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So many times I have been told that it is a mistake to revisit the scene and places of childhood, that in advancing years provide such wonderful memories of those long hot summers, when the sun always shone, and bad weather is always forgotten.
I was born in the village of Wye, near Ashford in Kent, during the second world war. My grandfather was at that time a serving Policeman in the Folkestone Borough Police, and for family safety had rented a house in Scotton Street, Wye, for my grandmother and mother to live in, away from the dangers of residing in Folkestone. This later proved to have been a good idea, as the family home in Jesmond Street was subsequently dmamged by either a cross channel shell or a bomb.
I have a wonderful jumble of memories of the village in immediate post war years. My aunt and uncle lived in a cottage in Bridge Street, opposite the village school where my education began, and together with my cousin I spent many happy hours playing in the fields behind the house, flying imaginary aeroplanes from the disused hanger which stood between their house and the church, or wandering down to the river, where much against parental advice we paddled and caught tiddlers under the banks. We trekked up over the hills overlooking the village, and pic-nicked above the crown which had been cut into the grass hillside, or along the river bank beside the swing bridge.
At the age of 7, I left the village with my mother and stepfather, but from that time until I left school every summer holiday was spent with my grandparents who remained living in the village, although not in Scotton Street. My grandfather had retired from the Police in 1946, and had taken employment as a Security Officer at the Shell Depot in Bramble Lane, from where the famous PLUTO pipe line had started during the war. For those not familiar with this, PLUTO stood for Pipeline Under the Ocean, and had supplied fuel to the invasion forced in France. At this time they had moved into a flat above a hairdressers in the village centre.
After I left school (at the same time as my grandparents moved away to Sussex) I never returned, but always harboured many fond memories of my time spent in the village. Well, against all advice, I did it ! I recently went back.
The fields are no longer behind Bridge Street, and of course, the hanger is long gone. The school, and most other places, seem much smaller now, but so many things remain that I remember so well. As I wandered around, the memories flooded back, and i wallowed in nostalgia. The forge at the bottom of Scotton Street, where I had watched the blacksmith at work, and riding out in his pony and trap - the village hall where I had made my stage debut as 'a little teapot round and stout.....'! In my mind I again saw the torchlit procession of students from the college winding its way up from the college to the Crown (I can't remember why). The cinder track at the back of the village hall, where it seemed the whoile population turned out to cheer on the village cycle speedway team. The petrol depot is still there, now sadly desereted and overgrown, but just for a moment it was again neat and trimmed, and a small boy was hitting a golf ball off the top of one of the grassed humps. The Bramble Lane pre-fabs have also disappeared, but I imagined seeing again my childhood sweethearts, Janet and Peggy, who had lived there in those days with their families. there were so many other recollections as I wandered around, and despite the cvhanges and growth, the village was still as I remembered it, and yes, it was well worth going back, and a day to remember. It remains a lovely village, and as a bonus, the sun was still shining !
David Care
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