“GARDEN OF EDEN”

Otago Daily Times, Issue 26027, 15 December 1945, Page 8

“GARDEN OF EDEN”

LINCOLNSHIRE SCENES THE UNCHANGING YEARS By James Lansdale Hodson (Special) LONDON, Dec. 8. I am writing in Spalding, Lincolnshire. The earth nearby is so rich that men call it the “Garden of Eden.’ That earth at the moment is black, cold and dark. True, the field here and there lies under stubble, and a rare one shows green crop thrusting through. But the rest show little life. Dykes are black and silver where the wintry sun shining through thin mist catches the still or sluggish water. Horses stand motionless in the cold, lapwings and plover wing slow in coveys and pigeons are swift over the water. Over all this land the sea once broke and the countryside keeps a magnificently wide spacious 100k —with a broad-sailed windmill here and there or a distant lonely clump *of trees under, on a fine day, a vast lightlydappled dome of sky—to-day grey and closed in. In the month of May if a man wanted a picture of the earth’s fruitfulness it is hereabouts he might find it. For it is then that fields of tulips, daffodils and narcissi are such that you could almost believe a rainbow gaudier than its wont had fallen out of the heavens and rested there. A field of cloth of gold springs to liv- - ing reality. No other English county is coloured as this is coloured. It was not for nothing that Dutch, farmers came and settled in Lincolnshire, a number of them marrying and becoming naturalised. And they have taught us a lot in horticulture—no doubt about that. Lincolnshire men have been apt pupils. They are men of character, these men of South Lincolnshire—thrifty, fond of money, working all the hours of daylight—a lot of small holders among them. There have never been many aristocrats hereabouts and little feudalism. Sterling independence and non-con-formity—those are outstanding. Many a man is grey of eye, fair of hair, long of nose, slow of speech, and long in the head. Deep-rooted Tradition They are not easily swayed. While a large part of England was going Socialist, Spalding was staying NationalLiberal. Liberalism is deep-rooted. So is tradition. The Gentlemen’s Society, which is scientific, literary and antiquarian, goes back to 1710. Moreover, the people can think of the past and look ahead. Thus men tell you how forty years ago the River Welland was filled with 100-ton ships that had coasted or sailed over from the Baltic and how Spaldirig streets were filled with master mariners; and there is a scheme afoot now for spending a quarter of a million on building a lock and turning the river from tidal to fresh water, and maybe bringing back some ships—certainly improving boating. The better draining of the high country which brings water down to the town in 36 hours instead of the oldtime week makes this new scheme most desirable. The high country—but how interesting is the low? Of hedgerows there are few or none. Dykes are the thing. The county directory says that Cowbit —a village not far off —has about 2000 acres of land, 8000 of water, and 4000 of tidal water. If the weather is severe wild birds fly inland—duck, teal, geese, widgeon and snipe—and out comes the Cowbit wildfowler with his canoe, wherein he fixed his heavy gun of eight feet long and two-inch bore that may well be generations old —some are a hundred years old—loads it with half a horn of shot and powder—perhaps a - pound of each—and forth he sets on moonlit nights or just before daybreak to stalk birds. Bitter weather is best, he said, for then the birds are so hungry they do not notice him. He lies full length in the boat, camouflaged with twigs and rushes, propelling himself with a small paddle on either side, and up he creeps till within sixty yards or so and then he lets fly. Goliath of a Shot He has qo objection at all to shooting them sitting—that is what he likes — and if he is lucky he may bag twenty to forty at one go. An old man once told me he had shot seven swans at one blast—a regular Gbliath of a shot. “ Tis best to be on the far side of the wash when dawn breaks—then you can see as much as a fly on the water. Once a fellah new to the game had the dawn behind him ’stead of afore and mistook my mate for a duck an’ my mate carries a bit o’ shot in the corner of his eye to this day. Must have dawn in rightful place.” They are champion wildfowlers and champion skaters, too, in Cowbit, and skill goes down from one generation to another. Cowbit makes nothing of the passage of time. And yet—an old trait can nave its modern counterpart and yield more of a remarkable tale. As thus: Spalding had a character years ago named Sally York, whose sailor son went down with his ship, but she would not believe he was gone; and to the railway station and trains she went, wearing her lace cap, day after day, searching every compartment for the lad who would never come back. Until she dies. In this war an oldish man lost his airman son, missing after' five or six operations. And to the railway station he also went day after day for year after vear. And lo! At last the son came—ho word had preceded him. He came unannounced —a miracle. And the father was there to meet him.