The majestic willow – 11th September 1994

Ring-a-ring-a-ling. At the front door of the manor house, we strike the old ship bell, hanging glumly by the door, like a statue more than a device, not a temptation for most, I’d venture, as a more normal doorbell sits right next to it on the wall, but a huge invitation for our playful minds. Ring-a-ring-a-ling.

Dodging fast storms brewing up in the olde-Englysh heavens, wind sweeping each new development along in a flash, one second bright warm sunshine tempting off pullovers, next second torrential downpour of warm wet sees us scurrying for cover under the trees. The cricketers carry on regardless. We all know it will pass by in a matter of a blink or two.

So dodging these slight nuisance rainfalls, we end up at Lower Farm, a converted old farmhouse with twisty apple trees and the most delightful sweeping weeping willow, majestic, from the earth, skyward towering, then falling back in a dance of tears. Around the perimeter, the flower beds, the villagers stand behind their stalls, like a half-hearted car boot sale (minus cars), selling old toys or tempting us to play their games.

A traditional small English fete, with most of the villagers participating, all monies donated to the church (more on that later) and in fact, most I’d imagine, buying or donating money to each other’s stalls.

When I say half-hearted, I’m only comparing to more extravagant affairs and don’t intend to sound so mean because this was a quaint, peaceful playground for the village, so English, as only the English can be. Imagine this tiny village, probably no more than a hundred dwellings and many of its people gathered here in hopes of keeping its community spirit alive, fighting off the evil of big city life invading from the North in the shape of Milton Keynes and its parish council takeover bids.