After the factory shut its doors, our town ticked by, in the way towns like ours do; tossed aside in favour of something new, something modern, something more suited to the times. Our rural life was a dying kind. The cogs that kept nearby villages going had long stiffened to a stop.
Big cities, office jobs, chain restaurants, shopping arcades built like basilicas – these were in vogue now. Mercy alone had allowed our town to survive this far. The first injection of life never came before May Day, when visitors appeared city-weary, eager for Mother Nature’s restorative balm.
But visitors were blindly unaware of the fact we were present all year round, whether they came or not. In shiny coats, impractical shoes, they sampled our scones, sipped our ciders,…
