The Old Man Of Lode

In the summer of 2002, I was in Cambridgeshire for a day. I spent some time walking around Cambridge before hopping on a bus to a little village near Cambridge, a village by the name of Lode. I had heard from someone on the coach from London that there is a pretty little abbey and a mill, called Anglesey Abbey, in Lode. Sure enough, the former priory was pretty, the grounds were impeccable. But it wasn't the abbey, I remember most about Lode. It was the Old Man of Lode.

Satisfied with the Abbey, I was heading back to the bus stop to take the bus back to Cambridge. As there was plenty of time to kill for the next bus, I walked along the country road to the next bus stop, enjoying the sun and the wind.

Upon reaching this bus stop I still had 15 minutes to kill. So, I walked along the road to find a lane, more like a dirt path, that took me through the fields. It was a windy day, and the fields sighed and whispered, beckoning me to enter. I did. The butterflies seemed flustered by my entry. The path took me right past the backyards of some homes/farms. Believe me, country home backyards are fascinating. There were kennels, tubs, lawn chairs, flower beds, wrought iron swings, willow trees with rubber tires for swings, mini greenhouses, conservatories … Fascinated, I took more time than I meant to. I headed back. The bus was no where in sight. It was now 5 past the hour. I waited.

There is something about the countryside that slows time. No matter how much there is to see and do, time creeps and crawls in the country. I walked up and down the road, kicking pebbles and chewing on grass. It was now about 20 minutes past the hour. I threw a pebble into the fields. Two hares jumped out.

Then I saw an old man walking towards the bus stop. Dressed in tweeds and a deerstalker hat. Small, slightly bent, wrinkled, about 80. He nodded at me. I nodded and smiled back. I had resumed strolling up and down. When I was near enough, he said that I had missed the bus when I had taken the walk in the fields. I was a tad bit taken aback but was polite enough to make small talk "Are you going to Cambridge, sir?"

He took a minute to answer, "No, I am not going anywhere. [Pause] I didn't know youngsters still called us old folks 'sir'. Where are you from?

I told him a little bit about my being Indian. Then he asked me why I was in these parts of England and I soon found myself telling him about living in Singapore and studying in the-place-i-studied and how I plan to go to the Highlands come next winter yada yada yada. His eyes twinkled. The blue of his eyes was marred by cloudy grey that comes with the years.

I asked him back where he was from. Slowly and eventually, he told me about how he spent most of his life in Cambridgeshire, and had never really done much of anything other than farming and how his wife died about 20 years ago and that he had few surviving relatives, and how he doesn't drive anymore because he cannot understand why people are always in a rush to get somewhere and honk so much, and how he used to enjoy going to the talkies, but now he cannot stomach all the noise and blood, and that how life in England has so drastically changed that he doesn't feel he belongs anymore, and how he stopped going to town (Cambridge) unless it was absolutely necessary and how he once went to London a long time ago and absolutely hated it, and how he feels unwanted in his own country in spite of fighting for it during the Great War (he meant the second one), and how he wishes that he will not wake up one day not because he is depressed, but because he sees little purpose in his life.

I listened for a long time without any pity, but with growing desolation. With every syllable he uttered, I was engulfed in my own emptiness. In spite of such desolation, he spoke with such perfect equanimity and quiet dignity that it very nearly broke my heart bit by bit.

He asked me why I seemed to agree with him, though I was young. I told him something along the lines of – Of the little I've seen, I found little comfort in women for there is too much malice in them, I found little comfort in men for there is too little sensitivity in them, I found little comfort in children for there is too much selfishness in them and that I often wonder whether there is such a thing like the simple people or the simple life and whether it was really ever simple, and if it was, how come it wasn't simple any more or had I just 'missed the bus'.

He laughed. A sound of mirth, sadness and surprise. He nodded and said, 'You've seen right.' I probed him with more questions, and he answered all of them with great frankness. He didn't show the usual English reticence when it comes to discussing personal life. He advised me to visit the White Cliffs of Dover if I ever get a chance to. I said, I would. He added that there are some things comforting because that do not change, and shall remain the same for all eternity, and one of them are the White Cliffs of Dover. He recited the lyrics of the song (There'll be bluebirds flying over the white cliffs of Dover) a little and I finished it a little for him. And we stood there on the dusty country road smiling and nodding at each other.

Then he asked me whether I would like to have some tea and biscuits, as it was a hot summer day. He pointed towards the stonewall adjacent to the road, and said, his farm was beyond the wall and this (a berry tree bent over the wall onto the road) was his berry tree. His mother had planted it when she was a lonely bride, new to Cambridgeshire. But just as he uttered the invitation, a red bus rumbled in the distance.

I was very touched by his invitation. I very much wanted to take a walk with him in his farm and ask him about his life, about the War, about growing up in Cambridgeshire, about his loves, his children, his young hopes, his travels, his faith. I wanted to know everything. I saw his quiet dignity in his loneliness and his kindness in his bitterness and a wisdom that comes from living through the decades.

But I had to board that red bus. Before I could turn him down, he spoke, "Oh, there's your bus.
Run along now before you miss this one too." I mumbled something about being awfully glad that I met him, and would have liked to have tea.

To which he said something very perceptive and beautiful, 'You're a good girl. Don't be sad thinking of old age and the bygone times. It is a job for the old. Now you take good care.'

Bidding adieu, I hopped onto the bus and found a seat at the rear. As the bus rumbled along, I looked back and saw him, in his tweeds and deerstalker cap, standing beside the winding road, right underneath his mother's berry tree. He made a desolate picture. I waved. He raised his hand in reply.

There are times when you feel that you are in the right place at the right time and that life isn't completely meaningless (you know this by theory, but you don't feel it often) and that you are part of a grand plan and nothing is a coincidence. Meeting the Old Man of Lode was one of those times for me.

I wonder if he still comes by the country lane to talk to people who missed their buses. I would like to think that he came just for me.