It was a phrase adults used regularly in those days. There was little room for self-expression. So my inner world quietly began to take shape.
My childhood village seemed perfectly ordinary to those who lived there. Looking back, I realise it was anything but. It was a world of hedgerows and orchards, narrow lanes and quiet fields, where stories travelled almost as quickly as the wind. There were characters whose reputations were accepted without question, old sayings that nobody thought to challenge, and customs that had been passed from one generation to the next.
As children, we simply accepted them all.
After breakfast I would usually join a small band of village lads for another day of unplanned adventures. We never really had a destination. One of us would simply say, “How about going to…?” and before long we would be climbing over gates, wandering through orchards, crossing fields and making our way towards the River Taw.
We seldom travelled empty-handed. Apples, pears or the occasional vegetable would find their way into our pockets along the route. Once we had gathered enough provisions to convince ourselves we wouldn’t starve, we continued our expedition.
Those days seemed endless.
The countryside became our playground, our classroom and our refuge. Thick carpets of moss felt like another world beneath our feet. Birds, insects and small animals were companions rather than curiosities. Time itself seemed less important than whatever happened to catch our attention next.
It wasn’t unusual to find a partial sheep carcass high and dry on the riverbank: bleached white bones with sun-dried skin stretched tightly across its ribcage.
Even though the sheep was no longer with us, to me its life was not over.
When it rained, the stretched skin became a drum, tapping out a quiet rhythm as the tide slid by.
Numerous disturbing stories were told in hushed tones about the strange goings-on in our village.
During one particularly severe bout of stomach ache, while drifting in and out of delirium, I found myself thinking about an elderly woman who lived at the end of our street. According to local wisdom, she was the undisputed specialist in curing stomach aches.
If summoned, she would arrive carrying a length of rubber tubing, a funnel and a jug of specially treated water.
“He needs a good washout,” was her battle cry.
I knew of two boys who had endured the ordeal. A third took one look at the approaching equipment, disappeared, and stayed hidden until the coast was clear.
Fortunately, she never came for me.
Looking back, it seems extraordinary, but every village had its own characters and its own cures. As children, we accepted these stories as part of everyday life. They sat somewhere between fact, folklore and friendly intimidation, and we never quite knew where one ended and the other began.
Life moved at its own gentle pace. There was no need to hurry. Curiosity was reason enough to wander a little further along a hedge, to stop and watch a bird, or to wonder what lay beyond the next bend in the lane.
Without realising it, I was learning to notice things.
The habit never left me.
