Suffolk Old Boys

Last night as I walked back from a last leisurely snoop around the fields I was serenaded by the bellringers practising in Framlingham Church, all of two miles away. At first I thought I was in such a state of bliss that I was hearing music, but it was the real deal. There's something so archetypally summery about bells ringing across meadows of waist-high barley and wheat. I imagined a scene from a Thomas Hardy novel, with earthy farmworkers spruced up in their tweed suits and ties after their evening meal, solemnly pulling on the ropes and every now and again chiding each other gently or irritably according to their natures for missed timings and wrong sequences.

This morning a real Suffolk old boy turned up in an aged Land Rover to cut my grass and strim my edges. He was dressed from head to foot in country colours, from his tweed cap through tawny multi-pocketed shooting jacket to his lovat moleskins. He backed his trailer into the drive, shook my hand and introduced himself as 'Did', then proceeded to light a roll-up while he chatted to me. Now, after nearly six years in Suffolk, I'm well used to the menfolk, especially the tradesmen and most especially the ones who come to work in your garden. They know they've come to work, but they want to chat, and they don't know when to stop. Sometimes you have to employ tricks like hearing an imaginery phone ringing to get away from them, because they will go on for hours. As it happened I could have listened to 'Did' for ages. He spoke in a gentle, fluent burr, telling me about the owak (oak) tree he felled yesterday, and the cowess (cows) that got in the way, and how I'm unlikely to be bothered by rabbits because the soil in the field behind me is too heavy for them. "Ever see a parliament of hares?", he asked. "The bigguns are the sallies, and the little 'uns are the males. When they get together for a meeting it's the sallies what does the talking and the telling." It's a lovely accent, and he was a lovely man. "Why are you called "Did"," I asked. "Because I was little," he replied with a laconic half smile. "Short for diddy".

   

Garden before Did did it

Garden after Did did it

'Did' has lived in Yoxford all his life, and worked on the land as a feller of trees, a shooter of pigeons and rabbits, wherever he's needed. He and his ferrets are in constant demand. With his mate John, until a few weeks ago the gamekeeper at Cockfield Hall, he's used the local landscape as a means to earn a living and as a playground. There's nothing he doesn't know about the countryside. Alas John has just been let off from his job. Cockfield Hall has been bought by Mr Hunt of Foxtons fame, to add to his growing Suffolk empire that began with the purchase of Heveningham Hall when he sold his huge, controversial estate agency for a fortune. Nobody knows what plans he has for the Hall, but they don't include John who has sunk into a depression. "We've been on the estate since we was kids, and leaving it has left a big hole in our lives". I liked him very much, and I'm glad he's coming back on Friday to do more work for me.