A FEW STEPS FROM "WINGRIDGE"

Many times I had glanced up the twin gabled bungalow. It now stood empty and nameless, perched high upon a ridge overlooking the rest of the village.

Its only entrance was through a small iron gate, then up a steep flight of narrow steps. To one side a wide rockery had been built, leading up under conifers and other large flowering shrubs. In the springtime, the rhododendrons and azaleas were a blaze of colour, from the lane below these colourful shrubs attracted many passers by.

On the south side of the property, pink rambling roses grew in a mass along a green wire fence.

Never in my wildest dreams, did I guess that one day I would actually live here. Sometimes, when it had been occupied, the smoke from its low chimneys was very noticeable, more so during the cold wet winter months.

Bay windows protruded beneath the wooden gables of the roof. Almost hidden by climbing ivy, bird nesting boxes remained fixed to the wall. With visions of falling earth, large boulders had been placed on the rockery slope, with a supporting brick wall at its base.

In a prominent position, near the top step, a carved sign was placed, naming the bungalow "Wingridge". After moving in, it wasn’t long before I noticed we had an uninvited guest. A long grass snake had curled up amongst clumps of "Red hot pokers", that grew behind this nameplate, and this remained its home for many years. No one knew it slept there in the warm sunshine, cosy and dry from the rain. Yet folk walked past it almost every day. Its hiding place was kept a secret. The tall "Garrya Elliptica" tree, with its catkin like tassels towered over the narrow lane that led down to the rear of the church.

Through a small gate the older part of the churchyard could be reached. Wild orchids grew here, hidden by the tall grass, it was left in a wild state.

Even the lane had grown wild, trees were so tall, their branches intertwined overhead. In the Spring, flowers bloomed in abundance on the banks. Frequently, I saw the nuthatch. A pretty tree-creeping bird, with its plumage of slate blue, it nested in these trees. Busily making its nest with mud gathered from the banks. It was always a joy to watch, collecting and breaking the nuts and berries from the hedgerow.

Our nearest neighbour, an elderly gentleman, lived alone in the old Thatched Manor House. Spreading vines of the Virginia creeper grew on every side, and with the leaves turning a bright red in autumn, in dappled sunshine, it made a delightful scene.

The Squire, as he was known in the village, was rarely seen. Perhaps we saw him more than most. To us he was better known as "Old Walt". On his weekly jaunt to the village shop, where he collected his pension and a few groceries, he would shuffle past wearing his favourite green wellington boots. Corduroy trousers were held up by wide orange braces, and his collarless plaid shirt was always worn with sleeves rolled up, allowing his weatherworn arms to be seen.

To some folk, his appearance would seem a little odd, yet his manners were faultless. With a touch of his cap, worn low on his forehead, he would wish me a "good day". I waved in return, and hoped he heard me call. "Hello Walt, lovely day". Unfortunately at times he seemed a little hard of hearing.

When the lane flooded, as it often did, fast riverlets gushed down to the meadows and ditches at its end. Brambles and nettles almost hid the unused pathway leading to the rear of the church. The main entrance was to be found some distance away in the village. Weddings and funerals came to this church from miles around. Everyone loved Friday evenings when the bells rang for practice. The peal of eight bells echoing across the valley was special.

The top road curved into the village, with nearby cottages of thatch in great demand. The folk that lived in them could often be seen tending their gardens in the cool of the evening.

Because the bungalow was elevated, our kitchen window overlooked the church. Across the valley one could see the distant greens of moorland many miles away. Looking through binoculars, I would often watch the sheep in the fields below. There were times when these sheep got through the hedges, somehow squeezing through the smallest gap. With the help of his family, the farmer repaired the break, then rounded up the scatted sheep. They were difficult to control.

