Travelling on the branch line was a new experience for me. To its locals, it was better known as the ‘Huff and Puff’ line. Although the midday train stopped at the halt on Fridays and weekends, it had been deleted from the public timetable. Yet, Shepham Halt still remained a request stop. Its twelve mile journey operated between ‘Harper Green’ and ‘Whinleigh’ stations.

The Halts main users were anglers at weekends, the river being only a short walk down a country lane. Being in a remote area, its sleeper platform had become dangerous through subsidence, so it had been done away with, but the basic iron shelter still remained.

The engine and its four carriages pulled up with a jolt. I was the only one to get off. Within minutes, the whistle blew and the train made a hasty departure.

Unfortunately, the Halt was a good two mile walk from the hamlet of Shepham. Today, I had come to view ‘Vine Cottage’ which was up for sale, with every hope of purchasing. Holding the keys in my pocket, I picked up my haversack and started to walk down the lane. A chilly north east wind was blowing, it had also started to drizzle. I pulled on my cap and turned up the collar of my jacket. Earning a living as an artist, could be unrewarding. Recently, there had hardly been any sale for my paintings. Perhaps living here in the countryside would give me inspiration.

While adjusting my haversack, I stopped to look over a field gate. Away in the distance, a few sheep were grazing, otherwise there was no movement anywhere.

Sooner than expected, Little Shepham came into view. It was situated amongst rolling hills, in an area of beautiful countryside. The hamlet of Little Shepham consisted mostly of scattered farms, and a few brick and flint cottages. Well hidden from the road, stood a Chapel surrounded by large trees. At a guess, I would say the Chapel was over three hundred years old. High grass and weeds hid the old headstones in the graveyard. Even its leaning wall looked unsafe. With winter approaching, leaves were falling fast. Under a beech tree, a playful squirrel scampered amongst the fallen leaves. In a sudden downpour, puddles formed and grew visually larger.

Further along the lane I came to a derelict cottage. A man was busy repairing its entrance. He was so engrossed in his work, he didn’t hear me approaching. Wishing him ‘Good day’, I asked the whereabouts of ‘Vine Cottage’.

In a brogue known better to himself, I understood him to say “Ah, Vine Cottage, that be the place down in the hollow, by the orchard” with a big grin, he pointed the way. Thanking him, I walked on. Vine Cottage was not easy to find, I eventually found it down a muddy farm track. A flight of brick steps led up to its elevated terrace, then a gravelled path led to the front door.

Vine Cottage was similar to the other cottages I had seen. Being built of brick and flint, with a pantiled roof. Fruiting vines and clematis arched its sash windows, clambering almost to the roof.

Turning the key in the lock, I went inside. The rooms were dimly lit and shuttered. Leaving the outside door open, I threw my haversack into a corner. The rooms seemed cold and damp. It was obvious the cottage had not been occupied for a considerable time. Once I had opened the shutters, my heart sank. The only furniture in the room was an old armchair and two stools. On a shelf in an alcove, a few paperback books had been left. Spider webs and dust lay thick upon them. In the open brick fireplace, a few logs had been thrown. Apart from a small green rug, the floorboards were bare.

The sitting room was smaller than I had expected. It was amazing how the low beamed ceiling added to the cramped feeling. Fairly new skirting boards had been fixed, but remained unpainted. Neglected cracks in the wall plaster needed urgent attention.

To my surprise I found electricity had been installed. There was even a few unused units in the electricity meter. With this in mind, I decided to fill the old kettle left on the draining board, and make myself a hot drink. But, for the moment, I would take a look upstairs.

Most of the stair treads had been replaced. That’s more than could be said for the unsafe landing floorboards. Walking upon them I quite expected them to give way beneath my feet. Because of their faulty frames, none of the bedroom windows could be opened. There was no bathroom. Apparently, the only way one could take a bath, was by using the tin tub hanging on the wall outside. Having seen enough for the time being I returned downstairs.

Coffee in my enamel camping mug was very welcoming through the sitting room window, I saw a tumbledown brick building. Like this cottage, it also had a pantiled roof. It even had a chimney. A grassy path led into an enclosed orchard.

