Life in an English Village

As we contemplate a change of lifestyle and abode, I looked to my latest King Penguin,

Life in an English Village by Noel Carrington and Edward Bawden 

for an indication of what we might be letting ourselves in for.

Townsmen who retire to the village have not found it easy to reintegrate themselves into the life of the community. Between them and the villagers proper there has been too big a gap in the way of wealth and habit of mind. 

You can live in a village for ten, twenty, or thirty years, and still you do not belong.

You can be a regular at the local, and talk your head off but you still will not be a villager.

But if we persist in this notion that there is a better life to live as promised in the pages of Country Living, what should we look for?

It is a great blessing to have not only a good general store

but a baker who will also put your joint in the oven, 

as is the custom in several villages I have known,

a cobbler who can make your straps as well as mend your shoes,

A fair-sized village can have a better school, with several classes for children of different ages. The new practice of sending children by car from one village to another cannot be very economic or sound.

But then just as you were being seduced Cobbett weighs in:

Country people know everything. 

If you have ever made a faux pas, of any sort or description; 

if you have anything about you, 

of which you do not want all the world to know, 

never retire to a village, keep in some great town.

And still further scorn is poured on the townies' attempts to blend in:

In some of the most favoured counties, such as Surrey and Sussex, almost every village has been repeopled to some extent in this way; there being villages where every dwelling more than fifty years old has been bought up and 'improved'. The brass door knocker, the cretonnes and the garden ornaments tell you in a moment where 'residents' have replaced the native. The newcomers have developed a country cottage style of furnishing which has been bred by the magazines of taste. It is a very dim descendant of Petit Trianon rustic, and is the nearest thing to contemporary style.

Reluctantly at the end of his introduction Noel Carrington concedes that:

There are many good qualities in village life of which I have not said enough, and they are qualities which will endure. 

Villagers are ...less given to fretting and grumbling than their cousins in town.

There are not the strained eyes in the village faces - the look that speaks of too many things attempted in too little time, of the daily struggle to and from work and the frustration of utterly uncongenial tasks.

So as we drove back to the metropolis, what was our conclusion?

There are lovely parks to visit,

trees,

 wildlife very near at hand

and a picturesque chapel

where I can sit in the back pew

and let Matins, Eucharist and Evensong wash over me,

much as it would in any country church.

Then if I am still dissatisfied, 

I can gaze upon this poster and reflect that

 a wicker hamper is heavy and unwieldy if carried much further than

 the end of the garden. 

Before blogging

Sun spots

Psittacula krameri

These glamorous but raucous birds have been breeding round the London suburbs since the 1970s and estimates suggest that the feral population is growing by 30% a year and will reach 100,000 by 2010. 

We hear them and see them flying in small flocks over our garden, 

but now they have discovered the feeder.

They take fright easily and usually there is a lookout who warns with a piercing squawk 

when I approach .

But today I was able to use the Bay tree as cover and got these pictures.

 

Ring-necked parakeets originated in the foothills of the Himalayas

so how did they get here?

One persistent theory is that an entire flock escaped from the set in 1951 during the filming of The African Queen, 

starring Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn.

I hope this is true because it was my father's favourite film and he watched every time it came on television.

Through leaves

In 1950, Vita Sackville-West identified in a broadcast on the BBC, a number of unremarkable but essential pleasures. 
These brief moments were termed in the family shorthand, 

“through leaves”, 

after the small but intense pleasure of kicking through dry leaves.

It was “through leaves” to run a stick along an iron railing
 or crunch thin ice; 
to suddenly remember a word or name you thought you’d forgotten;
 to write with the perfect pen; 
pulling curtains that run freely on their rods; 
sliding out a drawer which opened readily and silkily on ball bearings, 
cutting pages of a book with a sharp paper cutter; 
drawing a cork with a good corkscrew; 
drinking when you're thirsty; 
feeling of sand between your toes at the beach; 
and reading in bed. 
Others include; sinking into bouncy seats at the movies; 
waking up to find it has snowed overnight; 
shopping in an outdoor market; 
putting on a freshly ironed shirt 
or suddenly catching sight of the sea.

I find it pleasing that nearly 60 years later, 
I can still identify with so many of these things.

Perhaps sticks and railings are harder to come by 
and we hardly ever have to wield a paper cutter 
before we can read a new book, 
but nothing else is unfamiliar to me.

Remembering the word ‘choisya’ yesterday was a huge relief 
and so was ‘altruistic’ and ‘impulsive’. 
I’ll forget them again no doubt, 
but then have the fun of remembering them all over again.

I used to love a Rotring pen, 
but these days a Pilot V5 Hi-tecpoint is just right.

Curtains run more freely if you spray the rail with WD40. 
I did that after the rail came down 
and had to be replaced in our bedroom.

Corks are often screwtops or plastic which is a crying shame.

 We don’t buy bottled water but I used to like Hildon Still. 

The bottle was an elegant shape with a plainish blue label.

Camber Sands has the best fine sand near to hand
and dunes and board walks. 
It is often used as a location substitute for New England.

Reading in bed is good but brief in duration. 
I’m reading a Persephone book (for a change) 
called the Fortnight in September by RC Sherriff.

There were very bouncy seats at the Haymarket Cineworld 
when we went to see Benjamin Button 
but the experience was marred by the nacho chomping, 
texting, talking couple next to me. 
More ‘nails down blackboard’ than ‘through leaves’. 
But let’s not go there.

It did snow overnight 
and it was the best thing that happened all winter. 

And there were icy puddles to crunch.

Borough Market is great but you need to get there early 
otherwise it’s just a scrum. 
 Good markets in Italy were hard to find, too much tat. 
But I have high hopes of finding a nice one this summer in Provence.

I’m not a great shirt wearer, 
in fact there’s one waiting to go back to M&S because 
although it was a lovely Chambray blue 
it makes me look like a police officer, 
and I’m not a great ironer of shirts. 
Sheets though, I’m very good at.

I’m thrilled every time by the sudden sight of the sea 
in the vee at Hope Gap. 

All the more because  a flowery, grassy path that leads down to it 
in a cleft between two steep Downland slopes.

She invited listeners to come up with their own list of pleasures 
to add to those she had overlooked or forgotten.

My list is forming, but that’s enough to be going on with.

What's on yours?