopped and looked around. The lane ran along the bottom of a valley alongside a small stream. It wasn’t far to a village, and I could just see the first chimneys of some houses above high hedges. To one side there was a farmhouse, largely hidden behind a hedge, approached by a small bridge over the stream, and I could see a wisp of smoke from what I thought was a garden fire.

Now I’m not usually a nosey sort of person, but I did wonder whether the person who was creating the smell was aware that it was clearly detectable on the road. And that if a member of the local constabulary were to drive past they would undoubtedly take what, for the person creating the smell, would be an unhealthy interest. So at risk of being told to go away and mind my own business, I leant my bike against the open gate and went in. I suppose I had better admit that I was also interested in this being an opportunity to obtain a supply of the weed for my own use.

Inside the gate there was a somewhat unkempt front garden, and to the rear I could see a poly tunnel. To one side of this there was a female figure attending the fire, well, leaning on a pitch fork. I was about to wave to the woman before approaching when I heard the scrabble of paws on the gravelly surface and a large spaniel tore around the corner of the house and launched itself towards me barking loudly. I stopped. The dog stopped just short of me and stood wagging its tail.

“Bruno!”

The dog turned and trotted to the woman. I followed.

As I got closer I realised that I had met the woman before ... at a craft fair, one of those I rarely go to, but more of that in a minute.

“Hello,” she smiled, “Don’t mind Bruno, he hasn’t bitten anyone yet. What can I do for you?”

Now at this point I am quite sure that the woman I had encountered earlier in the day would have opened with something like, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ but I was going to be a little more circumspect than that, I didn’t want to have another confrontation. Besides which, although she was no spring chicken, she was very attractive, and she was smiling.

“Hello,” I replied. “I wondered whether I might be of some small assistance to you.”

I could now see what the woman was burning and this confirmed what I had thought.

“In what way might that be?” she asked, warily.

“I was riding past and noticed the smell. It occurred to me that if the police, or even some local busybody, were passing they might smell it too.”

“Oh damn! I hadn’t thought of that,” she replied.

“Couldn’t you compost it?” I asked.

“Blight,” she replied.

“Ah yes, tomatoes, potatoes, and ... yes,” I nodded my head as if I knew something about botany.

“Well, the fire’s practically burnt through, I’ll get some other stuff on it and that should dilute the smell at bit. Then we can have a cup of tea.”

Now, you might feel she was being a little forward here, so a few words of explanation. It wasn’t the previous Christmas, but the one before that, that a lady of my acquaintance wanted to go to this Christmas fair to sell her decorative things. But she had hurt her hand, and although she could drive, carrying stuff was difficult. Once she was set up, and we’d had a cup of tea and a cake, the doors opened and she began a brisk trade. After the first rush I went off to wander round and see what other things were for sale. It was, as it always seems to be, mainly tat or stuff they’ve bought, kids books, cuddly toys and of course the Women’s Institution with cakes and pies. And then I came to this stall. Standing behind it was a woman who was somewhat younger than me, but then most people are. She was above average height and very slender. She was, I thought, very attractive, grey hair swept up into some sort of bun or whatever, I’m no hairdresser, grey eyes that looked at me from a weathered face, the wrinkles worn carelessly, and a smile that captivated me.

On the table in front of her were fairies and butterflies, chickens, geese and other assorted birds and animals. Doesn’t sound like much? They were all delicately made from wire frames covered in tissue and beautifully painted. To be honest she wasn’t busy, and we spent some time talking, partly about her art, but then about our own situations. I remembered that she had told me that her husband had just walked out on her one day, and that her mother was very ill. After some time I said I’d better get back to Angie and see how she was doing. The curious thing was that we had never exchanged names. After that I had a silly couple of months, and somehow, despite the fact that I would have liked to get in touch with her, when I had the time it just seemed too late. I mean, I’d have had to get in touch with the organisers of the Christmas fair, and that would mean asking Angie for the name of the organiser and then ... time kind of went on. I didn’t want to have to explain it all to Angie, which was really silly because she is a friend and neighbour. However, definitely no benefits because, well, she’s a fully paid up nine pound note. No, she’s a remarkably attractive woman, and you’d never guess, but there we are.

So, back to the present. Having chucked some other stuff on her fire, she went in and made a pot of tea, whilst I sat at a table on what you might, very loosely term a patio, on one of those not particularly comfortable cast aluminium chairs. You know, the white painted ones, except this one had long since lost its paint. And that, without me going into a long rigmarole of description should tell you exactly what state the place was in.

She returned with with a pot of tea and a plate with some cakes on. She poured the tea and pushed the cakes towards me in invitation. I cast an eye over them. Brownies.

“There’s nothing in them,” she giggled.

“Oh! Right. Umm, slightly embarrassing, but I never did get your name,” I said.

I took a sip of tea. Quite horrible, but then it always is. It is something I would never drink if I could avoid it, but in social situations it would be rude to refuse. So I suffer. A nibble of brownie covered the taste of the tea.

