One June day I took the byway over the hills, and as I leaned upon a gate looking towards the castle, a sound of wheels not far off was heard on the gritty roadway, and from round the corner a party of Gypsies hove in sight. There were two or three carts bearing the name of Watland, with several comely people aboard, and lagging in the rear came a pair of shaggy colts, whipped up by a shock-headed lad of fifteen. When I greeted these wanderers, they drew rein and descended from the carts, and standing there in the sunshine on the road, they appeared to me more than anything like a gang of prehistoric folk risen from some tumulus on the moor; features, garments, horses, vehicles—all were tinctured with Mother Earth’s reds and browns picked up from wild heaths, clay-pits, and sandy lanes. To my mind the sight was an agreeable variation from the daily procession of miners so black with coal-dust that you could not for the life of you distinguish Bill from Bob, or Jack from Jerry.
“Are you stopping about here?” I asked, after an exchange of salutations.
“Yes; come and see us to-night on top o’ the moor. We’ll be fixed up by then.” Turning to his wife, the leader of the party said—
“Ay, doesn’t he remind you of that young priest up yonder by Newcastle, what used to come and take a cup of tea with us?”
There was something about these Watlands which impressed me. Although obviously poor, they were light-hearted—I had caught the lilt of a song before they came in sight. A blithesome spirit of acceptance, a serenity drawn from Nature’s bosom was theirs, and I could imagine them whistling cheerily as they bent their heads to buffeting storms.
“Take no thought for the morrow,” is the Gypsy’s own philosophy. Were real road-folk ever able to tell you the route of the morrow’s itinerary? Break of day will be time enough to discuss the next stage of the journey.
Sundown’s fires burned redly behind the black pines, as I found myself on the moor, a wide expanse tracked by little paths worn by passing feet, a haunt of whin-chats, grasshoppers, and bright-eyed lizards—sun-lovers all.
Knowing the whimsicalities of the Gypsy nature, I had half expected to draw a blank after dawdling through the afternoon at Brancepeth Castle. I wondered whether my luck would be the same as on a past occasion whereon it happened that down a green lane I had located a picturesque lot of Gypsies who might almost have stepped straight out of a Morland canvas, and most anxious I was to secure a few snapshots, but unfortunately my camera had been left at home.
“You’ll be here all day, I expect?”
“To be sure we shall, my rai, you’ll find us here koliko sawla (to-morrow morning), if you’s a mind to come.”