A couple of years ago I wrote a series of article on this Blog about my time spent growing up in Corsham, Wiltshire, which proved very popular with the readers at the time. As I now have over ten time the number of readers I thought it might be a good idea to repeat the article below as a teaser, and perhaps you might take a peek at the other articles by clicking on the 'Memory Lane' link.
'As a boy I knew the lie of the land that made up Park Farm in Corsham, for I spent so much of my childhood playing there. Even now, though the intervening years might have dimmed the edges of much that happened way back then, I can still recall the pleasure that I got simply being part of the land in a country-life sort of meaning.
The main thing, I suppose, was that I loved the land because it was always there, always reliable, always ready to respond in familiar ways and yet at the same time to constantly evolve like all living things. Being born and bred in the country is much more than simply having some sort of allegiance to the place in which you live. It involves a oneness with the land around you that grows out of an intimate knowledge of all that it is and all that it contains. I well remember going home, weary but contented, from helping out at Park Farm during the haymaking season. I've written on previous occasions about time spent at the farm which was so ably run by Farmer Jack Vowles, so I won't digress too far on that today.
No, today my thoughts are of the places in the great parkland that afforded a sense of mystery and pleasure to a growing country boy. I knew the trees that I passed by on my way to and from the farm and, as dusk gathered after a day spent haymaking, there was a warmth of friendliness from the familiar. I recall that as I passed by I would bid a friendly "Good-night" to the trees as if they could understand me. After all, I was a son of the soil in many ways and those trees had been with me all of my life, short though it was back then.
Walking back from the farm as the sun was setting on another day I had the woods that bounded Lacock Road on my left whilst across to my right I could see the lake settling down for another night, the setting sunlight reflecting on the water, turning it into a cauldron of molten gold for a brief scantling of time. Moments like these were magic to a child. Years later, when I lived in Africa, I would remember the sun setting on Corsham lake as I watched the glorious sunsets that bewitched the African skyline.
Several times of late, thinking about the park and the lake, I have recalled Bill Holland who was the game-keeper on the Estate when I was a boy. I don't recall meeting him so much as avoiding him, for his reputation was that if he caught you trespassing where you shouldn't be then not only would your father get to know about it --- and that could have dire consequences --- but he would give you a clipped ear as well. That threat did not entirely deter small boys of course, and I often would wander into the woods around the lake and go down by the boathouse to look for fish in the surrounding water. The lake would often freeze right over in the winter in those days, for the years of my childhood enjoyed, or endured, depending on your particular viewpoint, hard winters. Snow and ice seemed to be with us for week after week back then, unlike the mild winters of today. We were hardier creatures as well, not only because we were younger, but because we grew up to expect it and dressed accordingly. Also, as children, we did not sit glued to a screen, either TV or computer, for hours on end in centrally-heated luxury, but went out to play in the great outdoors as often as we could. Winter, to us, meant opportunities for FUN!
I remember some winters when there would be skaters on the ice of the lake, though those memories are few and dim. I think that the thing about the lake that I most recall is the dire warnings of my parents not to go near the water for fear of falling in and getting pulled under and trapped by the weeds that reached upward and lay just below the surface. Certainly, many years later when I went out on the lake in the boat, I remember the odd shudder that went through me as I saw the weed so close to the surface. Whilst the adventure of being on the lake in the boat was great, there was a strong sense of fear that if there was an accident then it would be inevitable that it would be fatal. Such was the suggestive power of all the warnings that I'd been given in the past!
An exciting place to play as a child was in the Dry Arch woods which lay at the farthest extreme of the park with only a field between them and the Corsham to Chippenham road. The woods were so-named because there was a slight bridged area which spanned what was probably a large ditch, although I never recall any water to speak of. As children the underside of the arch became a great place to play, forming as it did the necessary backdrop to suit the occasion. It could be a fort, a jail-cell, a palace, or whatever our childhood imaginations wanted it to be, and just like so much else in our childhoods it had a touch of magic about it.
Not so another place in the park that I recall. Almost hidden in the hedge of one field was an entrance to an underground passage. You went don about eight or nine steps and you were in what appeared to be a bit of a tunnel, although it only stretched for about eight or ten feet at most before it became a drop into some sort of pit or possibly well shaft. I never found out what it was for, but the tales that we made up about it being some sort of secret passage that led either to the vaults of the church or to the cellars of Corsham Court, both relatively close by, were tales that usually managed to scare us witless and thereby ensure that we stayed away from the place for a few weeks until curiosity once more took a hold of us.
Time to go now, but I hope that you enjoyed this wander down memory lane with me, dear reader.'