One day a buzzard alighted on the branch of a tall dead tree, not far from me. She perched there in the early morning, watching the baby rabbits that scampered about in the scrub at the edge of the field below her. When she finally saw one resting in the long grass, she would swoop down, then carry its tiny, limp body up to the branch where she had been patiently waiting. There she would hang it over the branch, until she had caught a second rabbit, or perhaps it would be a field mouse. She would then take her catch back to the wood on the far side of the field, and proceed to feed her young, who had been hungrily awaiting her return. This she did in the early evening.

Every day she came, and every day I watched her. My day never begun unless she was there, eagerly searching for her next meal. Never once did I see her mate join her, as she sat alone, waiting and watching from her high perch.

It wasn’t long before the small kitchen window had been replaced with a much larger picture window, to enhance our view. The time by the church clock was now clearly visible, but as the years went by, the conifers and other trees that grew in the churchyard had grown so tall, they almost hid the clock tower from our view.

On cold winter days we would struggle up the steps, puffing and moaning, as we carried the logs up to the log shed at the end of the garden. No way would the chappie who had delivered these logs help us up those steps. He had done his job, dumping the lorry load of logs and kindling in a heap at the roadside. Now it was up to us to get this lot up those steps somehow. It looked like rain, we must hurry to get it all in the dry - too late - down it came, and when it rained here in the west country, it just went on and on without a break. Hurriedly we left the remaining pile and dashed indoors. There was not sense in getting wet through, just for the sake of keeping a few logs dry.

Presently we had tea. This was often eaten in the lean-to conservatory, which overlooked the back garden and fields beyond. When the day was hot, the branches of mature cherry trees sheltered us from the sun. Amongst the moss at the base of one tree, pink and yellow alpine flowers showed through.

The hazelnut and elder bushes behind the log shed had become very overgrown. It was here a wren had built her nest. Beautifully constructed of moss and grass. Her tilted up tail made her quite unmistakable, as she crept amongst the bushes in a mouse-like way. Her song is very loud for such a small bird. Eventually, five young were reared, and these spent most of their afternoons pecking on the lawns.

At the front of the bungalow a grass field remained empty, except for a dark brown horse, that always seemed to be asleep beside the five barred gate. His head always hung in a low profile, apart from the occasional flick of his tail to rid his backside of the spring flies, he never seemed to move much at all.

Very early, long before anyone was up and about, he would be seen eating the rambling roses that grew along the old wire fence.

We eventually shooed him off, but he never seemed to get the message. Sometimes, we threw him sweet apples from the fruit trees in the garden, but he still preferred the fragrant roses.

When winter came, the farmer would take him from the field. To this horse it seemed a punishment, he would be shut up in a brick stable, just to stare at me across the field from his stable half door. Now and again, when the weather was amicable a lady came to ride him in the nearby leafy lanes.

At the far end of the village was a small farmstead. Its sheds housed tractors and other kinds of machinery, including an unused cider press. Many ladders leaning against the yard walls, were now densely covered with climbing wild ivy and spiders webs.

Leaves had blown in the from roadway and neighbouring gardens, and these had piled high against the sheds broken doors. Mud on the farm track was slippery, even the farm cat found the going difficult, as it tip-toed towards a dripping tap for a drink.

In a dip, leading from the farm house, one came to a spinney of fruit trees. Beneath these trees, chickens were housed, they belonged to an elderly man that lived opposite. Not too many, but they were all free to roam at will. Many times they would wander over the road, strutting into peoples gardens to peck at the fresh green leaves there, as if they didn’t have enough on their own patch of land.

But I must admit, these fussy chickens had almost pecked their patch to nothingness. These silly fowls had raced about so much they had upset the bowls of grain that had been put down for them, also the metal water hoppers had been upturned and were now empty. Most of these hens were "Rhode Island Reds", but apart from these, I preferred the two quiet birds with speckled feathers, they didn’t rush about like the rest. Holding their head high they slowly strutted along the bank. Now and again they pecked at the few fallen apples but on the whole these birds did not seem interested in anything.

