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in the city. The angry farmer strode across the field and ordered them off his land. The centre-forward of one of the teams, a rough chap from Birmingham, spoke up: “God’s green grass was made for everyone.”
“Maybe,” said the farmer, “but this here field happens to be winter wheat!”
Fifty years later, the countryside still hold surprises. My wife, Julia, and I invite our city friends out to the farm, and they come not quite knowing what to expect. For some, they don’t expect to see us living where we live. Our farmhouse is set way back from the road.
There is no familiar suburban sidewalk with houses showing through peekaboo shrubery. Time and again, even though we have told them with maps and written instructions exactly where we live, our visitors will go to the nearest house that happens to be visible from the road, whereupon our good neighbors will politely point out our house which is (fortunately) visible from their house. v
Part of the problem is, I suppose, our approach. The entrance is a regular five-barred gate, and the driveway is poor-man’s hardtop — gravel chips held in place with a coating of grass. To a city eye it looks unused, except for the occasional tractor, and certainly unsuitable for latemodel automobiles.
Once we were taken aback to see a group of guests walking down the hill toward the house, keeping carefully to the central ribbon of grass in
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