Growing Up in Thomas Hardy Country

One of the prettiest and evocative counties in England is Dorset. Situated on the South Coast and midway between Kent and Cornwall. Just sufficiently far away from the Metropolis to prevent casual weekend invaders which tend to destroy beautiful parts of the countryside quicker than you can grab a thousand followers on Twitter!

If you're not familiar with Twitter then fret not ,unless of course you happen to be a Guitarist when you can fret all you want with my blessing ! We are going to be looking back at a time past before Colour T.V, the Internet and that scourge of all man or womankind the Mobile Phone.

O.K let's pause here and say categorically,without fear of banishment from the Social Media world,which would be a fate worse than death, that this little peek at times gone by will not be a "things were so much better then" or " today's youth should all be herded together on a Desert Island and the key thrown away" type of story.

Yes I know, if you have read any of my other stuff (nice word this ! all encompassing when you get a mental block) that writing for the Web needs to be short ,chunky and devoid of personal feeling. If you read the intro you'll know that this is my personal story and I'm going to write the way I feel and just as it comes blurting out, without measuring the length of sentences with a micrometer!

Towns, but more often Villages and rarely Rivers have some strange and sometimes embarassing names. In the heart of Hardy country,where I grew up,there flows a little stream (at least it did then) of magical memories! The River Piddle, never far from this writers' indelible memories flows through the county towards the County Town of Dorchester.

Back then in 1948 when I first discovered its magical properties it was quite a fast flowing stream in places with an irresistible influence on a little boy who was yet to discover that water was rather a dangerous element .There were Minnows and Sticklebacks and the rather gruesome Millers Thumb.Clucking Moorhens with chicks in tow and loads of other things to discover.

There are a lot of Puddles in the Piddle Valley...home to Thomas Hardy, Author extraordinaire. I should know I fell into more than my fair share of them as a four year old(as four year olds do!) There's PuddleTown of Martyrs fame, there's PiddleTrenthide and the gretatest Piddle of all Piddlehinton. I bet you can't guess where I grew up?

My earliest memory of this magical childhood home goes back probably to about age 3 but the one that sticks in my mind is the first day at School.That is a day I will never forget as the realisation that I might meet other Piddlehintonians began to dawn on me,with foreboding.

Not that a four year old knows why he or she is terrified .You just are...and there's no escaping it .Perhaps the World will end? Perhaps you'll get eaten up by the Monster that lives on the haunted back staircase. Well I am not sure it was haunted but it sure was scary!

It's a good job that the horrors of the first day at school don't prevent you from giving education the heave -ho. It was however, both traumatic and dramatic! My floods of tears would no doubt have flooded the Piddle had the Schoolhouse been any closer to the River. As it happens the distance was about 100 yards which was the method of measurement before we decided to become European and all cultured like! So the River Piddle flowed idly by, unaware of the Drama unfolding the Schoolhouse,under the mindful glare of the Headteacher Miss Hayden.

The class was so disrupted by my cries of anguish and " let me outta here or I'll never speak to you again" outbursts,that my Mother was summoned to take her little terror home . He has had enough for one day Miss Hayden said and I was dragged screaming back to my Hill Fort,of which there are several in the County!

At around the age of 4 and having discovered the magic of creatures that Swam ,Crawled and Clucked their way in and out of the River that ran through our Garden,it was time to get up close and personal. Just how up close I was to get on that fateful day was not yet decided by the Gods.
I recall a fairly fine day, one that made an excursion to the River beyond the Tennis Court a distinct possibility after lunch.That would be when Mother was otherwise occupied and would not interrupt proceedings,which she had a habit of doing as Mothers do!

Today would make a very good day to ensnare some poor unsuspecting Piddle creatures and imprison them in a Jam Jar for scrutiny and display to the wider world.The world outside the long winding gravel drive was indeed wide.

