At the end of the road, there would be a little quaint village. In it, there would be a dark wood paneled pub where people would gather for warmth, and friendship, and a good long chat on cold rainy evenings by a roaring peat or oak fire. The port or stout would be as thick as syrup. We'd sing songs together, drink each other's health, and walk home smiling and content under heavy fog or drizzle.
There would be the eccentric Lord of the Manor who's family had lived in the manor house in the center of town for a thousand years or more. He would rule as the Mayor of the town. There'd be the town council, holding irregular meetings in the church hall. People would talk and lean against the stone walls that demarcated their patches of grazing lands, raising up their gumboots on the fallen stones for support as they did.
The lovable and young vicar would make his rounds each day, fearlessly working with some on their farms, and just talking with others in their little shops or houses. On Sunday, we'd all let him talk to us in the church built so many centuries ago, about things that happened even further into the mists of time. Afterward we'd smile at each other and invite one another to Sunday lunch in the town square that is encircled by an ancient ring of stones built by our druid forefathers.
The children would have grown up in a fanciful world of Watch With Mother shows like The Flowerpot Men, and Andy Pandy. They would believe in a world of rabbits who squeeze under garden fences only to lose their little jackets and shoes after almost getting caught and put in a pie. They would believe that frogs sat on lily pads in their mackintoshes trying to catch minnows, only to leave after an incident with a fish, and carry on in spite of it all with the dinner party with the tortiose and the newt.
Each little thatched roofed house would have a flowering garden, full of rosemary and thyme, and bright faced daisies. The undergrowth would be covered with thick moss that invited fairies and mushrooms and the occasional hedgehog gathering garments that needed to be mended. The silence of the hillsides would only be broken by the intermittent braying of sheep, and the standing stones and ruins of ages past.
There we are, sometimes. But I'm dreaming again. This place isn't real, is it? Someone tell me why we can't live there?Labels: anglophile
