Saturday Afternoon Fire!

Do you like gardening? I do and since my retirement some years ago I have rented allotments from the local council and maintained a small garden. I've enjoyed both success and failure with the flowers and vegetables I have grown but most of all I enjoy the physical activity required in working the plots. I have been told by my doctor that this exercise has extended my life by a considerable margin.

My current allotment is my second, the first was in another part of the county. I won't bore you with tales of how or why I produce the range of flowers, fruit and vegetables I choose. I have no doubt that your produce would be better and with a wider range…No! I'll tell you about my most frightening experience. It happened on my first allotment.

You could be forgiven for thinking it difficult to have a truly frightening experience on the side of a hill, on a hot Saturday afternoon in mid-summer, in the depths of one of the greenest counties in England. Well I did and I'll tell you about it, though it still embarrasses me to even think about it now.

The plot was situated almost on the brow of a hill but with a slight westerly aspect. At the bottom of the hill was a row of old houses with the entrance to the allotments site through an alleyway about twenty feet wide between two of them. I lived in one of the houses opposite the alleyway.

The entire western slope was covered with allotments that grew every known vegetable and fruit in vast quantities. To the south side of the hill was a very large and important farm that had been there for generations and to the north a wooded area in front of another row of old houses. Over the hill and to the east were fields that for yonks had been farmed for wheat, below the fields a narrow but deep river bordered by thick bushes, high hawthorn and old beech trees. Behind them was a coaching inn that Oliver Cromwell would have recognised, it was there in his day and before; all old oak beams and white plaster, that sort of building, you've seen pictures of that sort of building I'm sure.

The plot I had been allocated had been lying fallow for some years and I had spent months clearing the ground of weeds and other rubbish that accumulates when a site is ignored for any length of time. I had piled all the rubbish in a heap and intended to compost it in the Autumn. It was Saturday afternoon and it was hot, there had been no rain for weeks and the ground was reflecting the lack of moisture, so were the plants that I had so carefully nurtured since the spring. I decided that I should water it with the hose and give the whole area a good soaking and I did just that. So far so good.

Why I decided to burn some of the weeds that I had piled at the end of the plot I cannot to this day give a satisfactory explanation for, I just did! I took all proper precautions, three large buckets of water on standby, hose connected to the standpipe, ground around the brazier cleared back to bare earth. What could go wrong? Nothing that I could see! But the best laid plans of mice and men….The fire caught quickly and consumed the dead foliage at an astonishing rate, I loaded more onto the fire with the same result. No problems, what could go wrong? Nothing, that I could see. The pile of weeds rapidly reduced and encouraged I piled on the remainder. Tinder dry the leaves and weeds were consumed by the fire and a satisfying grey ash trickled from the brazier onto the earth beneath. What could be wrong with that? Nothing, that I could see.

It proved to be what I couldn't see that caused the problem! Amongst the pile of weeds and rubbish were some discarded bamboo sticks, originally used to support the raspberry canes. As every gardener knows…well I think they know…well I know…now! Bamboo when put onto a fire has a nasty habit of exploding. Something to do with the pockets of air trapped in between the segments of the stem. Anyway when the segments are heated the air expands and the stick explodes, that's what happened! A sharp crack! A flying splinter of bamboo with a small flame attached shot from the fire looking like a rocket heading for outer space, It landed a bit shorter, under the hedge ten feet away from me to be precise. No problem, I grabbed the nearest bucket and threw the contents onto the flames, they went out, or had they? The bit I could see had for sure but the grass and undergrowth was so dry that the fire had moved like an express train and was though the hedge in flash…literally!

