“I came here eight years ago as a renter of this farm, of which I soon afterward, become the owner. The time before that, I like to forget. The chief impression it left, upon my memory, now happily growing indistinct, is of being hurried faster than I could well travel…”
So begins this account of life in the country, written by a man who left the pace and the pressure of the city behind, and went to live on a farm. This might sound all too familiar because there have been many books of this genre that we’ve seen in recent decades. But this one is special because it is one of the very first of its kind, and it was written over a century ago.
It reads like a memoir, but it is a fictionalised account of real experiences. David Grayson is a pseudonym for Ray Stannard Baker who was a journalist. He did go live on a farm, and write about his experiences. But he wanted to keep his writings about rural life separate from his serious journalism. Hence the pseudonym.
This is a delightful narrative that features David, his sister Harriet who keeps house for him, their friends, and neighbours. It’s an engaging account of the day to day concerns of rural life, the daily challenges and the small victories, all overlaid by the sheer pleasure of living in the county.
Grayson writes with a deep appreciation for nature that goes beyond his relationship with it as a farmer. His joy in the life that he has created for himself is palpable.
“In all the days of my life I have never been so well content as I am this spring. Last summer I thought I was happy, the fall gave me a finality of satisfaction, the winter imparted perspective, but spring conveys a wholly new sense of life, a quickening the like of which I never before experienced. It seems to me that everything in the world is more interesting, more vital, more significant.”
Grayson’s descriptions of his neighbours, and his reflections on life, make for engaging reading. He brings a sense of humour to his writing that makes it even more charming…
“…Mrs Horace…is quite the most formidable person in this neighbourhood. She is so avaricious in the saving of souls—and so covetous of mine, which I wish especially to retain. When I see her coming across the hill, I feel like running and hiding, and if I were as bold as a boy, I should do it, but being a grown-up coward, I remain and dissemble.”
This book was written in the early years of the twentieth century, but it has a freshness to it that is quite remarkable. It doesn’t read like an account of a bygone era. Unlike the many books celebrating life on a farm that have been written since, this book has less to do with all the troubles the city dweller has to go through, adjusting to farm life and all the lessons they learn along the way and more to do with the simple enjoyment of life on a farm and in a village. It’s written with honesty and wit and it is well worth reading for the quality of the prose alone. I’ll leave you with one more quote.
“In the summer the days are so long and the work so engrossing that a farmer is quite willing to sit quietly on his porch after supper and watch the long evenings fall—and rest his tired back and go to bed early. But winter is the true time for indoor enjoyment.
“Days like these! A cold night after a cold day! Well wrapped, you have made arctic explorations to the stable, the chicken yard and the pig-pen; you have dug your way energetically to the front gate, stopping every few minutes to beat your arms around your shoulders and watch the white plume of your breath in the still air—and you have rushed in gladly to the warmth of the dining room and the lamp-lit supper. After such a day, how sharp your appetite, how good the taste of food!”
between the pages 