Revisiting the past when I went to mow a meadow

The recorded message on my phone took me back to the summer of 1978 when I had taken a tractor and mower to Higher Windy Tops to mow a hay meadow for old Vince Bancroft. Vince sadly died a good few years ago but attained the grand age of 91 – a testament to his healthy lifestyle.

Vince had 20 or so acres and used to go to Skipton Auction for the autumn sales and return home with a dozen wild-eyed, hairy, pot-bellied store cattle. These were wintered in the mistal until being released from their confinement in May to graze the pastures alongside Vince's old retired piebald mare, Sophie.

The animals grazed among the flocks of geese, ducks and bantams which were Vince's main enterprise. The poultry were housed in a multitude of huts and Vince would load up his old Austin A35 van twice a week with boxes of eggs for the market down in the town.

After mowing the meadow, I remember going into the kitchen for a breakfast of bantam eggs and toast. The flagstones were worn uneven in response to 300 years of clog traffic and the Aga oven door was held on with fencing wire, the hinge having cried "Enough!" during the winter.

Haytime at Vince's was a truly co-operative affair. I did the mowing and Vince would attach his little grey Massey to the wuffler and stir the grass up to dry it. When the crop was ready, Vince would wander round to his neighbour, Little Jack, who possessed another piece of vital equipment – the side rake. Like Vince, Little Jack also had an old grey Massey which he employed to pull the rake.

The slight snag in the arrangement was that the two grey tractors could only muster three front wheels between them. One of the original wheels from Vince's tractor had rotted away having spent one winter too many parked in his midden. Ever since that fateful day, Jack and Vince had shared a front wheel, with the unfortunate three-legged tractor, reminiscent of a ewe with foot rot, propped up on a tree stump.

Finally, with the hay all rowed up, Old Harry would trundle up with his "Nash" and baler.

Harry was a familiar sight around the area in summer with his white shirt, sunglasses, and silver hair. Some wag once commented that if he

were to trade his International tractor for a Ferrari he could easily be mistaken for a Mafia godfather.

The new folk at Higher Windy Tops had arrived from Leeds about five years ago and as I drove up the freshly gravelled lane I realised that things had changed dramatically over three decades.

The windswept stunted sycamore tree that was a feature of the yard entrance was replaced by half a dozen equally windswept Leylandii trees and Vince's narrow old yard entrance had given way to a pair of massive wrought iron gates which would

have looked more at home outside Armley Prison than at Higher Windy Tops.

In the blink of an eye the past and the present are viewed side by side. The small, cluttered yard with its uneven rough stone setts of 30 years ago is now transformed into a small version of a supermarket

car park. Vince's A35 van is now a Range Rover Vogue and the productive poultry have been exchanged for a muster of peafowl complete with their morbid howling call.

The old lame tractor, the butt of many a joke over the years, has been superseded by a shiny ride-on lawn mower and a smart

quad bike. I notice the mistal where Vince would scratch the heads of his cattle is now a keep fit centre with a treadmill, bench press and exercise cycle.

The front meadow is now a tennis court and practice putting green with the pastures at the back providing grazing for four ponies. Of course there is no haytime any more at Higher Windy Tops. Any winter fodder now arrives in the form of "Horsehage"

in a protective plastic bag from the boot of the Range Rover.

Time moves on; lives and lifestyles change and evolve for better or for worse depending on your viewpoint.

There has been a slow and steady evolution in the countryside which occasionally smacks you in the face and opens your eyes. Vince, Little Jack and Harry have passed on, their way of life has gone and a new order rules.

Ah! But the more things change... Like Vince's old horse, Mr Range Rover's ponies have retained the knack of rubbing against and demolishing the walls. So Billy Topstone gets to work another day.