Townie

Unfortunately the "townie" side of me surfaced today.

Townie is a familiar term and likely to be found in an equivalent form in every language and culture. It refers to a person either born and bred in an urban area or someone who just prefers to live in a busy, built up environment rather than out in the countryside.

The townie traits in my character are not really that bad because I have actually spent some of my life in small towns and a couple of villages and even in the former location the family home was onto open fields on the very edge of the built up area.

Some of my friends in my formative years were actually the sons and daughters from agricultural types and I even actively participated in the organisation known as Young Farmers for about 4 years. It was a time of good memories and I can still differentiate between different makes of tractor and breeds of pigs even now some 40 years later. Membership of the local branch, or is it crop, took me all over the North and Midlands of England to take part in quizzes, debates and competitions which saw such diverse activities as loading hay bales to wiring a plug. As a side effect I also learned to drink a lot of beer, I know, I was young and keen to fit in with my new peer group.

The need to learn a trade and then earn a living from it saw me make the natural migration to larger towns and in recent years the big regional city which I now call my home.

I like the constant background noise of traffic, the smell of diesel fumes in the morning and the comforting thought that I am mere minutes away from a Tesco Express (other convenience stores are available) and can summon a tasty, hot takeaway meal on a whim.

Of course I have no issues with those who choose to move out to a rural village or the countryside, into darkened skies, rarely open pubs, shops if indeed in the fortunate position to have one to hand that have odd trading hours, unpredictable broadband, strange airborne odours and dangerous narrow lanes.

But why?

I was asked to take a look at a small cottage today for a couple who were in that dreamy eyed stage that comes when first thinking about an idyllic rural retreat.

It was in a short whitewashed row, part cobblestone and brick under pantiles in little more than a handful of similar dwellings on a crossroads junction.

The address was a bit vague along the lines of "White Cottage, Main Road" which seemed to describe every house in that location. Luckily, the estate agents "For Sale" board gave me a big clue.

I knocked on the front door before having a strange sensation that I was about seven feet tall.

This illusion was because the top of the door frame was actually at my eye level.

I made a mental note to double check if;

1) I had experienced a growth spurt
2) the cottage had sunk or
3)the place had been built by and for tiny folk.

In reality, the third option was probably the most likely given that the cottage dated from about 1800 and in those days a combination of poor nutrition during pregnancy, poor diet after birth and illness such as rickets caused to stunt the physical development and growth of a good proportion of the population.

The lady who answered the door was about average height and even she had to stoop a bit.

The main room was straight off the street. It was dark on account of the dominance of wood stained finished beams, wall boarding, woodblock floor and matching furniture. I stumbled a bit until my sight became accustomed to the gloom although not aided by a discernible unenveness to the floor beneath the dark carpet.

A bright light drew me through to the back room and kitchen which were positively gawdy in what were only normal white painted finishes. The cottage was quite shallow in depth and I felt like I had taken just one step in and fallen immediately out of the rear door.

A small yard separated by a pathway serving the terraced row led to the longest, narrowest garden I had ever seen. It could have been about an acre in size but if I tell you that it was only 10 feet wide you can calculate how far away the rear boundary was.

A resident free ranging brown hen kept pace with me to the end of the garden and back and I thought that as I had exercised the bird the homeowner would not have to take it for a walk later on.

Upstairs in the cottage were yet more beams, some so low that I did bash my head a few times. In its original format the place would have been two up and two down but thanks to a longstanding but modern two storey extension there was an indoor toilet where before it would have been a case of using an outdoor loo or earth closet.

The ceilings swept down close and paralell to the roof slope. The floor above the beamed living room was as springy as a trampoline. The windows were set very low in relation to the floor so much so that the only way to get a decent view of the village was to get down on all fours (I didn't feel it necessary to do that).

The amenities were also a bit basic.  As a townie I am able to take mains services for granted but in this hamlet there was no mains gas and the water supply came from a subterranean bore hole from which samples had to be regularly sent to a distant laboratory for testing for any nasties. The radiators in the majority of rooms were heated from a coal fired back boiler which meant a dirty and heavy practice to bring in fuel from a bunker in the yard.

The homeowner was of senior age and the persistent cough that had accompanied me as a soundtrack to my visit suggested to me that a damp rural existence, oh, did I mention that the cottage was terribly damp and fusty, did not at all agree with her.

I felt like telling the lady to pack a bag and come with me straight away to escape this far from idyllic and actually life threatening environment. Then again, she might feel that she had to stay to at least take that chicken out for a walk as per, I had previously mused, was part of her usual daily routine. After all she would have nothing else to do between lugging bulky fuel about and nursing a grazed head.

The heavy fug of pollution over the tower blocks as I approached the city and my own home had never looked so pretty and comforting. Townie, that's me alright.