It extended onto the road and upto the School yard, passing the grassy lane which led to the Church and Graveyard. It even extended the four and a half miles to the County Town of Dorchester which one could reach by Royal Blue Single Decker if you were Lucky.The Royal Blues were the Bullet trains of the 40's and 50's but lesser mortals had to make do with the rickety local bus service.

A trip to Dorchester ( on occasion) for Saturday morning pictures and a rendezvous with "The Purple Monster" was not so much a treat but an Adventure of Exploratory proportions akin to the North Pole or Darkest Africa. I digress, but it's important to paint a picture of the wider world as it was known to exist at that time.

My World was happily contained in an Estate that seemed as big as a Foreign country but was probably about 7 or 8 acres of Lawns, the previously mentioned River, a Driveway and Bridge, a Chicken run of a size to hold a friendly soccer match, a forbidding Manor House of three stories in part, some Stables, a Kitchen garden and a Quince Tree! To this day I have never stumbled across another Quince Tree. Perhaps the abiding memory of Quince Jelly adds to the mystique and the childhood memories that refuse to dim with time.

We'll leave you in suspense for the conclusion of this chapter and hope that you'll continue to soak up, literally, the heady days, both Summer and Winter, of a byegone era in a sleepy little Dorset village named appropriately after the Piddle which ran through it! Piddlehinton still exists today ; at least it did when I was last there in 1998, taking my two Daughters to see what it was that made their Dad who he is.

I think this is where I am supposed to write To be Continued...

We left you in suspense(deliberately) last week with our intrepid Hero about to face the currents of the mighty Piddle. Current affairs was not a subject this small boy was particularly concerned with at the age of 4 (or was it 6?) The Piddle offered currents of a different kind; swirling, babbling ( as in Brook!) and with mysterious creatures lurking under the surface waiting to grab a free meal rather like one of those Crocs in the Australian outback.

Armed with my favourite jam jar I set out on the adventure to the waters edge some 50 meters ahead.To the right and just beyond the Tennis Court was a clump of shrubs which provided suitable cover from which to spy on my most hated of enemies. Actually it was more jealousy than hate. How can a 6 year old know what hate is? The object of my attentions during most of my waking hours was of course my Older Brother who we shall call Nigel for the purposes of this chapter. Later, much later, when he turned out not to be so big or awesome, the tables were turned but that's for another chapter .What is it with older siblings? why are they so feared, hated, envied and generally a preoccupation of indescribable thoughts and feelings?

After what seemed an eternity, especially when you are walking in a forward direction whilst looking over your shoulder, I reached the waters edge. A tingling feeling came over me as I knew now that the view from the Kitchen window was obscured and she who must be obeyed would not be able to see her liitle sprog getting up to all kinds of mischief. Actually I needn't have worried since Mother was always either peeling vegetables, which require precise attention, t o avoid sliced fingers, or checking on the progress of her latest creation in the oven.

The bank seemed secure (unlike those institutions that pay out obscene bonuses!) but the surface of the stream was out of reach. Perhaps it was Summer (which on reflection it must have been) and the water level lower than in other seasons when it seemed like the mighty Amazon!

There was no option. I had to get up close and personal if I was to extract some wriggleys without slipping a disc. What to do says the Minnow Meister? Gotta lie down on the bank so that my arms will reach the quarry. I hadn't realised at that time that this is a very efficient and productive stealth technique when pursuing piscatorial activities. It was not that comfortable, for sure but then again sucessful entrapment techniques are not meant to be.This is serious stuff. And serious stuff takes grit, determination and pain not always in that order!

Ok so we have set the scene for one of the most terrfying ordeals that I have experienced in my long and interesting life.Terror comes in many shapes and sizes.This adventure was to deal me two,(no three) cruel blows from which i feel lucky to have escaped .

Since I don't have video footage of the event (yet!) and plain text is just so last century we'll close this chapter, go and retrieve the porridge that has now burnt dry(seriously) and heat up the coffee(again) in the microwave,leaving you in suspense till next time!