| One such memorable break was to visit my grandparents, on the edge of Savernack Forest in a little village named Burbage. They lived in an old thatched cottage and water was taken from a well (and whatever fell from the heavens into the water butt). This particular memory has got me thinking about how much we take water, on tap, for granted these days. The well water was wound up, and then taken into the pantry where it was kept in crocks and, of course, was treated with the respect it deserved - never a drop being wasted. Toilet facilities were equally Heath-Robinson, being a shed in the nearby copse, with a wooden seat and bucket beneath - no doubt the waste being recycled even then. I well remember sitting in that little cubicle, listening to all the woodland noises going on round about - cooing of pigeons being the most striking, but leaves rustling with the activity of squirrels etc. adding to the nerve-racking experience!
As you lay in the traditional feather bed, mice could be heard up in the thatch and if you were lucky, housemartins would be nesting under the eaves near your window. I can still 'smell' the mash Grandad made for the chickens, and haymaking was a great time for all locally to become involved, with me riding home on a big carthorse. Self-sufficiency reigned; no doubt times were hard occasionally, but folk appeared generally happy with their lot.  |