***chapter 26***
***How It All Began***
As each of us does over the years, and whether we wish to or no, Whistledown village became larger. And while it could hardly lay claim to being as big and important as the bustling town of Ashtree - which many rural Yorkshire folk now spoke of in awed tones as “The City”, regarding youngsters who upped sticks for Ashtree as sophisticated city dwellers – Whistledown, like each of us, was as big and important as it could possibly be under limited circumstances.
The once tiny village was no longer a blink-and-you'll-miss-it inconsequential dot on maps of Yorkshire, a place where ramblers, before hurrying on, paused briefly to thirstily down a well-earned pint at The Three Bells, or slot sixpence into the dairy machine in exchange for a triangular carton of fresh milk, or purchase a small bottle of fizzy lemonade with straw at the sweetshop, where the windows advertised that commemorative copies of, among other Great Historic Events, the Two World Wars, the Crowning of Queen Elizabeth II, and, puzzlingly, The Thirties Thunderstorms, could be ordered here. No, indeed. Whistledown was grown up to be a fully fledged
bold black circle. Added to its old familiar shops were now a small supermarket, post office and gift shop, a cycle and camping gear shop, a health clinic, children’s play area and picnic tables, even a car park that in its capacity, to the great pride and frequent boast of the villagers, could hold a grand total of
ten cars and one coach. A boom in tourism during the affluent 1960s added to Whistledown's sense of well being, and it was around the end of this decade that Whistledown church found itself suddenly doubling as a tourist information centre. Which was all very well for Whistledown and all very well too, as it turned out, for Follyfoot Farm, but first let me tell you how it all began...
Reverend John Glover was sick and tired of sightseers. He groaned as two more strolled into Whistledown Church. Or, to view it how the good man of the cloth viewed it, yet more cameras, sunhats, sunglasses, sweaters looped around shoulders, maps and brochures had just sauntered into the House of God and were now leisurely gazing around, as though it were a stately home to which they had paid hefty admission fees.
Another bone of contention. Why
did so many of these sightseers, including Britons (who surely
must be familiar with the Great British weather) insist on wearing summer clothing just because it happened to be summer? The very reason for the beautiful British scenery they waxed lyrical about, while complaining about the cold, wet weather in the same breath, was the beautiful British rain. And, whatever the season, the open countryside that surrounded the eight ancient villages could often be prone to biting winds and sudden thunderstorms.
Of course, the vicar thought grumpily, had it been winter, Britain could well be basking in a heatwave and the sightseers, after checking the calender instead of the window, wearing warm coats, hats, scarves, gloves and boots. Today was the height of summer, and so the overcast Yorkshire sky was doing its damnedest to try for an afternoon downpour (though the best it could muster was intermittent spots of rain) while a busy wind rushed through the trees, whistling merrily in its work as it swept in through the church doors, left wide open by the latest visitors, presumably for easy access of leaves, dirt, broken twigs, petals, sweet wrappers, cigarette stumps and anything and everything else that the wind, like a small child finding delight in the most random of objects, chose to collect along the way.
The sightseers chatted and laughed as they browsed while John Glover bit back a desire to yell at them to shut up, and instead concentrated on his proposed Sunday sermon. God never shut anyone out and so anyone
was free to come inside, the vicar chided himself. Even if he did feel as protective of Whistledown Church as he did his six-year-old twin daughters. He had been thrilled to learn of his posting to this parish, for it had long held a special place in his heart.
As a young theology student, John Glover sat in the library one sunny afternoon, the open window carrying the sounds of a football game being played in the sports pavilion, and a particularly exciting match at that, if the loud shouts and groans of the spectators were anything to go by. He was half wishing he'd decided to put his athletic skills to good use to pursue a sporting career instead of a religious one, and half wondering where on earth he was to begin with a twenty-page essay assignment, when a slight movement on the bookshelves caught his eye. A long-legged spider had appeared from nowhere, to crawl along the top pages and down the spine of a thick reference book, before dropping with a gentle clatter to the floor and scurrying out, as though done with its studying for the day. The future vicar curiously pulled the book out of the shelf, telling himself he deserved a five-minute break. But the break stretched for over two hours and he forgot all about his essay, engrossed as he became in the spider's choice of literature.
“A Complete History of British Churches”, with its glossy photographs and detailed facts, myths and stories about each had been his introduction to Whistledown Church and its links, via the seventeenth century grave of one Sir Richard Maddocks, with Follyfoot Farm. Which in turn led to his interest in, and later reading about, Follyfoot Farm itself. It had been fascinating to learn how Follyfoot, from its earliest beginnings in the business of hiring and selling horses, practised caring for all creatures, stabling even those horses too old or sick to work, giving them the freedom to live out the rest of their days unburdened. How Follyfoot had quickly gained a reputation for excellence, and for kindness in never turning away anyone in need of food or shelter, how the rumour seeds of an enchanted Farm at the bottom of the hill were sewn.
A reference in his sermon about offering a helping hand to those in trouble had carried him back to those heartwarming tales of a slower, kinder yesteryear, when a sound like gravel being crunched underfoot brought him abruptly him back into the present. Rev Glover glanced up from the pulpit, where he was silently mouthing and timing his Sunday sermon (
as was his rather eccentric habit and a source of great amusement to his fellow clergymen and women) to determine its cause. And he quickly found it: fat man in socks, sandals, shorts and Hawaiian shirt waddling down church aisle eating crisps.
The fat man's equally plump wife elbowed him and hissed in a stage whisper, “Quit with the munchies, Mikey, you're rumbled! The big shot's glaring!”
Unfortunately, she elbowed him a little too enthusiastically and thus, in perfect synchronization, crisp packet, crisps and Mikey all spilled together down on to the hallowed ground.
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