What am I doing in this eternal winter?’ bemoans the title character in Franz Kafka’s Ein Landarzt (A Country Doctor) when called out of bed one stormy night to attend to a sick patient.
Our local medico must surely have been asking himself the same question at 1am on Tuesday morning as he drove through bitterly cold, torrential rain to our house.
We had hesitated for several hours before telephoning him, but, eventually, our child’s symptoms became so bad we convinced ourselves it was something really serious. It was probably the doctor’s sixth middle-of-the-night visit to us since he opened his practice in a nearby village a quarter of a century ago.
Not once has he complained, although he must sometimes have felt we had disturbed his sleep unnecessarily. Instead, he always reassures us that we have done the right thing and asks for a cup of tea for himself and a biscuit for his dog.
He has a winning way with younger patients: ‘Deep breath. Doctor, doctor, I feel like a pair of wigwams. and out. the problem is you have become too tense. Open wide. Doctor, doctor, I’ve broken my arm in two places. Say “aaah”. I’d advise you not to go back to either of those places.’
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber ? Sign In
This story is from the {{IssueName}} edition of {{MagazineName}}.
Start your 7-day Magzter GOLD free trial to access thousands of curated premium stories, and 9,000+ magazines and newspapers.
Already a subscriber? Sign In
Tales as old as time
By appointing writers-in-residence to landscape locations, the National Trust is hoping to spark in us a new engagement with our ancient surroundings, finds Richard Smyth
Do the active farmer test
Farming is a profession, not a lifestyle choice’ and, therefore, the Budget is unfair
Night Thoughts by Howard Hodgkin
Charlotte Mullins comments on Moght Thoughts
SOS: save our wild salmon
Jane Wheatley examines the dire situation facing the king of fish
Into the deep
Beneath the crystal-clear, alien world of water lie the great piscean survivors of the Ice Age. The Lake District is a fish-spotter's paradise, reports John Lewis-Stempel
It's alive!
Living, burping and bubbling fermented masses of flour, yeast and water that spawn countless loaves—Emma Hughes charts the rise and rise) of sourdough starters
There's orange gold in them thar fields
A kitchen staple that is easily taken for granted, the carrot is actually an incredibly tricky customer to cultivate that could reduce a grown man to tears, says Sarah Todd
True blues
I HAVE been planting English bluebells. They grow in their millions in the beechwoods that surround us—but not in our own garden. They are, however, a protected species. The law is clear and uncompromising: ‘It is illegal to dig up bluebells or their bulbs from the wild, or to trade or sell wild bluebell bulbs and seeds.’ I have, therefore, had to buy them from a respectable bulb-merchant.
Oh so hip
Stay the hand that itches to deadhead spent roses and you can enjoy their glittering fruits instead, writes John Hoyland
A best kept secret
Oft-forgotten Rutland, England's smallest county, is a 'Notswold' haven deserving of more attention, finds Nicola Venning