The eastern slope of my hill, beyond the fire threatened hedge, where the wheat had been recently harvested stood baking in the afternoon heat; the stubble, about eight to ten inches high, a bright golden colour. In days gone by the field would have been razed with fire soon after harvesting but a recent law forbidding such activity had been passed and farmers can no longer clear their fields in that way. Well not deliberately anyway! But no one had told the Fire Gods about the new law and with cheerful disregard, and what sounded like a cackle of laughter, the fire shot through the hedge and into the field catching the stubble alight in an instant. I picked up the hose and aimed the business end at the fire in the field fully expecting a fierce jet to emerge and flood the small fire in the field beyond.

No such jet emerged! In fact no jet at all emerged! The allotment holders at the bottom of the hill were using their hoses and the water pressure wasn't strong enough to push the water up to the top hill where I so desperately needed it. The fire seemed to sense that it was free to roam wherever it liked and exercised the privilege with enthusiasm. It spread rapidly in every direction and at such a speed that, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed possible. I realised with horror that the fire was out of control and that there was no way that I was going to be able to do anything about it. I watched helplessly as the fire raced joyously across the field towards the farm buildings half-a-mile away to my left; down the hill towards the river and the old inn and away to my right towards the houses. The nearest telephones were in the houses three hundred yards away. As if feeling left out of all the activity a capricious breeze sprung up and fanned the flames on the stubble feeding it and urging it on to greater destruction.

Then everything seemed to happen at once. Those at the bottom of the hill saw the smoke rising above the brow of the hill and knowing that I was there ran to help, first turning off their hoses. One of them ran to the house nearest his plot and called the fire brigade. In the middle of all this activity the young man who lived next door to me grabbed my arm and demanded that I move my car from outside my house. MOVE MY CAR? At a time like this? Had he gone mad? There I was covered in sweat-stained soot, staring a probable disaster, and he wants me to MOVE MY CAR? I told him in no uncertain terms that I had other things on my mind just then and the blasted car would have to wait. He saw the look on my face and deemed discretion the better part of valour, shrugged his shoulders and went off back down the hill. He wasn't a plot-holder and clearly didn't intend to play any part in the attack on the fire.

By now that fire was well into it's stride. Nearing the hedge between the farm and the field to my left, approaching the line of trees in front of the river and speeding towards the gardens at the back of the houses to my right. What could we all do to stop it? The possible damage becoming ever more apparent was frankly terrifying, the farm, the houses, the old coaching inn, all were in grave danger. The hose that up to now had been useless was gushing water but in nowhere near enough quantity to make a difference and the fire was moving at such a speed that no one could catch up with it to beat it out with the branches torn from the bushes in the hedge.

I heard the fire sirens on the tenders long before I could see them. That's not surprising really considering the pall of smoke that now covered the field of stubble. My companions and I stood and watched with relief and gratitude as four fire engines appeared out of the smoke from the direction of the farm. Their fire hoses were blasting great jets of water in every direction chasing the flames as they sought to escape and systematically extinguishing them until all that was left was the blackened earth with steam rising from it as the sun made it's contribution to the afternoon. Through WWII in London I saw fires on a grand scale, I can't say that I was frightened then, probably because I was confident that my parents wouldn't allow anything bad to happen to me, but this fire…Frankly I have never been so frightened in my life. The enormity of what could have happened stays with me to this day.

Oh yes! One final thing…The young man who wanted me move my car? The reason he wanted me to move it was because the fire engines couldn't turn into the alleyway between the houses to gain access to the allotment site with my car parked directly opposite the entrance! With great presence of mind he had rushed back to re-direct the firemen to the other entrance to the field from the farmer's yards! By doing he had saved the day!

Yes! Yes! Yes! of course I went to him and apologised.

The fire chief was very kind about the whole incident. I acknowledged my responsibility, explained how it had happened and apologised profusely for all the trouble I had caused. He told me not to worry, "It could have happened to anyone" Then he added, "But I'd be a bit more selective of what you choose to burn next time…if there is a next time!" The Farmer was brilliant, he said he was delighted to have his field razed but would rather have organised the burning himself. Me? I don't have bonfires any more…anywhere!END