Scotland: National Rural Network
Connecting Rural Scotland - Promoting Rural Growth

I remember Mr Hayter well; he was about seventy, rolled his own cigarettes, was never seen in public without a soft brimmed hat and rode a bicycle that was at least as old as himself. He did the garden weekly - Tuesdays if I recall - covering the five miles from 'his' to 'ours' on his bicycle with an Old Holborn dangling from his mouth and his trouser legs tied with twine, a sort of do-it-yourself bicycle clip notion.

Years later when I became interested in gardening myself and came across the ornamental grass ‘Gardener's Garter' (Phalaris arundinacae 'Picta'), an evergreen perennial with broad white-striped leaves, I realised that this was how he tied his trouser legs, not with twine at all but with an invasive ornamental perennial. A Gardener of the 'Old School', unlikely to frequent new-fangled Garden Centre places, he possessed the serenity and wisdom of one who knew what life was about, in essence a ‘half-man, half-garden' sort of person, and they certainly don't make them like that anymore.

Which brings me on to Mr. Spratt who, in a similar vein, could be described as a ‘half-man, half-ladder' sort of person on a bicycle. Mr Spratt was the man who mended the many windows we broke playing football in the garden. We seemed to break windows on a regular basis, you see, so this must have been before toughened glass was invented.

"A superb pass from Jordan, a cracking shot from Dalglish, tipped over the bar by Banks and bang goes the bathroom window."

Parents can be very understanding, can't they? "Was it an accident?" No, it was a superb shot - the window took a sore one. "Well, accidents will happen, try not to do it again."

And with that Mr Spratt would be summoned and, if available, would come cycling recklessly up the High Street with a 14 foot extendable ladder balanced precariously on his shoulder, a woodbine between his lips and a pot of putty dangling from the handlebars. (Imagine if that was to happen in Scotland these days?) Of course it never crossed my mind at the time to ask him how the panes of glass reached our house which is a fact I would dearly love to know, for as the years go by the mystery of this glass transportation business becomes more intriguing. Did he carry them on his bike? Too late for an answer now, of course, because Mr. Spratt is no more, although fond memories of him, and also of Mr. Hayter, linger vividly on as does the aroma of Woodbine and Old Holborn.

Occasionally Mr Spratt and Mr Hayter would be in the garden together, one mending the windows, the other hoeing the flower beds, and both possibly muttering good-naturedly to each other about kids, weeds and the meaning of life as they dodged footballs, but at half-past three everything stopped for tea. There's not much change there.

The Council have been digging up the road recently and at prescribed times known universally to joiners, brickies, painters, gardeners and road workers everything still grinds to a halt for tea. And quite right too. Some traditions should last forever. The only difference these days is the transport employed. Instead of bicycles, it's vans. Some things change for the better of course, others for the worse, but for me the aroma of yesteryear with a hint of Woodbine and Old Holborn (and a smidgen of putty and bicycle oil) is still as pungent today as it was all those years ago.

Rural Ramblings archive