Always leave the gate open

 

Back in the heady summer days of July 1981, O’levels were finished and arrangements had been made to provide some sort of work experience for 120 girls, more or less related to their career aspirations.

Alas, I had no clue what I wanted to do.  The rest of my family is medical but I baulked at joining them in any of the manifestations offered to me.  I did know that I didn’t want to be confined to an office where four static walls might tip me into complete madness or turgid boredom.

Inspired by summer holidays in Devon in the company of friends who farmed, I opted for a future in agriculture (I kid you not, dear reader), and chose my A’levels accordingly.  I was allotted two weeks on a local farm in Surrey as well as a stimulating week at the local agricultural college where I enjoyed trying my hand at welding and discovered the delights of arboriculture.

The farmer I was placed with, unfortunately, failed to show any of the warm charm of my Devonshire friends.  He was permanently tired and grumpy – probably a reaction to having a puny sixteen-year-old girl dumped on him for two weeks when a strapping eighteen-year-old with far more impressive pecs would have been significantly more useful.

Amongst all the stories from that informative fortnight, the one that makes me laugh most in retrospect is the day I moved the dairy herd as directed and, oh so carefully, shut the gate after them.  My country code was sharp!  Whether my instructions had been poor or my understanding limited, the reality was that those poor cows actually needed access to the adjacent field in order to reach the water trough.  If you are half-ton milk-giving Friesian, you need to keep your liquid intake high. They must have been frantic by lunchtime.

This truth did not reveal itself to me until milking time that evening when I was dispatched to bring the ‘ladies' up to the milking parlour.  If you have never had the dubious privilege of being stampeded by a herd of extremely thirsty cows, I can assure you it is terrifying.  Four legs can move considerably faster and further than two. A quick calculation regarding mass, distance and momentum, revealed the inevitable and alarming  conclusion that I was about to be completely and imminently marmalised.

While I probably put in an uphill personal best, I chose to cut my losses and threw myself sideways underneath a barbed wire fence, eschewing thistles, rolling sideways into the next pasture while the bovine mass headed as one to slake their thirst at the trough.

‘What has all this got to do with writing?’ I hear you ask.

Well, for one thing, its’s a reminder that we all have stories from the past which can be usefully revisited, re-energised and re-told, if only to entertain a discerning few. 

Secondly, it’s a salient tale that illustrates the merits of sometimes remaining within those previously despised four walls and getting down to business on the keyboard (or with paper and pen). My yearning for the great outdoors is tempered these days by the joy of committing words to paper.

Finally, it’s an illustration that, if you want your readers to get the maximum enjoyment from your work then the equivalent of leaving the gate open – allowing them access to your well-chosen, hard-won words – is important.  You may not be stampeded in the rush but, by all means, lead them to all the written refreshment you can offer.