The summer sun was beating down as we walked to the harvest field.

Along a well-trodden path as a five year old I didn’t know what the day would yield.

The corn was being cut not by a combine harvester but by an old south binder.

Its speed was not fast it was not pulled by a horse but an old grey Massey Ferguson we were all able to walk behind it.

The farmer’s wife drove the tractor wearing a modest long skirt.

She was a god fearing woman who never spoke to the farmhands children perhaps to her we were dirt.

She rode along we walked picking up the sheaves and standing them in stookes.

This terminology may seem archaic but was every day to us country folk.

The stookes would stand until the sun had dried the corn as dry as it could be.

It would then be gathered up and trailered to the farmyard where the threshing machine would be.

On threshing day I remember a day of great excitement.

As the sheaves were being threshed the rats and mice would run without deportment.

They squeaked and squirmed and rushed to get away’ the farmers dogs stood by to kill.

And as Collies do they ran around and killed at will.

I stood and watched the ponderous machine clunking and clanking with a rhythmic sound.

I stood and took it in watched pulleys and belts’ chains and sprockets’ an interest in engineering had been found.

I loved that old south binder with it gentle mechanical sound.

It didn’t damage the corn just cut it and tied it into a sheave and dropped it on the ground.

It was part of the revolution that killed of the pastoral life.

It helped to make it hard for a farmhand to support his wife and kids.

I remember the first combine harvester working in the field’ it cut the corn threshed it and put the corn in a sack.

It was a breakthrough maybe it was what made my Dad decide to pack up and move to Essex where my dad embraced technology.

He drove a caterpillar tractor and did the work of three men on his own.

I still miss the well-trodden paths of Suffolk.

I enjoy hearing the soft and gentle accent of my cousins.

I laugh at the dry wit of my kin from where I was born.

When I drive up the A12 I always feel like I’m going home to walk a path well worn.