Will’s World: How to succeed at the gentle art of pottering
© Richard Stanton A lazy stereotype goes that being a middle-aged man is all ear hair, haemorrhoids and grumbling about young people.
While admittedly that is somewhat true, there are a few things about being part of this demographic that are more positive, and the number one of these, in my humble opinion, is the unbridled joy of pottering about.
See also: ‘Driest’, ‘earliest’, ‘worst’ – mixed harvest across country
About the author
Do you potter? No, not you, youths, you’ll be far too busy running about with all that energy, exuberance and healthy knee joints, damn you.
I’m talking to my fellow mid-life travellers of Generation X here – those of us who were blessed to be raised on Grange Hill, Findus Crispy Pancakes and Britpop, because only they will truly understand what I mean.
I’m not sure how you’d properly describe it, other than aimlessly wandering around and unhurriedly doing whatever comes into your head next.
Whatever the definition, I don’t get as much time as I’d like to partake in this noblest of pastimes, given the extremely busy farm and family life I usually lead.
Distant chores
However, with harvest finished in record time, and the present Mrs Evans and our numerous daughters away for a long weekend, suddenly I was granted a rare opportunity to indulge.
After finishing the long list of chores she had left me to do, that is.
Although I would argue that pottering is a state of mind, so even as I unloaded the washing machine and pegged the small mountain of clothes out on the line to dry, I was completely zen.
Watering the tomatoes and strawberries? Chilled. Sorting the recycling? At peace. Feeding the hens and collecting the eggs? Calm as a Hindu cow.
Then, just like that, I was free to potter of my own accord. So potter of my own accord I did.
First, I sat down with a nice cup of Earl Grey and a Jaffa Cake to read a very informative article in Classic Tractor about the huge success of the Howard Rotavator and Rotaspreader in the 1950s and 60s and how that enabled the company behind it, Rotary Hoes Ltd, to invest heavily in new manufacturing facilities in Harleston, Norfolk. Riveting stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree.
Next, I took it upon myself to clean out the cellar.
After bagging up about 200 years’ worth of old horsehair plaster, cobwebs and muck, I spent a happy hour with my head-torch looking for carvings on the beams or hints of hidden treasure.
Disappointingly, I found neither, but still had fun pretending to be Indiana Jones for a short time.
Life in the slow lane
I went for a nice stroll down the fields to look around the cattle, and checked the trail-cam for pictures while I was there.
Mostly curious pheasants and mischievous squirrels, but there was a ghostly looking hare and a big old fox too.
Nothing too exciting, though, fortunately; I wouldn’t have appreciated being startled out of my pleasant reverie.
Did I then finish the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge that I’d been strictly ordered to eat? Or did I leisurely nip out for fish, chips and mushy peas?
You know the answer, and what can I say? She chose to marry a bad boy all those years ago, and we can never be fully caged.
Then it was time for the main evening event: a Second World War documentary.
No arguments over the remote or being disturbed by noise – just me, the dog, Operation Market Garden and a large glass of Glenfiddich. Marvellous.
If only I could merrily potter about like this every Sunday, but perhaps that’s a bridge too far.