But when Trevor lived there, befre he was four, it was an agricultural village with a ford in the middle of the high street which the few cars of the time and farm carts used to splash through. There was a wooden bridge for pedestrians to cross the water and ducks used to parade up and down the road.

           Trevor’s Aunt Mary used to take him down to the village to feed the ducks.  At the bottom of the street was a T junction where there stood a blacksmith’s and where horses were shod. Trevor got very upset because when the blacksmith put the hot shoos on the horses hooves they smoked, and if that was not bad enough,they then then nailed shoes onto the horses feet. In spite of Aunty Mary’s reassurance he was very concerned.

           Fifty years later he took his sophisticated girlfriend out from London to show her, and if he was honest to remind himself, of his roots.

 There was no ford. There was no bridge. There were no ducks. There was no blacksmith and you could not walk down the street for the Rolls-Royce’s, Fararis and Jaguars parked on the pavement.