Not the village I live in now (although I might write about that sometime, too), but one I used to live in, a long time ago. My mother grew up there. Her parents lived in the same house all their married lives.
They seem so long ago now, those weekend afternoons when we visited. The Saturday lunch of fish and chips, picked up from the chippy next to the bus station in town, or a Sunday roast (with chilled Tizer as a treat, although the grown-up men preferred a glass of Mackeson stout). Then we might 'stretch our legs, get some fresh air and walk it off'.
It's one of those fine days, with blue sky and sun playing hide and seek with fluffy clouds and only a breeze. Come on, put on your coat and boots and let's take a walk.
Down the front drive with its chalky banks and garden full of weeds, although the gardens on either side are well-kept, with a bee-hive near the adjoining hedge on one side.
Watch for cars as we cross the road to see the horses in their meadow. Marina and Atlanta, manes and tails flowing like water as they canter away. As we walk towards the school, the vicar comes out of the vicarage drive, taking his Dalmatian for a walk, but he is going the other way, towards the common. At the staggered cross, there's a tree with a seat which circles its trunk. The lucky tree, to overhear the conversations of passers by, and watch little girls run around its seat, arms outstretched, face turned to the patterns of the leaves against the sky.
One road leads to the church and the main street, another heads up alongside the school to a housing estate. Look, that was my first classroom, and my mother's too. But today, we'll go straight on.
At Cuckoo Bridge, the old canal is overgrown with trees and nettles, but there is still water in the bottom, and probably deep mud. Silted up over time, the cutting was much deeper. For 120 years they had trouble with water levels and enough traffic to make it worthwhile, until it fell out of use and was lost, the last few miles forever dammed by motorway and ring-road, and housing developments.
Shall we turn up the track to the railway footbridge, where we could check the signals for an imminent train, wave to the driver and count the carriages as it passes under us? Then walk down to the rec to play on the swings and watch the archers practising? Or run down the road as it dips to go under the embankment, into the darkness of the tunnel, pausing to shout 'Hello! Cuckoo! Echo!' and hear our voices rebound off the walls. Then perhaps a train would pass over us, turning the world to thunder as we run to the other side, our hands over our ears against the noise.
I remember a ditch running with water and culvert pipes to carry it under house entrances. Where was that? I learned the names of the wildflowers on those verges and watched for frogs and toads.
Soon we are at the corner with the old village well and quaint brick and half-timbered cottages with thatched roofs, and the topiary peacock, A few steps on, and we join the main street through the village.
Back past the chapel and Goodall's Garage, where we'll Put a Tiger in our Tank on the way home? No, on to the river, past the lane which leads beside the recreation ground to the railway footbridge. Hard to believe there was a clay pit and the lane led to a brickyard, well before my time. Past the big house opposite the green expanse of the rec. There used to be a huge horse chestnut tree, great for conkers, on top of the bank opposite the big house, until the owner had it chopped down.
There was an old motte and bailey here, though there's nothing to see except a rise in the land. Then we are at the sparkling river, with swans and mallard ducks awaiting some crumbs of bread, and an old Muscovy duck who comes from the mill up the lane to the right, Stand on the bank here and look into the water, near the clumps of weeds, see the shadows move? There are trout in these crystal waters, camouflaged against the gravelly bottom.
Let's cross the bridge to go up the hill. Further along, the banks near the copse are a bed of primroses in spring. We'll take this lane which skirts the marshy ground where the young river is finding its way. It's a stroll to the next mill,where we can cross the river again and walk beside it, watching damselflies and dragonflies dart over the watercress which has spread from the beds upstream. Pause, feeling small under the tall arches of the viaduct, then carry on to join the lane near the bridge. Here's the Grange Farm, with its red brick walls and massive barns, Around the corner, past the drive, the wall continues. There used to be a haystack here, and so many sparrows, investigating every nook and cranny for spiders, insects and seeds!
On the other side of the road, the gateway to the site of a Tudor palace built on the site of an even older castle, destroyed in the Civil War. Centuries ago, there were people who also thought this village the ideal place to live. I've never seen the gates open when I've walked past, although it must be open to visitors sometimes.
We could carry on to the church along the main street and cut through along the lane to the seat around the tree. No, we'll turn up the lane by the pub here, it's not so far. The canal came under the road, but it was filled in and those houses are on top of it. I wonder if the owners know, or even care?
Here we come to the junction with the brick bus shelter where we could wait for a bus into town. There's the path to the common, but we'll go left, just a few yards and then we're home. Time for tea!
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There has been so much development in and around the little village. The main street is a conservation area, so it's still beautiful, but the average price of those little cottages and village houses is now half a million pounds. There's a Mercedes on the drive where my grandfather's Ford once stood. The house has been extended. There were only two bedrooms, so my brother and I slept on camp beds in the front parlour. There was a fireplace, but I don't remember it being lit. A paraffin heater was used to 'take the chill off', the flame put out before we went to bed.
I remember snuggling under the blankets in the darkness, listening to the muted voices of the grown-ups going up to bed. Once all was quiet, I listened to the wind in the trees and the distant rushing rhythm of trains passing in the night.
