Nea more

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.

Hidden histories

A sunset walk over the common saw me engage in conversation with some fellow dog walkers; apparently the guy had lived locally as a child, though left during the 60's to go to sea; now all these years later he and his wife have recently returned and he was describing how much the area has changed. To me, this is the value of oral histories, here was someone who'd information on the area I'd never known and fleshed out other snippets of local history I was aware of. He was a child here through the 50's and told of how he and his chums had played in the then very different landscape; he told of a more open landscape, more grassland and heathland, of less development and of stands of mature deciduous trees, of which only remnants remain; he told of scrumping in the orchards of the big houses, now long gone, only the occasional building and their gate houses enduring; of playing on the baseball diamond and field left by the Americans who billeted here during the Second World War and of a crater on the edge of the common left by the Luftwaffe, and of the shrapnel stuck in nearby trees; and of digging up trophies where the soldiers had buried unwanted equipment and detritus when they vacated. I think he was shocked by what had become of his old stomping ground; all the bungalows and people; of how over grown the common has become and how neglected, he said when he was a lad the old Lord Meyrick, an owner of the common who took his responsibilities as custodian seriously, used to care for the land, but his sons, the current Lords, don't appear bothered unless there's profit in it for them. It was great talking to him; I hope to listen more to his reminisces and build a clearer picture of our local past; I love oral history, too often our history is that of those with power or notoriety, it's real life that interests me. 

Later, listening to some soothing trip-hop, I stood for 20 minutes as I marveled at the stunning sky and rippling cloud scape, as orange through to fiery red spread across it until day finally gave way to night. Nice.