Home [by Ian]
My home town is growing at an alarming rate.
This place was once a peaceful village; a mile and a quarter from Stonehenge, and just at the eastern end of the Woodford valley.
As children, we would disappear into the fields for hours, exploring old buildings,especially the closed railway station, and sit at the end of Boscombe Down airforce runway, shrieking as giant transporter planes roared a hundred feet overhead. I remember spending hours watching Vulcan bombers fill the sky with noise and their giant foreboding shape. The walk home across the fields was beautiful at sunset; owls swooping silent and low over the corn, and deer dashing off as we rounded the edge of the field and made our way through the coppice on the brow of the hill.
The village would erupt into colour each spring; the woods and riverside absolutely teeming with wildlife. We would spend hours down there, hunting for crayfish and seeing who could spot the big Pike lurking under the bridge at Ham Hatches. It was said that a boy was once pulled under by this fearsome fish; which was "at least a hundred years old".
My grandfather, bless him, was in his 70's and still cycling around the village, tending gardens and stopping off at The Greyhound for his pint of ale on his way home. He'd meet his friends on Sunday mornings,and sit watching the world go by on the solitary bench by the post office. They'd swap stories; some true, some like the story of a certain large fish.
I remember when the new 'A' road was carved through here. To me at nine years of age, the hulking Caterpillar diggers and loaders were awesome: bright yellow monsters hauling tons of Wiltshire chalk and clay out of the ground, and grumbling along the tracks with their massive wheels. One rainy afternoon,I had to be pulled from deep mud on the site, having tempted my friend J there to see the behemothic engines.
One of my favourite views in the world is the sight from the top of the Beacon Hill, as I look down and see the village surrounded by green fields and ancient woodland, burial mounds, and trackways used for thousands of years.
Now villagers, conservationists and heritage types are battling it out over the merits of routeing this road through a tunnel to protect the five thousand year old monument.Huge retail and trade parks are springing up and scarring the landscape. The village is now a bustling town; populated by forces families, business park workers and a small number of people who still work on the land and surrounding country estates.
The flea-pit has gone. Grandpa's bench is no longer.
"Progress", they say.
As for the Pike, he still lives on; being at least one hundred and thirty years of age by now. I still pass by the bridge; and peer down amongst the reeds, hoping to catch a glimpse as he lurks there.
***
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
This place was once a peaceful village; a mile and a quarter from Stonehenge, and just at the eastern end of the Woodford valley.
As children, we would disappear into the fields for hours, exploring old buildings,especially the closed railway station, and sit at the end of Boscombe Down airforce runway, shrieking as giant transporter planes roared a hundred feet overhead. I remember spending hours watching Vulcan bombers fill the sky with noise and their giant foreboding shape. The walk home across the fields was beautiful at sunset; owls swooping silent and low over the corn, and deer dashing off as we rounded the edge of the field and made our way through the coppice on the brow of the hill.
The village would erupt into colour each spring; the woods and riverside absolutely teeming with wildlife. We would spend hours down there, hunting for crayfish and seeing who could spot the big Pike lurking under the bridge at Ham Hatches. It was said that a boy was once pulled under by this fearsome fish; which was "at least a hundred years old".
My grandfather, bless him, was in his 70's and still cycling around the village, tending gardens and stopping off at The Greyhound for his pint of ale on his way home. He'd meet his friends on Sunday mornings,and sit watching the world go by on the solitary bench by the post office. They'd swap stories; some true, some like the story of a certain large fish.
I remember when the new 'A' road was carved through here. To me at nine years of age, the hulking Caterpillar diggers and loaders were awesome: bright yellow monsters hauling tons of Wiltshire chalk and clay out of the ground, and grumbling along the tracks with their massive wheels. One rainy afternoon,I had to be pulled from deep mud on the site, having tempted my friend J there to see the behemothic engines.
One of my favourite views in the world is the sight from the top of the Beacon Hill, as I look down and see the village surrounded by green fields and ancient woodland, burial mounds, and trackways used for thousands of years.
Now villagers, conservationists and heritage types are battling it out over the merits of routeing this road through a tunnel to protect the five thousand year old monument.Huge retail and trade parks are springing up and scarring the landscape. The village is now a bustling town; populated by forces families, business park workers and a small number of people who still work on the land and surrounding country estates.
The flea-pit has gone. Grandpa's bench is no longer.
"Progress", they say.
As for the Pike, he still lives on; being at least one hundred and thirty years of age by now. I still pass by the bridge; and peer down amongst the reeds, hoping to catch a glimpse as he lurks there.
Ian is of a certain age when dealing with ear-hair can seem too much of a priority. He would secretly like to wear a cardigan and slippers. He thinks writing is the new black.
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