averilburystedmunds: How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm ……..?

Forest Farm, Papplewick.

Esme with tongue out, being naughty.
Lindhurst Lane, Mansfield,
June 2017.

Just back from a weekend at Forest Farm in Notts which belongs to two nieces and two nephews, children of my sister, Esme, who died five years ago. My previous visit had been in June 2017 when I was over from Bruges to give a talk in Wye, Kent, where I lived for many years. I had taken the opportunity to visit my sister for a few days; she suffered at the end from dementia and it was such a pleasure to see her and to be recognised. During my stay, her youngest had the brilliant idea of taking us one sunny afternoon to the house where we had grown up at Berry Hill, Mansfield and we had a super sunny experience exploring, she in her wheelchair, particularly relaxed and happy, remembering quite a lot from our childhood. We laughed a lot, ate ice-cream, found the wood where we had always played, next-door to our house and looked in vain for the side-piece between our garden and the wood. It had been replaced by a bungalow! Our chauffeur, bless him, even took us into Mansfield to see St Peter’s Church where we had both been married in 1957 and 1961. One important element needed by any dementia sufferer is for friendly company, for social discourse and stimulating experiences like little trips out, and she definitely received too little of either, though her younger son turned into an excellent carer with a real understanding of her needs which he did his best to provide. That day together proved to be a very happy final re-visit to the past and Esme died a few months later.

Part of chic new terrace.

My stay this time managed to underline my own decreasing physical dexterity and balance as I walked, arm in arm with the aforementioned nephew and his dog through the lovely woods near the farmhouse. He and his partner live in the farmhouse and there have been alterations, smartening up and re-fashioning but essentially, of course, it is still the same as it was when my sister arrived there in early 1961 as a young bride, to live with her in-laws as well as her husband. I do remember feeling sympathy for her in some ways, taking on a whole new family as well as a new husband and a new life on a farm. So much change in one fell swoop! But she appeared indomitable, eager to learn, loving her new life. Forest Farm now is basically arable, the herd of cows long-departed, and there seem to be more horses these days, and certainly more cars! But still, for me, this was a fond visit to the past; there was a feeling of being in a time warp almost. In spite of her absence, time stood still for me; the difference between my life-style now and theirs is quite considerable and this somehow underlined the feeling of looking back, into the past. My sister’s and my lives were always hugely different, of course, but I had forgotten that or perhaps, not expected the disparity still to continue. My sister’s favourite insult to me had always been to call me scornfully “a townie” and I remembered that, affectionately, as I judged it to be as true as ever!

Just before going up to the farm, I had done a photographic blog with a number of images each of which had really pleased me in some way. One of them had been of a little sign, planted at the foot of a tree in the Abbey Gardens in Bury by the local Women’s Land Army; it had been put there to thank the good people of Bury for all their kindness and help over the years of WW2. The Women’s Land Army was not part of the armed forces but had been a Governmental volunteer army of women gathered together in a terrifying war to give huge help to the country. Originally, it had been formed in 1917 during WW1 and disbanded after that war, then re-formed in 1939 I think and was active throughout the Second World War. I do remember seeing these women around the rural Lindhurst Lane area where we

Parade of Land Girls in Cambridgeshire. 1940s.

lived from the 1930s; the Land Girls were simply an accepted part of the landscape and I gave them no thought as I waved to them as I passed. But these were women from all sorts of backgrounds, often not rural and chiefly not with farming backgrounds. They did a variety of jobs, living in hostels often, or lodging with families, plucked from their normal lives and habitats, to till the earth, plant seeds and vegetables, supervise lambing and organise bee- and poultry-keeping When I reflect, reviving the memory of them as part of my childhood landscape, I am impressed! I rather think that my sister’s father-in-law had not been impressed with the idea of untrained women let loose on his cherished land and had not taken the opportunity offered!! I have often wondered what he would have thought of his daughter-in-law, widowed before she was 50, taking over the farm and turning round its fortunes to make it profitable while eventually introducing a B & B which she ran successfully for well over twenty years. Many of her customers became her friends, departing with eggs from her beloved chickens and a loaf from her freshly-baked bread, the enveloping, welcoming smell of that bread always a delight!

On the Sunday morning of my stay, I went with my niece to nearby Ravenshead, a village really, close to Newstead Abbey, the home long ago of Lord Byron. We went to an antiques fair in Ravenshead Village Hall which I was keen to see. My husband and I had bought our first house in Ravenshead and moved there in 1960 during my first pregnancy, and he and I had been on the Village Hall Committee, he, Chair, I, Secretary, formed soon after our arrival; we had been in the forefront of raising money to build a village hall until we left in 1968. So, though long forgotten, memories were replenished and I was delighted to see the actual building, close to where we had lived! It is, in fact, rather an ugly, dark brick box of a place, externally, but pretty striking inside. It added to the vague feeling of les temps perdus of the whole weekend!!