The day was damp and gloomy only lightened by short glimpses of watery sun. We were on our way to my friend's home. She had collected me and my case from the station and neither of us had had lunch or even a decent cup of coffee, so we agreed to stop for a break en route. By this time we were nearing the village where I had spent a great deal of time for the first twenty years of my life, so we agreed to take the left fork in the rows instead of the right fork which would by-pass most of my village.

It's hard to explain how exciting this was. I had not been right into the village for many years, but here I was and I looked for familiar sights and to my surprise and pleasure there were many. As we drove uphill past one of the older districts where rows of cottages in narrow streets spilled downhill to the wider road where, before going into battle in the Civil War, Colonel Essex, it is said, spent the night and where the old shop on the corner was run by a kindly old lady, all dressed in black, and one's arrival was announced by a very large bell perched above the door. The baker's where my brother and I went some mornings to buy hot, treacly dripping cakes was still there. I was delighted . My friend was polite but unmoved as I pointed out certain landmarks for she had her mind set on having a cup of coffee. We drove down and then climbed up again to the old part of the village around the church. We parked and found a cafe in what had once been the village pharmacy.

After coffee we walked up the path to the church and I recalled the many times that I had scurried along there as a teenager when the five minute bell was ringing. There were memories of my days as a Sunday School teacher and of church socials where the vicar and the curate accepted the challenge to eat jelly with knitting needles, and an elderly chorister sang comic songs, such as 'There was I Waiting at the Church.' Those socials never varied, the same people, the same songs and the same jokes. All the old shops were still there, two more turned into cafes, but the newsagents in an eighteenth century cottage still served the same purpose.

I showed my friend the village school which I had attended for a time when my family came back to escape from the air raids in the north eastern town where we were then living. We passed two of the many pubs which this large village has; their names had changed but they looked much the same. Our circular tour brought us back to the car. My friend agreed that we should come again. We have been friends for many years, she could not experience my feelings of excitements at seeing so many places I had remembered so well and delighted in remembering, but she understood.

by Ann Slatter