Beetpiles and Pillboxes

Out my front door in England, I could walk about one hundred yards down to the backyard of a close friend, and, through a convenient back gate, enter into the moors behind the house. The moors were a massive expanse of beet fields that separated our village, Fordham, from the next closest, Isleham, to the south. About three miles of flat expanse filled the space between, full of beets and barley. In late October, combines would cross the beet fields like green caterpillars, devouring the crops before them and spitting them out into giant piles, growing out of the landscape like the boroughs in the surrounding area rumored to be the graves of old celtic kings. Each year when this happened, the neighborhood kids would get together in bands of eight to twelve, and play King of the Beet Hill, whether it be free-for-all or equal teams.

            This contest was no mere child’s game though; the beet piles, enormous as they were, were unsteady and tricky footing, full of holes in the beets to twist an ankle or trip you up. The beets themselves were reddish-brown, dull, and quite heavy. It took considerable effort for my younger self to heave a beet off the pile at my incoming friends, but we did just that. Aiming square for a chest was the best bet, almost sure to knock an attacker backwards head over heels down the beet face. Are more devastating defense involved loosening certain beets on the pile, eventually sending a small number tumbling to the bottom in a peculiar avalanche, to be ignored at the peril of the ones below. Black eyes, bruised limbs and once, a broken toe, were the medals we brought back from the moors.

            Divided from the beet fields by tall hedges were the barley fields. Long lanes crisscrossed these fields, walks for farmers and dogs and the passing traveler. When the barley grew tall, you could gaze out over the field and see the divots and shadows made by the waving barley and the gap in between, indicative of the trail. At sunset in late November, these fields were set on fire, appearing brilliant gold to reflect the magnificence of the fiery sunset, and perhaps juxtaposing the dark clouds that so often appeared above it. Looking to the horizon, you could see the lights of Isleham, and, closer than that, the trail of trees snaking through the fields, betraying the presence of a small brook, the Snail River. More vibrant color I haven’t yet seen than on the moors and fields outside of Fordham; from the iron gray of the clouds above, the the softer blues, then greens, bright yellows, and fierce oranges of the sunset, with the landscape stretched out like a golden comforter inlaid with silver and green thread, with undertones of earthy brown.

            Once, walking much farther than I ever had before on the moors, I encountered a small concrete structure, placed atop a dyke separating two fields, perpendicular to its run. Upon further investigation, I deduced it to be an old pillbox, placed in the field in preparation for the german invasion that never came, thanks to the Spitfire and the Channel. It amazed me that, this far inland, preparations had been made to defend and die for England. If the presence of the pillbox meant anything, it meant a populace willing to die for their country, and among those fields, I could understand why. There is no place in the world quite like England; even the very geographical location of the place is special.