Tales of Our Times - 1
John Copeland
Once upon a time there was a pretty little village only a few
crow-flying miles from a busy town. Stone houses nestled against the
side of the hill, and sheep grazed in the surrounding meadows.
Everything was peaceful and delightfully rural and old fashioned. All
the houses were very, very old, particularly the ones where the farm
workers lived, many of the cottages being tumble-down and ripe for
modernisation.
Each weekend people from the town would drive out in their shiny motor
cars and visit this quaint little village. When they saw the sheep in
the meadows, and the little stone cottages with chickens pecking away
in the gardens full of cabbages and potatoes, they would say: "Oh,
what a charming spot. Let's leave the dirty old town and come and
live here in the countryside."
So they went to see the farmer who owned all the tumble-down cottages
to ask if any were for sale. At first, the farmer, who was a bit on
the grumpy side as the subsidies were not as good as expected, said he
could not sell the cottages as he might need them for some immigrant
workers who were expected any day in the back of a lorry. But when he
was offered a very good price he suddenly changed his mind, saying:
"Some of the cottages won't be needed, so you might as well have
them."
One by one, then, the tumble-down cottages were sold. Soon, though,
there were no cottages left, but there were still lots of people from
town who wanted to come and live in the pretty little village. So
they went to see the farmer to see if he would sell some of his land
so they could build nice new homes, complete with a patio and a
paddock for a pony. At first the farmer said he would need the field
for growing his crops, but when he was offered a very big price he
suddenly changed his mind. "Farming's not what it used to be, so
maybe I don't need so much land." he said, adding: "Besides, I'm
getting a bit old now".
Some of the fields were therefore sold for nice new houses, but before
they could build their new homes the people from town had to get
planning permission from the Council. Luckily, the man from the
Council said: "Yes, of course you can build on the fields as we need
a lot more houses, but you must make sure that you put nice tiles on
the roof, because it's a conservation area, which means that you
mustn't spoil things too much."
When all the plans had been agreed, the builder came with his
bulldozer and pulled out all the straggly trees and the overgrown
hedgerows with their delicious blackberries, and Packemin Properties
Ltd squeezed in as many nicely-tiled houses as possible, and a few
more besides. This meant that more and more people could come and
live in the pretty little village.
At first, the newcomers were very happy. However, they soon found
that it was very dark at night, there being no street lights. Some of
the new residents, not being used to walking along grass verges,
fell into the ditches and got very muddy indeed. And to make matters
worse, one of the remaining farm workers had some extremely noisy
cockerels who woke everybody up ever so early in the morning, long
before it was time to go to work in the town. If this was not bad
enough, the farmer had a whole lot of pigs who made a really horrid
smell, the foul odour drifting into the new houses, especially into
the conservatories.
"Oh, dear!" cried the newcomers. "We didn't have all this trouble in
town. If only we could get rid of the horrid smells and the noise of
those chickens and have street lights and pavements." So, after
quarrelling a bit amongst themselves, they formed a Residents'
Association and sent off very fierce letters to the Council to
complain about the dreadful state of the village.
Fortunately, the man from the Council was very sympathetic, telling
the farm worker that the noise of his cockerels was many decibels
above the permitted levels of the Noise Abatement Acts, and they would
have to go. And he told the farmer that if he did not tidy up his pig
pens and stop the animals from making a really nasty smell, he would
have to be closed down too.
This made the farmer very angry indeed, so he decided to sell the farm
for housing development. This meant that he could make lots of money
and retire, not having to worry about the Mark II countrypeople in
Chelsea tractors complaining about rural smells. So along came the
builder again with his bulldozer and flattened the pig pens and the
ramshackle farm buildings, and in the end there was nothing left of
the farm. The pigs and the cockerels had to go and live somewhere
else, for there were lots and lots of nice new houses where they used
to live. All the new houses, of course, had nice tiles on them
because it was a conservation area.
"That's a lot better," said the secretary of the Residents'
Association. "Now we can ask the Council to put in mains drainage and
street lamps and pavements and make our village really smart so that
we can enter the 'Best Kept Village' competition."
So the man from the Council had mains drainage put in, street lights
put up, and non-slip pavements put down. And not to be left out of
the improvements, the village shopkeeper put in a big front window and
went self-service, which the newcomers thought was a lot better,
especially as he started stocking "The Daily Telegraph" and "Country
Life".
Because everything was so smart in the village, it became exceedingly
fashionable, being described by the estate agents as "much sought
after," which meant that lots of other people who lived in the town
wanted to come and live there. So more and more houses were built to
accommodate them, and soon the pretty little village became very big
indeed. Because it was so smart, the village won the "Best Kept
Village" competition, unfortunately making it even more desirable.
Eventually, the village became so big that there were no green fields
left any more, and people had to buy caravans so that they could go
out and see pretty little villages at weekends. "Oh, dear!"
exclaimed some of the early settlers. "We're becoming very
overcrowded, just like the town. We'll have to move further out into
the country so that we can overlook nice meadows again."
So they drove out in their 4 x 4s and came upon a picturesque little
village that was quite unspoilt. Sheep and cows grazed in the
meadows, and everything was peaceful and delightfully rural and old
fashioned.
"Oh, what a charming spot. Let's leave the crowded estate and come
and live here in the real countryside." So they wrote off to the
farmer and the Council, and the builder started up his bulldozer
again.
John Copeland
Website: "Diary of a Septuagenarian", now in its tenth year,
at www.johncopeland.clara.net