Lost in my Notebook

Empty fields. You're always a beep away from a new story.

Last week, I spent some time in England. I’m fortunate to know a range of interesting people doing all sorts of weird and wonderful things. One of them has been on my mind since I returned home. Metal detecting is endlessly fascinating, though I’ve never had the chance—or perhaps the will—to try it myself. But maybe I should. Depending on where you are in the world, there might be a rich history buried right beneath your feet.

There’s also something to be said about the process itself. Walking through an empty field or along a quiet beach is nothing short of meditative. Yet, unlike traditional meditation, you’re always one unexpected beep away from uncovering a new story.

A special thanks to Rob, my detecting friend. He gifted me this sheep bell and inspired this story.

Empty Fields

A new field brings new opportunities, new hope, new soil to tread, and new dreams to imagine. Winter has arrived in full force this morning, leaving a layer of crunchy frost atop the uneven soil. A white film covers the ground, glistening where the morning sun reaches it through the thinning forest on the eastern horizon. Each step crunches like cornflakes; each breath forms a visible cloud. A pair of keys, a bottle of water, a lighter, and a joint bulge in my pockets. I’ll light up once the sun has hauled itself above the tree line. For now, I listen.

After a while, the detector becomes light in my hand, so much so that I have to remind myself to slow down. One beep can turn a calm morning into a crazed one, and there’s no telling when it’ll come—on the first wave or the last. Starting on the eastern side, I descend the gradual hill into the shallow bed of the field. Last night, the farmer told me he’d grown barley this year, but the crop is long gone, replaced by dark, overturned dirt. A few months ago, I heard the field had been host to a small skirmish around five to six hundred years ago. If that’s true, it should be littered with finds. If it’s just a rumour, the odds aren’t bad either. This stripe of England was crawling with Romans once upon a time. After them, Normans, and after them, a detachment of Dutchmen. However you looked at it, you could afford some optimism. The owner himself, an old-fashioned type of farmer clad in tweed and denim, pulled out a Roman coin after the harvest. It’s that coin that’s brought me here.

In the hedgerow to my left, I spot a robin, half flying, half leaping to one branch after another. If I stand still, I can hear its feet as they land on each frozen twig. It looks stuck in a Christmas card scene, its orange chest standing out against the white and grey. The rising sun matches its colourful chest. I smile as I turn and climb back up the small hill, glancing towards the hedgerow every few feet. Looking up the hill, I see a trail of prints in the soil, visible reassurance that my first line was straight. Detecting is a game of contrasts, where dreams and details take up equal space. You spend half your time thinking about what might be buried just below your boots and the other half lining up your route, afraid of missing the one spot with riches.

Another line goes by with nothing more than a gentle hum. Then another, before the sun comes over the treetops, forcing my eyes into a squint. Forgetting sunglasses is as much a part of my routine as packing my detector and lining up my route. I feel for the joint in my pocket; it’s crumpled under the weight of my hand. Then, as I search for the lighter hiding under the water bottle, the morning calm is broken in two. Beep. Beeeeep. I pass the detector over the spot again to make sure. Beeeep. There’s something waiting for my hands beneath the surface.

The ground feels cold and damp against my knees, seeping through my blue jeans. Despite the frost, the soil is soft and comes loose easily with my trowel. Careful not to damage what might be hidden in the dark earth, I dig around the spot, rechecking the ground with the detector after each shovel. Then, on the third dig, the sound of metal on metal. My fingers sink into the cold ground and hook out the piece in one smooth movement. A belt buckle, not much older than the farmer who allowed me into his field. Possibly the farmer’s. Its design is too simple to be handmade, and too intact to be interesting. Slipping the buckle into my bag, I dust off my hands, smooth out the joint, light it, and continue down my third line.

Somehow, getting high at eight in the morning doesn’t feel degenerate when you’re alone in the middle of an empty field. There are things that belong together: bronze ale in British pubs, a robin and a frozen hedgerow, and my empty mind in this empty field. The cloud of my exhale grows thicker until there’s nothing more than a stump between my fingers. It sizzles as it hits the moist soil left behind by the frost. Another line goes past without a beep, and I turn to climb the hill again.

