The climb up Hurstbourne Hill into the sleeping bluebell wood is accompanied by the sound of vehicles straining up the A343 towards Andover, one field away. My boots make a light hollow thump on the chalk. Bullfinches pipe through tight, nascent catkins. A soaring rose briar wobbles like a raised whip over an arched plume of traveller’s joy or bedwine, the feathery globes spaced like bobbled plaits on a horse’s neck.
I think of Farmer Blount’s Tinker. Joseph Blount was a divisive character from this village’s Rookery Farm in the 19th century. A generous employer and friend to the poor (the wall outside his home was known as “wayfarers’ table”), he could be vindictive and unforgiving if crossed. Tinker was his old grey gelding, lent freely as a “trace horse” to help pull loads up the steep hill. At the top, Tinker was unhitched to make his own way back to his stable.
