THOSE of us who are somewhat long in the tooth and possessing even longer memories will readily recall the days when the gap between town and country was not all that wide.

Indeed, within living memory, crowds of town and city dwellers would descend on rural Worcestershire each year to harvest hops or the fruit from the county's orchards.

Potatoes, too. Once upon a time, any country lad worth his salt would leap at the opportunity to earn five bob and all the spuds he could carry home in a bag.

How times change. Now it seems that the indigenous English person has lost all appetite for such honest labour.

We suspect that if the farmer came knocking at the cottage door these days, he would be more likely to meet with a computer programmer rather than horny-handed son of toil.

But, of course, the grower doesn't bother any more. For he also knows that the computer programmer's son or daughter isn't interested, either.

The evocative pictures on pages one and four today seem to speak of a new countryside. Yes, this is still the land of William Blake's epic poetry, but the names have been changed.

In this green corner of England, we find it is the hard-working black or Asian Briton, immigrant or asylum seeker who is prepared to break his or her back - not the white inhabitants of villages. So. The next time you hear someone talk of "scroungers" we suggest you refer them to today's potent images.