On the other side of the road, belonging to the farm, stood three dilapidated cow sheds. Their corrugated roofs made such a din when it rained heavy. In the field adjoining these sheds, a young herd of bullocks were kept. These could often be seen huddled together by the iron gate at the roadside. They were very tame, never moving away when approached.

Years ago, a pair of cottages had been built close by with slate roofs. Beneath the eaves, every year, swifts built their nests of mud with their unmistakable screaming every springtime, it was a very noisy affair.

The front door of one cottage was seldom used. Going through a low wooden gate, a brick path led to the back door. Clumps of alpine flowers, together with blue and while bell campanulas grew along the top of a low wall.

Every week, restful afternoons were spent here in the cottage. In the wintertime, and on dull days, there was always a welcoming log fire. The low beamed ceiling accentuated the warmth. Frilly net curtains hung at the windows of the best room. Feather cushions adorned the long couch at the fireside, here was everyone’s favourite place to sit.

It wasn’t long before a tray with floral cups and sauces was brought in, followed by a large earthenware teapot, with its hand knitted cosy of bright colours. A small jug held very creamy milk, and there was plenty of sugar, should it be needed. The tray was placed with care on a polished table. Often I was asked to be ‘mother’, and to pour the tea.

I loved this cottage, and I loved the elderly couple that lived in it. It was lovely to be called ‘me dear’, and not just ‘Mrs’.

Next to the cottage, stood the Rectory. A large Victorian house, its sash windows overlooked its wide driveway. Many times I admired the pretty plants that bloomed on the adjacent rockeries. I seldom saw the vicar, only spoke to him once, and that was at a funeral. He was a busy man, attending other villages in his parish. Further on, one came to a ‘T’ shaped cottage with a low roof. ‘Stoney Court’ was appropriately named, the gravelled drive spoke for itself.

Next came a row of cob and plaster cottages. These were perched at the edge of a high grassy bank. All looked very much the same, with small windows and rather small doorways. Each one possessed a brass letterbox and knocker.

As one, the roofs were thatched, finished with wire netting. A large area of the thatch had become speckled with moss. Sometimes these thatched roofs had problems with magpies, pecking the straw or damaging the wire mesh.

By each door, green waterbutts were overflowing. Water poured down the bank onto the road, making deep puddles everywhere. When visiting gone of these cottages I found the low ceilings gave it a hot and airless feeling. Perching n a bar stool I drank my tea and thought of the old couples comfy couch.

Elevated from this road, quite recently, six old folks bungalows had been built around a gravelled square. One elderly couple that lived there I knew very well. We remained dear friends for almost twenty years, helping each other in many ways. The dear lady, although housebound always had a welcoming smile for her visitors. While the elderly gent could often be seen tending his garden of flowers and vegetables, his little cat always watching close at hand. We all became very close throughout the years, now their memory remains very dear to me.

From their sitting room window, the dog fox would often be seen crossing the meadow. Slyly it would crawl beneath the log pile at the edge of the orchard. Somedays his mate would follow him at a safe distance, more alert and wary in every way. The dog fox was a handsome creature. Although there were a few sheep in the meadow which hurried to a corner whenever he came into view, we never heard that any were killed or missing. Even the farmer and his wife were used to foxes and ignored them.

Passing the village inn, in the warm sunshine a large Newfoundland dog would lie, contentedly asleep. Yet, he was soon wide awake should anyone approach his domain. To pass by, one had to step over his tail or paws. This was his home, why should he move over.

For most of the year a cascade of flowers from hanging baskets at the inn doorway would be admired. During the evening many local lads would enjoy a game of table skittles in the public bar.

In the quietness of the empty car park, two young cats were playing, occasionally drinking from a recent rain puddle. Already these cats had proved to be good mousers.

Opposite the village green stood the village hall. Often a friendly goat was seen here under the oak trees. So the village continued, over the hump bridge, crossing the single railway line, leading round the bend, then to vanish beneath the trees, through the woods that belonged to the local country estate, eventually joining the fast main road into town.

Barbara Kerrison.ã