“Well, I’m one up on you there, because I did enquire your name. I also found out that the lady you were with wasn’t your wife. I expected you to get in touch with me.”

I laughed. “Angie is a good friend, but genuine nine pound note. I’m sorry, I did intend to get in touch, but...” I went on to explain some of the problems that had kept me busy. “ ... and so by the time I was in a position to follow up, it seemed to be too late.”

“But now you’ve found me.”

“Yes, but I still don’t know your name.”

“Sally. And you, I know, are Martin.” she grinned. “You’re better known than you imagine, especially amongst the single women.”

“Well, I should think Sally suits you,” I said. “But what do you mean about being known by all the single women? I’m sure I don’t have that sort of reputation.”

She giggled again. “No, not that way. They all think you’d be a catch. I’m surprised they haven’t started betting on who will win. But mainly it’s the fact that you are always happy to help them.”

Well, no one will win that bet, I thought.

“Hmm...” I decided to change the subject. “Is your mother still with you?”

“She died, oh, nine months ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it was a blessing at the end.”

“And have you heard from your husband?”

“No. And there’s the rub! I can’t even sell this place until he turns up. Alive or dead, it doesn’t much matter to me now. And as for maintaining it...”

“D’you have much land here?” I asked.

“Mainly woodland. There is that field there,” she waved her arm in the general direction of a hedge beyond which I couldn’t see, “and then the wood which goes all the way up to the lane at the top of the hill. About eighty or ninety acres in total, I should think.”

It struck me as slightly odd that she didn’t know exactly, but then I expect her husband did. Or had. Whichever.

“Must be difficult.” I said ambiguously.

“I make ends meet, if only just. Eurig Davies uses the field for a small rent, I make and sell my paper animals. It’s not too bad.”

“And your, umm ... herbs?”

“Oh, personal use only. I suppose I could pop over to the uni and see if there are any takers, but knowing my luck ... still it would be nice and warm in prison,” she laughed.

“Yes, I suppose heating this place can’t be easy,” I replied.

“We were intending to use the thinnings from the woods to heat the house, but he installed the boiler before cutting any wood. I can’t use a chainsaw, and I can’t afford to buy logs. I’ve got an old wood burning stove in the kitchen for cooking, but water heating is electric. I live in the kitchen most of the time. Wrap up warm when I go to bed. Bit of a bugger really.”

I selected another brownie and silently chewed my way though it.

“You’re thinking,” she said. “I’ve always found men who think are dangerous.” but she said it with a giggle.

“I don’t think so. There must be some dry stuff up in the woods. Well, fairly dry, get you through the winter. What would you say if I were to cut some for you, thin out some trees, and cut them ready for next year?”

“I’d ask what the catch was. Obviously I can’t afford to pay you. This body has a few too many miles on the clock to provide payment of that kind. So... ?”

I laughed. “I wouldn’t agree with that, I love vintage machinery. It usually operates very well.” A blush showed through the weathering. “But any transaction of that kind would be completely separate. No, what I was going to suggest was that you paid me in logs. I heat my place with wood, and besides, some of it I could mill into planks.”

“Vintage ... I’m not sure if that is a compliment,” she grinned. “But your proposal has merit. Would you like to take a look?”

We went up into the woods, Bruno ahead of us running about and sniffing everything. There was a path of sorts which was somewhat over grown.

“Does the path go right to the top?” I asked.

“It used to ... well I suppose it still does. There is a gate up there, but it is all a bit over grown.”

“Wouldn’t take too much to clear it,” I said. “If there is access from the top it will save me a lot of time. The top lane is much closer to where I live.”

I could see there were several dead trees, which, whilst they would not be completely dry, provided they weren’t too decayed, would do to get Sally’s wood burner going for the winter. To be truthful burning wet wood doesn’t do your flue a lot of good, and the smoke contains a lot of particulates, but need’s must when the devil, or in this case, Jack Frost, drives. I went over and examined the dead wood. I took my knife out of my pocket and stabbed the trunk. The bark was still on and it was quite solid. The smaller branches could be left for nature, but I don’t believe in leaving whole trees for creepy crawlies. That seems to me to be just plain wasteful.

“Have you got a chainsaw?” I asked.

“Oh yes, there’s all sorts of things. It’s down in the shed. Come on, I’ll show you.”

We walked back to a large wriggly tin shed that was near the house. She unlocked it and dragged one half of a pair of doors open and switched the lights on. What was exposed to my view came as something of a surprise. I had been expecting, well, I’m not sure, but a clean and tidy, well lit workshop was not it. The tin shed had been lined out and painted white and there were benches and various tools, for vehicle maintenance, metal and wood working. There were all the kinds of things you might expect to find from dubious calendars, to useful bits of metal, old number plates, a variety of cans of grease and oil and general paraphernalia. Sally pointed to a bench on one side where there were two chainsaws, a big Stihl and a smaller one that would be excellent for trimming the branches off the trees the Stihl had felled. Alongside the shed was a leanto which contained a small tractor and trailer. The tractor had a bucket on the front which would be useful, and behind the trailer was a small back hoe. The sort of thing you dig trenches with. I couldn’t see myself using that.

