It was the sort of village where it should always be a sun lit, church bell ringing Sunday morning. In your mind’s eye in every cottage on the kitchen scrubbed deal table you could see a chipped enamel pie dish just waiting for apples, pastry and the upside down porcelain egg cup

The village green had the church at it’s corner, the cricket square in the middle, the village pub in line with mid wicket and cottages filling the remaining space surrounding the green. Quacking came from the pond at the end of the green alongside the High Street. Down one side of the green ran the chestnut tree lined Church Lane and in the third thatched cottage along lived a little crippled lady. My Aunt Maud. 

Aunt Maud crippled from birth. Aunt Maud who walked with a rolling gait and a stout walking stick. Aunt Maud flower arranger for the chapel, seamstress and lacemaker to the village and dinner cook to the widowed blacksmith. Aunt Maud to whom the lady of the manor acted as a willing chauffer. Aunt Maud whose lavender aroma preceded her. 

Now several years later, Aunt Maud has gone. The Blacksmith’s Forge is no more and with unsuitable embellishment is called The Old Smithy. The Cricket Square is no more and the village green uncared for. The village pond covered in green slime. 

The village was destroyed by those who came to enjoy the rural idyll without knowing what rural life is about.

Progress some would say but not I.