Chalk ‘n’ Cheese.

Newly built, my new home on Pinfold Lane, Cheslyn- Hay, was in a dream location. From my bedroom window – yes, a room of my own, with a built-in wardrobe –  I could view my new World. Gone were the Days of living on the Village High Street, where I used to observe the daily passage of time through the condensation soaked glass. I would see  Women, a shopping bag over one arm, and a head scarf, knotted under the chin to hold it on, heading to Edwards’, the Grocers shop. Men, wearing long thick overcoats and flat caps, heading to the Red Lion.
Greetings were always exchanged as people passed each other, even to folk across the street, and the chirpy pleasantries, quietened and muffled by the wafer thin glass of the window reached into my space.
On one occasion, whilst stuck indoors, I must have been ill or something, I counted three cars, and the number 17 Bus twice.
The 17’s engine, belching out clouds of black smoke, vibrated the windows. The deep, sudden sound would send Mice scurrying under the skirting boards for cover. That always made me laugh, because they couldn’t get any traction on the Lino, causing them to run on the spot, or skid past the hole.
Now, the simple print pattern curtains that hung on a wire in front of my bedroom window, were thrown open to reveal a new World; a World that infiltrated the daydreams of my subconscious childhood mind, asking questions and demanded answers of me, always luring and tempting me with offers of excitement and adventure.
A row of grey slabs, that divided the garden unequally into two halves, led from the front door porch area to a small metal gate. (We were always shouted at for swinging on the gate).
This gate, although I didn’t realise it at the time, was a key feature. To me, back then, its only purpose was to test how high Butch, my Dog, could jump.
Left or right. If the choice was mine, after the gate, I’d go left. Only four houses away was the cinder track that led to weed covered pools, with Moorhens, Mallards and Coots dabbling and pecking for food, and a haunted wood, with paths that turned and twisted through its middle.
A canal, straight as a dye, but no longer in use,  cut through the landscape, its once sharp edges  softened by an overgrowth of Willow and Hawthorn.
The cut, as we called it, was an adventure playground, created by nature reclaiming what the coal industry had stolen from it.
To turn right at the garden gate meant one of several things: School, running errands or joining Mom on the daily tour of the village shops and family.
Left or right – chalk’n’cheese.

Categories: Burning the Midnight Oil, LT COL BUMF, or was he a General?

thestork245

I'm a disabled ex-Soldier, just entering my Autumn years. I write purely out of enjoyment about anything and everything. My main interests are Nature, especially birds and history. I enjoy reading, fiction or non-fiction, it doesn't matter, any genre pleases me.

4 Comments

  1. Viv Pheasant

    Loving your blog Bugs … you should publish a book about your life on the village, I’d be one of the first to buy a signed copy

Leave a Reply to Viv Pheasant Cancel reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.