Thumbing by Dave Rigby
1967 I’ve been at the roadside for six hours. The tractor that dropped me off here, turned off down a stony, dusty track, Before disappearing into a dip, never to be seen again. Since then, there’s been the occasional car, a moped, two tractors and a smoke-belching wagon. But none of them even slowed, let alone stopped. A baking hot mid-afternoon has now transformed into a cool mid-evening. I’m standing next to a tree. It needs to be climbed and I’ve nothing else to do. Maybe some passing driver will fall for the novelty approach and come screeching to a halt. Even high up the tree there’s not a single building, let alone a village, to be seen. After thirty minutes a Fiat 500 putters towards me. Up in my lofty perch I stick out a thumb, waggle it about and grin inanely. The four occupants stick their arms out of each window, waggle them wildly and grin back inanely. The Fiat continues its journey. I wonder whe...