“It’s become more of a safe place”
WE’RE just off down the road for the clearing-up morning on Lush Place common.
The common comprises a strip of land bisected by the main road through the village.
On one side is a stream and trees leading up to Bluebell Hill.
On the other side is an old football pitch, which was renovated by the late and much-missed Bellows, the man who, in Lush Places, made good things happen.
The pitch isn’t used for football matches any more.
It’s become more of a safe place to walk dogs, although there is a picnic table and teenagers have been known to camp out on the common overnight.
And every now and then, it needs a bit of a spruce up by a team of volunteers.
We trundle down the road with the wheelbarrow, armed with gardening gloves and secateurs.
By the time we get there, there are people scraping the concrete driveway clear.
Anakin Sheepwash and
Bert Daes are digging out large weeds.
There is no sign of Mr Brogue Boots and the Angel Of The North, who told us they would be there but haven’t materialised.
It transpires they thought it was in the afternoon so they have had a lie-in.
We go up on to the pitch and it’s a hive of activity.
There is cutting and strimming of brambles and overhanging branches.
There are people around the boundary pulling up thorns and drinks cans from the undergrowth.
We’re tasked to work our way around the wire fence until we’re called for tea and cake.
And then it’s a quick photo opportunity, before we scuttle back on to the field and get on with our work.
There is a young man in the trees wearing a safety helmet and boots.
He gets down from his ladder and walks over.
“You know you have nicknames for everyone in the village?” he says. “Well, my wife and I would like to know what our names are.”
He’s got me stumped.
I haven’t mentioned them before, which is a bit naughty on my part because this young couple are part of the village lifeblood.
“I’ll have to think about that one,” I tell him.
“Something to do with wood?” Mr Grigg says. “He’s always taking care of trees.”
“It needs to be something that suits his wife, too.”
She’s very good at making things, her creative and imaginative ideas a tonic in a sometimes monochrome world.
They have a large tree near their house, and a few years ago, the most amazing thing happened.
A door appeared at the foot of the trunk and some little people moved in.
We never saw these fairy folk, but some days we spotted miniature washing on a cotton-thin line and tiny welly boots outside the door.
And when the village was raising money for the play area in the centre of Lush Places, the little folk put up their own sign in support.
It reminded me of when I was about seven years old and adored a “Watch With Mother” programme called “Pogles’ Wood” about a family who lived in a hollow oak tree.
It featured Mr and Mrs Pogle, their son Pippin, his little squirrel-like friend,
Tog, and a plant outside the front door that drank only bilberry wine.
Narrated and created by the brilliant Oliver Postgate, I’ve never forgotten “Pogles’ Wood”.
It was magical.
The Lush Places family are considerably younger than the Pogles.
And they have a daughter and not a son.
But they share similar characteristics.
They are close to nature, kind and caring.
So, when he asks me next time about the nicknames for the family, I’ll have it in a flash.
It will be Mr and Mrs Pogle. And, of course, Pippin, too.
A door appeared at the foot of the trunk and some little people moved in