First stop was the church which turned out to be entirely suitably dedicated to St. James, my own first name and that of my father and my grandfather before him. A church with old beginnings and the tower of which is topped with an unusual sort of truncated steeple, the subject of at least one picture hanging on our walls to this day. No graves of interest, perhaps because 20th century graves were in a different yard.
Next stop was the recreation ground which lay between the lane called 'The Thorpe' where my father was born and lived as a child and the river, a recreation ground which as a child I used to pass through on Sunday summer evenings on the way to the river. Strong association to the sound of church bells on a country evening, far softer and milder than the same thing in a town. The last time that I visited this recreation ground, maybe thirty years ago, it seemed very small. This time, it seemed to have grown to me and shrunk to BH. It had certainly acquired a large new sports pavilion, conveniently open quite late on a Sunday afternoon. River looked somewhat swollen after the recent rain and was flowing far to fast for boating to be much fun - a sport which my parents used to indulge in there when my father was on leave from the army during the war.
Then onto 'The Thorpe' itself, where the house where my father was born was present and correct, as was the cottage where his younger brother (Uncle John) lived when I knew him. I remember him as being the champion mower of the village but mowing with a scythe must have been an anachronism then, so perhaps he was just the winner of some heritage sporting event at the village fête. Perhaps they reserved some meadow - and there would have been real meadows on this land - for the purpose.
But the bungalow which we used to visit for extended family teas on Sunday afternoons was not present and correct. We knew that most of the land which had been attached to the bungalow had been sold for housing - and that was present and correct. And there were two bungalows at about the right place - 6 (illustrated) and 6A - but neither looking anything like the bungalow I remembered. We decided that No. 6 must have been the place, massively rebuilt, and 6A must have been built in its back garden some time after I knew it, more than 50 years ago. Both the ladies we asked turned out to be very recent immigrants and were not able to help.
In sum, the village which my father had known as what he called a rural slum had become the home for well heeled refugees from Cambridge and beyond. Not a cow pat to be seen anywhere.
PS1: I note two items of interest to a small child at the bungalow. First, an old treadle lathe used to stand in the garden, once used in the construction & maintenance of false teeth. Second, a glass contraption the size and general shape of a goldfish bowl used to stand in the back porch, used to catch wasps in the summer, with the aid of jam. Very good at it it was too.
PS2: I also note that we once saw many black eels swimming along both sides of the river from the bridge over the Ouse at Huntingdon. Could not have been much rain beforehand as the water was very clear. Must have been thousands of them. A sight not see before or since.
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