The only things in the workshop relevant to the job in hand were the spanners and battery chargers, these would certainly be needed. The tractor hadn’t been started in some time, and neither had the chainsaws.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” I said. “If that’s alright with you. The sooner you get some firewood the better.”

“Wonderful!” she replied. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I took the shortest way home, which meant that I would end up on the road above the woods. I wanted to have a look at the gate at the top, and see how overgrown the track was. I found the gate without any difficulty. I opened it and looked at the track, It was not too bad, and with a little work I would be able to use it for access. The lane that led down to my village was just a little further on and as I went passed the top of the woodland I realised that just a little further on there was another gate into a separate, but contiguous, piece of woodland. I wondered who owned that. Probably, I thought on consideration Eurig Davies, who I knew slightly. I spent the rest of the journey home thinking about what needed to be done. I’d have to service the chainsaws and get the tractor’s battery charged just for starters, and it would be a good idea if I took some fresh petrol too, the rubbish they sell you nowadays makes a mess of carbs. You can wash the alcohol out of it of course, which is cheaper than buying pure petrol, but a bit of a faff.

The next morning I set out for Sally’s to make a start. The weather was overcast, and a bit damp, but my spirits were warm and dry. It was good to have something positive to do, and let’s be honest the exciting prospect of a damsel in distress to rescue. Well hardly, my charger has two wheels and is painted red. Princes have white ones, and nowadays it’s a 4x4 pickup.

Bruno was pleased to see me. I found the shed unlocked so I opened it and wheeled my bike inside. The first thing I thought, was to check the battery on the tractor. I ran an extension lead out and then took an electronic charger and connected it to the battery. As I anticipated it was a flat as a fart. Would it recover? It would take a day or two to find out. I carried on with the chainsaws. Just after I had the smaller of the two running, Sally came in with a mug of coffee.

“Sorry,” she began, “ I didn’t know what time you’d be here so I unlocked and went for a shower. Then I had to do some cooking.”

“I’m sure you smell better than I do at the moment,” I said. “The carburettor on this one was horrible. I don’t suppose the other one will be any better.”

“What about the tractor?” she asked.

“I’ve put the charger on, but I don’t know if it will recover. We could use jump leads off the car. There’s a set in here.”

I checked the fuel, oil and water whilst she drove the car up to the tractor. I disconnected the charger and put the jump leads on and turned the key. Lights came on, so I turned the key further and the engine turned. After a few seconds there was some black smoke coming out of the exhaust, but it took nearly thirty seconds until the first cylinder fired properly and then seconds later all four were firing, and the engine was running smoothly.

“I’ll leave it running for half an hour, and then see if it will restart,” I said to Sally. “I don’t want to get up in the woods and find it won’t start again.”

I went in to sort out the big chainsaw, and when I finished that I checked on the tractor. Well, basically I switched it off, and then tried a restart. It did. How long the battery would hold a charge remained to be seen.

Sally came out and invited me to join her for lunch. It was certainly better than the tin of soup I would have had at home.

After lunch the tractor re-started, it looked like we might be lucky with the battery. I took the small chainsaw in the bucket and drove up through the woods. My intention was to cut up enough logs to get Sally started on using the main wood burner. First though, I went up to the top with the bucket lowered to blade off the track. I’d be able to come and go that way in future which would make life easier. I’d have to do a bit more work, but it was a good start.

After a couple of hours I had a bucket full of logs, and I was fairly knackered. This working business isn’t good for you, I’m sure. I dumped the logs and parked the tractor. Sally came out with a couple of log baskets which we filled and carried in to where the big log burner was in the living area.

After a cup of tea and a brownie I went home. I took the bike up through the woods, but it was clear that I would have to put off road tyres on the bike. It had them when I first bought the bike, but since I only used it on the road I had changed them.

And so we went on. I didn’t go every day, I had other things to do, but the woods were beginning to look a bit tidier, and Sally had a good store of logs. I still hadn’t had any myself, but I’d attend to that in time. My relationship with Sally had reached the point where I was quite sure that it could move up to the next level, but there was something holding me back. Don’t ask me what it was, but I just didn’t feel entirely comfortable. Call me what you will, but there was something niggling at me.

I bumped into Eurig in the pub one evening, and he enjoyed pulling my leg about helping Sally.

“What else are you helping her with then, eh?” he asked, seeming quite convinced that I was ‘assisting’ her in some other capacity, despite my assurances to the contrary.

When he had enjoyed himself sufficiently, I asked him about the other piece of woodland, because I was quite interested in it for myself.