I’ll admit I can be somewhat brazen at times. Not that often, but when it happens I tend to just go with it, after all why fight Mother Nature?
One afternoon in late summer I was in a pub waiting for a chap I’d been seeing a while. For one reason and another we’d not met up for a few weeks. He arrived and we sat there soaking up the smells and sounds particular to a country pub at that time of year.
Why we didn’t arrange to meet up somewhere more private I’m still not sure, but there we were sipping our drinks getting hotter and ‘friendlier’ by the minute. Eventually he told me of a hayfield he’d passed close by.
“Wonderfully romantic and secluded” he said.
Those of you who have ever been in a hayfield in late summer know that neither of these things is actually true.
Events started well enough. Fragrant waist high stalks surrounded us as we became reacquainted. Then things began to go downhill.
Firstly I managed to get a stalk fragment in my eye. He removed it and we continued.
He temporarily halted proceeding a few minutes later to alter positions due to an inconveniently placed clump of stalks digging in to his back.
We had settled down again when a clearly visible train passed within shouting distance on a hitherto unnoticed track.
A low flying light aircraft circled the field just as the train disappeared. And repeated this manaouvre three times.
We were nothing if not determined. We continued.
A very short while later I made a comment about a diesel engine sound, which appeared to be becoming louder. Two inspections above the hay revealed nothing. I was convinced the sound was louder still and so the head ventured above the hay once again.
Third time lucky.
He picked up my shoes, thrust them in to my hands, along with various items of clothing, and told me to run for the car.
We made it to the edge of the field just as the combine harvest passed the spot we’d just flattened.
I had hay stalk induced scratches on my skin for days afterwards.
Hayfields. Not romantic. Or secluded. Trust me.