Finishing my drink, I inspected the outside of the property. The garden shed, as I imagined, had once been a washhouse. Inside a small door led into a lavatory, complete with wooden seat and bucket. ‘It must have been awful coming out here on a cold winters night’, I told myself.

The asking price for ‘Vine Cottage’ was much too high. All items of furniture and effects left in and around the place were included in the sale. Smiling to myself, I thought if I sold everything as ‘one lot’, I wouldn’t get very rich. It was all so old and shabby. I stood and pondered what to do next.

To the rear of the cottage, in the cobbled courtyard, a well had been boarded up. Any alterations here would be impossible. It was a miracle how the back door still hung on its hinges, they had almost rusted away.

The keys to the cottage did not have to be returned until the following day. With darkness imminent, I would have to stay the night, sleeping best I could in the old armchair. Luckily, I had some food with me, which would see me through until the morning.

The mist had lifted a little, but the evening air was definitely colder. Seated in the chair, I felt uneasy. Perhaps I could keep a few chickens in the orchard. A cat or dog would surely be a companion indoors. But would that be enough to keep me occupied during the long winter months. As there was hardly any garden, a vegetable plot would be out of the question.

Plugging in the standard lamp, I was surprised to see it worked. In the brighter light, the ceilings looked even lower than they did in daylight. Quite a few damp patches were now visible. Given time, most of the jobs I could do myself. But to renovate ceilings and floorboards, I would have to engage a builder, and that meant more expense.

Just before midnight, heavy rain beat on the window panes. I tried to sleep, but the old armchair brought little comfort to my tired and aching body. To be honest, I was thankful when daylight came.

Although a chilly wind was blowing, the rain held off. By mid-morning, I had left Vine Cottage and Shepham behind me. It was uphill for most of the way back to the junction. There were some intervals of sunshine, but as the wind increased, my walk became very tiring. I assumed walking close to the hedges would help, but it didn’t. Frequently I had to stop and rest.

Before reaching the junction, I could hear a train in the distance. It was slowly climbing the gradient from Whinleigh station. My arrival was only minutes before it came into view. Two other passengers had already arrived. The train was on time. With its usual screech of brakes it pulled up, and we jumped on. Three other travellers were seated in the carriage I chose. A young couple and an elderly gentleman busily reading a paper. As I sat down by the window, he folded up his paper, looked at me disapprovingly, then promptly moved to a corner seat. I was pleased my journey was only a short one. A railway official in uniform collected our tickets. Appreciating the warmth of the carriage, I closed my eyes and took a nap.

In no time at all, the train pulled into Harper Green Station. Its draughty platform was deserted… My shared apartment was in a back street, only a stones throw from the Estate Agents Office. They were just about to close as I dashed in with the keys. I had forgotten they closed early on Saturdays.

Back home, Vine Cottage was still on my mind. It wasn’t long before I picked up my brushes and started to paint. Three days later, my painting of Vine Cottage and its water meadows was finished. It was easily the finest work I had ever done.

Obsessed with the idea of moving, the following week I returned to Little Shepham, and found just what I had been looking for. Built on a ridge, well away from the valley, a small homestead was up for sale. I fell in love with the place from the start. All its buildings and land had been well maintained. ‘Beatlands Farm’ stood in peaceful surroundings with far reaching views. It was now December, the weather remained bitterly cold, with snow forecast.

The sale of ‘Beatlands Farm’ went well for all concerned. On the day I moved in, it was snowing fast, with daylight almost gone, regretfully, I hadn’t made much progress in unpacking.

Suddenly, I was alerted by the patter of feet in the hallway. It was only ‘Flossie’ my Welsh Border Collie. Most of her working life had been spent on the bleak hills of Wales. She was not a young dog, all the same, we had become good friends. So, why the pitiful look on her face!!

In the hustle and bustle of the move, I had completely forgotten her meals. Once she had been fed, I picked up my pipe from the mantelshelf and filled its bowl with tobacco. The missing matches were not in my pocket where they should have been.

Flossie sat beside me, “Come on girl”, I called “we’ve had enough for one day”. To make up for my forgetfulness, I let Flossie sleep on my bed.

Come the morning, ought to be a new beginning for both of us.

Barbara Kerrison. ©