My mum still lives in the village where I grew up and although I visit her regularly, I don’t often get the chance to leisurely wander around, to take the time revisit the places and spaces that I used to walk past every day in my childhood.
A couple of weeks ago, I was lucky enough to do that when friends who have recently moved there asked me to house sit for a full week while they went on holiday. It gave me that opportunity of time, time to amble about in a place that is so familiar, and yet parts of which I’ve not visited properly for years.
I don’t know why I still expected to recognise almost everyone I met, or for them to recognise me. Of course they didn’t because, like me, the village has moved on and people have moved in. It’s one of those increasingly rare rural spots that is fortunate to still have a village shop and post office, a doctor’s surgery, two pubs, a café and a primary school. And yet, when I think back to everything that used to be there, so many amenities have vanished – a baker, a butcher, a petrol garage, a school, a grocery store, a chip shop and a quirky habadasher-cum-clothes-cum-shoe shop. It was a unique establishment run by an elderly lady from what was her front room. She sold a bizarre array of merchandise which never seemed to shift, and yet, if you needed a pair of wellies in a hurry, she was your woman.
I still class the village as my home, and myself as a member of its community, having been brought there as a baby in 1967 – nearly 60 years ago (good grief). Dad had been the bobby of the neighbouring village since 1964, but in 1967 was offered a new post from his boss alongside a new mortgage from his bank manager. It meant we could move out of the police house and into our very own cottage with a lovely long garden at the back where fun games were played while fond memories were made.
There are plenty of people who have been residents for as long, or even longer, than my mum. And yet, as you’d expect, there are plenty of ‘newcomers’ who I don’t know and who have no idea who I am nor my connection to the old place. I feel a sense of ownership, and yet a slight pang of indignation at the thought that these residents probably think I am the stranger.
One evening as the sun was setting beneath a lilac sky, I began my 15 minute walk back to my friends’ cottage after having had tea with my mum. I took the opportunity to dawdle, to absorb all the sights and sounds around me. The background music of a village settling down for the evening accompanied me – somebody trying to finish cutting their hedge in the fading light, others chitchatting behind closed doors, and actors’ voices, sound effects and theme tunes drifting through windows amidst the flickering glow of TV screens. The main street was still so familiar, largely unchanged apart from a few more parked cars lining either side. It was relatively traffic free as the evening light faded into darkness and the streetlights came on. As I walked past one of the pubs, I was pleased to see that it was busy with drinkers at the bar and diners in the restaurant. Like many such establishments, these hostelries have not had it easy in recent years, but these are still going, and hopefully will do so for many years to come.
As I pottered on, I felt the village still possessed its essential character, despite the fact that where were once open spaces, new houses now stood, but they were built with golden yellow stone under pinky-red pantile roofs, charming and cozy, as traditional Yorkshire cottages were meant to be.
Most heartwarming of all was to see echoes of customs past; on one doorstep sat a basket of eating apples with a ‘Help yourself’ sign (I did!). There was another selling free range eggs, while one more offered home-grown courgettes and squashes alongside honey & jam, with honesty boxes for you to deposit the small fee.
I felt very much at home.
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This column appeared in the Darlington & Stockton Times on Friday 9th Oct and the Ryedale Gazette and Herald on Wednesday 7th Oct 2026
