Page 2 of Putting Down Roots

“You can try the pub, they have rooms there.”

“Thanks.” Another expense I don’t need, but I also don’t think sleeping in the van on the forecourt of the garage would be the thing. It hasn’t come to that—yet.

I lookup at the pub—The Blacksmith’s Arms. It really is quaint, like the whole damn village. In fact, scanning around, there doesn’t seem to be anything which has been built in the last fifty years. Behind the pub, downland heads up into hills, and woodland spreads around the village, giving it the impression of being protected from the outside world. The village that time forgot—except that isn’t true. The cars in the street are modern, well, most of them. But still, it feels old-fashioned somehow.

The pub squats at the edge of a flat village green, its thatched roof sporting several windows. Pushing open the door, even the dark interior with a few scattered rays of afternoon sun seems in keeping. It’s actually very charming.

“Give me a minute, I’ll be right with you.” A voice calls out, followed a minute later by a short woman with curly brown hair and a beaming smile.

“Hello there, can I help you? We don’t open til three.”

“I was told you might have a room.”

“You here to look at the Abbey?”

“The Abbey? Um, no.”

“Oh well, walking then, though you don’t look geared up for it.” She continues, almost without pausing for breath.

“No, my van has broken down. I’m told it needs parts and won’t be fixed until Tuesday.”

“Ah, Old Pete will do a good job. And yes, wedohave a room. To be honest, we don’t get many tourists in these parts—a few walkers, and those who want to see the Abbey.” This woman can talk for England. “Are you passing through?”

“Kind of.” She has a disarming smile, and it would be easy to give too much away. I feel reluctant to say too much, not that I have many answers anyway.

“Well, I guess you’re stuck here for the weekend. Did you have plans? Anyone special missing you?”

“No.” I’m getting tired of this—it isn’t how I’d planned my life when I set off a few hours ago. I was going to be far awayand carefree, but here I am in some godforsaken place with no transport and a woman who talks too much.

“Well then, I’m Darla. Welcome to Larchdown. Let me show you to your room.”

The room iscomfortable and homely. A bed stands along one wall with a small cupboard next to it. In one corner is a wardrobe and in the other, an armchair. It isn’t modern enough to have an ensuite, but Darla said the bathroom was just along the corridor. Although I hadn’t planned to be here, it’ll be a welcome change from the van—the last couple of nights havenotbeen comfortable. The roof is low and I can barely stand upright, except near the dormer window, which is leaded. As I stand at the window and look out across the village, I can see the garage and poor Betsy sat on the forecourt. Old Pete, as Darla had called him, is bent over the engine bay of another car. The road through the village carries on past the garage and heads into the woodland. I can see what looks like ruins poking above the treeline—the Abbey I presume. Turning the other way, I look down the street. There are a few shops—more than I would have thought for a small village. A general store and post office, a bakery, and a few others. Mostly though, there are houses. I sigh.

What am I gonna do for four days?

I also have another problem. In my van are seedlings—my chance for a future—my first step to setting up a nursery somewhere. Plants are the only thing I know. I’d watered them well this morning, and the van is dark, so I think they’ll be okay for a few days, provided the weather doesn’t get too warm and dry them out. But four days might be pushing it. I’ll have to see if anyone has a greenhouse or polytunnel I can rent.

My stomach grumbles—I haven’t eaten anything yet today, although I’d thought about stopping for lunch at a service station on the motorway. But lunchtime’s been and gone, so, deciding to see if the bakery is still open, I leave my bag on the bed and head out for a look around the village.

I cross the village green, and see a small church in a graveyard bordered by yew trees. That’s one thing I’ve noticed—there are a lot of trees in this village. Some villages are sterile, with greenery ousted in favour of block paving and manicured hedges. Larchdown has a far more rustic feel, though as a gardener I know this is a look that also takes some effort.

The first shop I pass is a hairdresser’s and barbershop, and I run my hand through my hair. I’m cultivating a more rustic look. Natasha had always liked me clean shaven, and my hair short and tamed. It’s been many years since I allowed my stubble to grow a little—maybe since I was in college. But I like it. And my hair, well, I guess when it annoys me I might get it cut, but we aren’t there yet.

There’s a wool and craft store, a gift shop, then a general store and post office. The last shop in the row is a bakery with a couple of cast iron tables outside.I guess this is what passes as a cafe in Larchdown.

“Hello.” A tall, slim, blond guy dressed in an apron and standing behind a glass fronted display cabinet, greets me. His smile reaches his warm grey eyes.

The interior of the shop is painted blue, with wooden shelves along the walls, trimmed with bunting. A small table with a bright tablecloth and chairs sits in the corner, a vase of early tulips in its centre. The effect is all very cheery, but it’s all very bare of food.

“I’m sorry,” the guy continues, “We don’t have a lot left. We’ll be closing soon.”

“I’ll have whatever you have left then please.” This amounts to a couple of sausage rolls and a few cheese straws. Not a feast, but it’ll keep my stomach from rumbling until the pub starts serving food.

The guy genuinely looks apologetic as he hands them over, and I pay him.

“The tulips look beautiful. Are they local?”

“Thank you. They are pretty, aren’t they?” He beams at me. “Not local though. I have a subscription.” I nod. I’m in two minds about subscription flowers. Whilst they make lovely blooms available to many people, they also help to reduce the number of small nurseries. I know a few people who’ve lost their livelihoods, having to shut their nurseries down because of competition from mail order services.

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