Here at the bottom, looking up, a small streak of smoke rises over the horizon. Burning wood scents the air, and now I feel like the one stuck in a Christmas card scene—the kind you might buy for your grandparents. Something small darts across the field, barely high enough to count as flying. My previous lines are fading under the sun, my footprints melting into the dark soil. Beep. Again, I retrace the vocal ground. Beeeeep. My first dig brings something up. Its shape is distorted by the soil clinging to its surface. The dirt is stubborn, usually a positive sign. I pull out the water bottle from my pocket and pour half over the clump. With the help of my fingers, the dirt comes away, revealing a spherical metal ball. A little more water reveals a welding line and a loop attached at the top, perfect for a piece of string or leather. Three holes have been made in the metal surface: two pinpoint holes towards the top and a long, smiling slit at the bottom. I shake it, but mud fills the holes. It’s almost certainly a bell, and, with any luck, it’ll chime again with a thorough cleaning. Spilling it into my bag alongside the farmer’s buckle, I rise to my feet and continue up the hill.

Halfway up, my silence is disturbed again. Buzz. Sadly, it’s my phone, not the detector—an ugly reminder that the world is more than just empty fields, dirty bells, lost buckles, robins, and stacks of wood-scented smoke.

“Hello.”

“Hello hello. How are you doing?” 

“Alright. I’m surprised you’re up.” 

“I’m always up early.”

“lies. What’s the reason?” 

“It’s the family lunch at Grandad’s in a bit.” 

“Oh yeah.” 

“Did you forget? How much longer are you going to be?” 

“Maybe. And I’m not sure. I’m only about ten percent of the way through the field.” 

“I can come by on my way.” 

“Are you leaving soon?” 

“Yeah. In about twenty minutes, Rebecca’s just popped out.” The robin flies past my line of sight, up the hill and disappears into a thick blackberry bush. I look across the field, there’s about thirty lines of untapped potential left.

“Sure. Bring me a clean T-shirt and some jeans please.” 

“No problem. Anything else?”

“And one of my brushes, the small one if it’s there. I think I left it in your garage last week.” 

“Why did you get something already?” 

“Yeah.”

“Gold.”

“No, it’s iron I think.” 

“Will do. Meet me on the road, otherwise I’ll drive straight past. I have no idea which field you’re in and I don’t get any signal through that lane.” 

“Alright. See you in a bit.”

I continue to climb, taking my time, knowing it’ll be my last visit for another week. Even though the field is open to me whenever I want, I only get the chance on Sunday mornings—a couple of hours each week to play Indiana Jones. Warm summer evenings might allow me more time, but nothing ever beats a frost-bitten Sunday morning. There’s no calm like it, as if the layer of frost that settles over the field freezes time as well as the soil and trees. Before the sun rises to thaw that frost away, it’s just the robin and me. This patch of tranquillity, occasionally stirred by a tuneful beep, is our little secret.

I reach the top of the field, step into the bordering woodland, and lean against an ancient oak. Beep. Beeeeeeep. Usually, I leave the woodland areas around the perimeter until last. They were once the ditch to die in or the tree to sit against and eat lunch, or perhaps a place to boast about battles. They say apples don’t fall far from trees—well, neither does treasure.

I start digging, mindful of the time. Each woosh of a passing car adds another gram to the pressure. Then, about a foot and a half down, tangled in old roots, I find a chain and a circular pendant. In all likelihood, it’s a pocket watch; today, only its bones survive. A bronze case, its arms rusted thin and misshapen like burnt candle wicks. I pull the chain lightly, but it resists—or is it the tree resisting, entwined with its roots? Digging this out will take longer than I have.

Another car hums past. I can already hear the family complaints echoing in my head if I miss my lift. That boy is always late. He spends all his time in a field. He’s probably getting high again. Reluctantly, I refill the hole, packing it down just enough not to draw attention, and start towards the road.

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Love Luke,

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