STONE-BREAKER
The other day I had to slow down to let a lorry turn and unload a mountain of granite chippings in one of those cut-backs that used to shelter, in the long ago, the loneliest workman in the countryside, the stone-breaker. I can't remember when I last saw an 'unmechanised' stone-breaker, but there were plenty of them in my grandfather's day and still quite a few when I was up to my father's knee. One, I remember, used to sit in what must have been an almost inexhaustible supply of round stones, crack- ing them unhurriedly, smoking his clay and listening, between whiles, to the cry of the curlew on the adjoining moss. He had an equally inexhaustible stock of stories and, of course, it was a day when the traveller had time to stop and listen, while his pony champed the bit and tore up grass within range. There were days when it rained and the old fellow huddled in his topcoat and puffed hard on his pipe to warm his nose, but he never failed to wave a greeting. It is saddening to me to think that I didn't make the most of those opportunities to know such old characters better, but I only knew them for what they were after they were no more.
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