I returned to the village of my birth, and enjoyed fish, chips, scraps and mushy peas with lashings of vinegar from the shop that used to be the butcher's. The old fish and chip shop is now the chaotic Chinese takeaway.
It was truly a day of Indian summer, strolling by the shallow beck under an almost cloudless sky that had only the slight crispness of late October, and the sniff of winter not far behind. Round the corner from the pub and village green it was sad to see the ongoing destruction of the ancient ridge and furrow fields by the massive housing development - a battle that went on for more than ten years, but sadly lost. These fields were a vast, unofficial playground for us as kids, and to see yet another green area going under brick and tarmac is like a scaffolding pole through the heart.
Our young lad asked me to take him to the play area, walking past the sprawling wreck of a house where we grew up, with its enormous garden, and mature trees to climb into the expanding sky. The local team were warming-up for a football match on the carefully mown playing field nearby, where studs must never tread upon the sacred cricket square protected by thin wire.
I smiled, remembering how I'd thrown some of the sports club's new turf rectangles on their roof as a wayward youngster. Our Mischief Night (the day before Bonfire Night - November 5th) was pretty tame, but a certain level of disregard for the powers that be is a healthy tradition that should always continue - best in the style of Gandhi's non-violent resistance.
I bet even the Dalai Lama got into a few minor scrapes as a lad.
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