“Can you reverse?” asked the young woman who had got out of the car behind me and, unnervingly (for me), bent her head down into my car (which had the top down).

At the time I was on my way to Rosie’s farm. I had met an enormous green tractor that occupied the whole width of the country lane, and the kindly farmer, being closer to a passing point, had been reversing until a car with a trailer caught up with him and halted his excellent backwards progress. I turned off Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (Part 1), which was playing on Classic FM, and which had hitherto made the experience of meeting the gigantic green tractor in the lane less stressful; and now, with a young upstart’s head peering down at me, I felt vexed. What did she mean? –  “Can you reverse?” How did she think I passed my driving test? (Admittedly, reversing was my least strong point.)

“Of course I can reverse,” I replied. (I refrained from adding “You cheeky monkey!”)

“I’ll eat my hat if I can’t reverse!” I said to myself as Miss Smarty-Pants went back to her car and I put my sporty car into reverse gear.

The country lane was rather winding, which meant that sometimes I had to pull forward to realign the position of my car before reversing again; in truth, it was a fairly slow process and, all the while, the tractor was advancing. Unfortunately, the nearest passing point behind me was about a quarter of a mile back. Embarrassingly for me, the young blonde had zipped back to that point in no time at all and, in fact, had left her car and walked down to my car to offer her assistance yet again.

“Do you want me to reverse it for you?” she asked in a manner that would brook no refusal as she dipped her head into my car again.

I looked at her dirty boots and her braided blonde hair, and decided, reluctantly, to relinquish my car to the formidable horsey girl.

The farmer smiled pleasantly as he passed; the driver of the car-with-trailer cheered and waved to the horse-girl as he passed. I got back into my driving seat and zoomed off ahead of Miss Horsey – I’d show her who could drive! (Luckily, I didn’t meet any more tractors!)

Before long all thoughts of narrow roads, impasse and the impatient horse girl had faded into memory, and I was following the two black tails belonging to Malachi and Inca as they rushed ahead through the long grasses to the top of the hillside. Happy to keep me in their sights for company, they were eager to press on to the top fields where the sky meets the hedgerows, where lavender grows and a crop of golden barley is ready to be harvested; and wild daisies, like tiny dabs of white and yellow paint, add to the scene of pastoral paradise. I was equally happy to trail in their path at my own rate and pick mushrooms to my heart’s delight.

The upturned straw hat in my hands was overflowing with lavender and mushrooms as I wended my way back down to the old farmhouse. I thought of my father who, when we were little children in Gumdale (Australia), would sometimes awaken us before sunrise and whisper:

“Want to come with me and hunt for mushrooms?”

“Yes, Dad!” we used to thrill.

“Well put on your Wellington boots then…”

I had a few tears, as I often do when I think of nice things we did with my late father, but I was joyful, not sad. Malachi and Inca were waiting for me by the gate and I put down the hat full of mushrooms while I patted and cuddled them. Picking up my hat again I smiled to myself and thought:

“I’ll eat my hat… well, what’s in it!”