A PEACEFUL VILLAGE

Greymouth Evening Star, 24 December 1934, Page 10

A PEACEFUL VILLAGE

ON THE COTSWOLDS. We have found the most peaceful holiday village in England; and as we are its only visitors, we can enjoy it to the full, and keep its name closely guarded (says a writer in the “Calcutta Statesman”). The great ridge of the Cotswolds on 'which it lies extends tor many lovely miles and from its high road branch off many little secret roads and by'i ways, the while crumbling roads of the ancient wolds, leading through ' lanes so narrow that the hay from the heaped wagons of a few weeks ago still hangs from their brambles. Our village, for it seemed ours from the moment we found it, lies at the apex of three of these secret ways. From the pleasant, sweet-scented old garden of the subtle, grey stone rectory we have rented, we look unhindered over rolling fields of grass and corn, wooded hollows, and exquisite little huddling grey villages, with here and there a warmer barn roof to delight and satisfy the eye. It is very seldom that any signs of lile, beyond that of browsing sheep and cattle, spoils the utter tranquillity of the view. The blue smoke blowing faintly up from the valley is the only sig not human habitation. This is indeed England at her best —the England that during all put long sojournigs abroad we have thought and dreamt of. There is no petrol pump for four miles, and even that is set unobstrusivcly in the corner of the old grey market town., No bus ever disturbs us, although two miles away the villagers may nick one up, nor seem to grudge the distance.

‘ SHOP AND POST OFFICE. I There' is no electric light, and the > village shop is also the post office. We get no letters after 12 o'clock on • Saturday, for the postman is the best bat in the village, and village cricket ’ here, as it was in the beginning, is a ) game to be taken seriously, with the ! squire’s son and the rector’s son fresh 1 from public schools to give “a bit o’ a ' leg up in the bowlin’.” 1 Our tiny church is thirteenth century, spoilt a little by its added square tower, and the squire—here called "tho Measter” —who lives in an unbelievably perfect thirteenth century house, plays the organ on Sundays, and everyone—save the housewives, who aie busy prepared the Sunday dinners—goes to church as a matter of course—and perhaps to catch a glimpse ol “the new rectory folk.” Lite can be lived nobly here. . . . There is nothing cheap or shoddy about the village or its people—they are lull of the wise, calm dignity that comes from work out-of-doors. They leave the place seldom; and if they do drift back again. Some of the older ones were in “furrin parts” during the war and are thus regarded as the authorities of the community—-and come forward to speak with us. “Each-man works well, for his heart is in it,” may be said of those who are afwork; but, alas, even here the world depression has penetrated. 5 Our cook, who has a most excellent way with cakes, and c oncocts de- J licious Cotswold home brews for us, is the wife of an out-of-work builder, \ and has had to give up her own little ' rose-covered ■ cottage, that she may earn, instead of her man. Her father —an old stone mason, with the craft 1 ci' a long line in his refined old hands --wept bitterly on tho first day he 1

was forced to take the “dole.” “I’d as lief be de-ud and buried,” he cried, from the bitterness of his heart—having held up his head amongst his neighbours “ever ‘since ’e wor a. little lad,” as his daughter describes it. Idle farmer who brings us milk finds it difficult to make ends meet; but he is not morose or sullen, under adversity. "Life be alius ups and downs!” he says philosophically—and hew right he is, though we expect it to lie always “ups.”

A DELIGHT. 13u,t to us, the holiday-makers, all is sheer delight. Housekeeping is simple —for in such surroundings one’s material needs seem to lessen. Groceries are the only things we buy from a shop. Even our meat is homekilled by the farmer; and, in consequence, far cheaper than from the butcher. Milk, eggs, butter, cream, and vegetables come from the cottages around our gates. There are tat speckled trout to be caught in the river near by, and the old fruit trees in the garden have borne another "goodly crop” this year. Once a week "the village” plays tennis on our couit. They start at 6 p.m., when the day’s work is over. . . . Healthy-looking lads, who have polished their faces, and saved up to buy “a pair 0’ whites,” which are washed weekly by their "Mams”; buxom girls in cotton dresses "run up” by their own hands; and although perhaps the standard of play is not high, it is nevertheless very highly prized. The sumptuous days of the golden August pass all too soon in such a spot. The long evenings—for the light lingers on these wolds—are full of the perfume of honeysuckle, jasmine, roses, and the fragrant tobaccoplant. Owls and bats flit like ghosts across the garden; pale phloxes and lilies seem fairy people in the growing dusk. . . One wonders what all the stress and hurry and anxiety of the world is about . . . life seems such a simple affair here ... ; We have come “back to the land.” and arc finding it one of the most I beautiful and soul-enriching experiences oi our life.