An English Village (1973-74)

I walked slowly up the narrow track, the shadows of the elm trees deepening as I rounded the breast of the hill, the sun slowly sinking in the west, flooding the sky in glorious shades of red.

Yes, there it was just as I remembered it! The whole valley was spread out in all its glory, the russet and red shades bathed in shadow, the high fells as stark and dangerously beautiful as on that day, so long ago, when I had left them for my King and country.

I returned now, foot-weary and tired, my pack heavy on my sagging back, and rejoiced at what I saw. I breathed in the strong air and, spirits raised, set off down the last slope to the place of my birth.

This, too, had not changed - except for its quietness. The little village, with its one main street, clustered around the foot of the steep, bracken-covered slope, and the whitewashed houses huddled together as if for comfort against the winter snows.

The village drowsed, smoke from the gabled chimneys rising straight as a ramrod through the still evening air. A group of old men – there were no young ones left now - sat outside the 'Red Lion'', sucking their pipes and discussing times gone by. They eyed me curiously as I trudged by they doubtless did not recognise me. The atmosphere tensed: 'a foreigner' had entered the village, and none of the old grey men trusted foreigners. I longed to put them right, to discuss with them the events of my youth, and to slip into the cool, dark cavern of the public bar, decorated with horse brasses, stained with pipe smoke, old oak beams blackened by years of service; but first things came first.

I walked on in the last beams of rosy sunlight, twilight already darkening the cobbled street, past the butchers, where I worked as a boy. The homely, meaty smells brought back floods of memories, as did the fresh, warm smell of Mr. Daniels' the bakery. G. W. Pimms & Sons, the general stores and Post Office, was the third of the three shops in our village. This shop particularly I remembered, and Mr. Pimm standing, bespectacled and aproned, smiling kindly down at me, and the feel of farthings clutched in hot sweaty little hands, the delicious taste of the home made aniseed twists that were the fruits of opening a gate for the squire, of carrying a basket for the Lady.

The rows of wallflowers outside Mrs. Goodbody's house gave out a pungent, sickly smell, and I remembered that she fed them with a potion of dead mice, sheep manure and old wallflower heads, all boiled up and the juice poured on the shoots as they grew. When I was young people said she was a witch. Witch or no, she always won the prize at the Vicar's flower show.

At last I came to our house, next to the greying church. It stood aloof from the rest of the village, and it had a drive with a real gravel forecourt! It was granite, mined from the hills, and my grandfather had shaped it with his own hands. It was the best house in the village, and we knew it. I trudged up the drive, and opened the door - no doors were ever locked in our village. The smell of new baked bread assailed my nostrils, and my mother ran incredulously from the warm kitchen. Oh, it was good to be home!