Some years ago the Primary School had a 'local history' week, and one of the days we took a year group down to Nea Meadows, a local nature reserve. There was an old guy waiting for us by some ancient trees, Lesley, I think his name was (if it wasn't, I apologize), he'd always lived in Highcliffe. Lesley had lived in one of the local large houses of which few still exist, many have been demolished and those that remain have been remodelled, though if you look you can find several of their gate houses. Lesley described the landscape he'd known as a child as open fields, bustling hedgerows and clumps of coppice and woodland, his eyes widened and watered as he reminisced on what was; he was clearly moved. It's striking the power and depth of emotion which reminiscing evokes. The crux of his talk was that now Nea Meadows was all that remained of that open landscape he knew, a landscape consumed by piecemeal housing development since the war. The children asked questions, and lesley regaled them with tales, beautifully described. As he walked off after his talk (in the direction of sunset, as it happened), I couldn't help think what a melancholic figure cut, and I suspected that in his heart and minds eye, he still walked in those boyhood fields and copses. Lesley always comes to mind when I pass through Nea Meadows, and I ponder on the changes I've seen locally.
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