It would only be with hesitancy that I would point a finger at any youth. Were we regarded as hooligans and tearaways when we were young? Maybe we were not as bad as that, or maybe we were worse. Maybe, there were even expletives shouted at us if we had been especially annoying.
Apart from the bicycles on which we rode, we didn’t own anything, but treated the village and its environs in a proprietorial manner. Nothing would annoy us more than someone who assumed the right to come in …
The lane adjoining the house is more a track than a lane. Unsurfaced, it becomes rutted mud in winter weather. Decades of holes being filled with gravel or hard core have not brought much improvement in potential driving conditions.
The lane leads only to fields. There is no right of way over it, other than to landowners gaining access to their land, and there would be no point travelling it unless you were going to a field, because, at the end, you would need to turn around and drive the …
The storms of the past week are a familiar March experience, certainly part of the March experience in our small Somerset village.
The worst moment in a storm was the time the garage took off. The wind had got under the doors of the asbestos-walled garage and the whole structure was lifting off the ground. No garage we ever had stayed empty long enough to accommodate a car, it would have been filled with all sorts of things for which there was no room in the house.
The mood of despondency among the students continues. Locked down, isolated, without hope of seeing friends for weeks, without the chance of doing anything other than what they have done for weeks, their answer to what they did at the weekend is “nothing.”
I remember a despondent ten year old on a holiday in Austria some ten years ago.
Riding a gondola, the ten year old friend was feeling fed up.
“I’ll tell you a story from when I was ten,” I said, “that’s forty years ago.”
Of course, I knew where the River Brue was, anyone who travelled between Street and Glastonbury would know exactly where the River Brue was. As you cross the river on the A39, a roadside sign announces “Pomparles Bridge.” Apparently, the name derives from French for “perilous bridge.” There never seemed much that was perilous about the Brue, a shallow, gentle, slow flowing river.
Drivers on the M5 motorway between Bristol and Taunton could tell you where the River Brue was. There is a sign that tells the countless drivers that …
Reporting on last week’s announcement that there would be a feasibility study into the re-opening of a Somerset railway station, the Somerset Live site made the same mistake I once made.
The railway station that might be revived is at Upton, it is a place that would figure in some of the our family’s stories. It was merely a halt at which a few local trains would stop, but because it was on the mainline between London Paddington and the West Country, and because express trains would go hurtling through …