The Village is Alive

“It’ll be a nightmare in the summer…”

Moving to the main road in a popular holiday village seemed like a good idea back in the winter. I was excited but knew I would be muttering by Easter. The busy times would be worth it for the quiet colder months and having a castle at the end of the road. I was mentally prepared for a chaotic Easter weekend. Every year, bank holiday traffic snarls around the bottom of the castle, backing up at the traffic lights when kids hit the button and run on to catch up with their families. Apologetic parents wave a ‘sorry’ to the drivers without making eye contact. Sweaty cyclists and grannies with ice-creams crowd outside the bakery, seeming not to notice that the tarmac they are standing on is actually a road. Sun-creamed bodies decorate the steps of the memorial, waiting for friends and relatives to come out of the National Trust shop with bags of sweets and postcards. The beer garden at The Greyhound is full, and confused punters saunter out in front of vehicles to try the Bankes Arms opposite. The garden there is nicer, if they can find a space, with views of steaming engines pulled up at the station on the heritage railway line. We all complain about the grockles, but we’d miss them if they didn’t come. During the sunny months, their pocket money keeps the village alive.

That’s how Corfe Castle should be on a warm Easter weekend. The village needs it, and looks forward to it, with a dreaded fondness. This year it is not to be. Along with the rest of the country we are in lockdown. There are reports of second homeowners coming to the area for the weekend, but most are keeping a low profile, trying to avoid the wrath of scared locals on social media. Purbeck Police upload daily photos of deserted beauty spots, having waved stern fingers at anyone thinking that tourist hotspots would be good places to socially distance in.

I sit on the balcony at the back of my flat and listen. There should be noises from the ruined castle. Jousting displays, children dressed up in medieval outfits, “Look Dad! I’m at the top!”. But the only moving objects are the Herdwick sheep, pottering quietly on the hillside. In front of the castle is the church. It should be full of Easter song, “Christ the Lord is risen today!”, but St Edward’s stands empty. The pennant of St George hangs limply in the breeze, as two jackdaws jostle on the flagpole. A sign on the door reads “All services are suspended”.

This is the best viewpoint to watch dogs on their walks, window shopping for a moment in the future when I can have one of my own. There are almost as many dogs as villagers, and they bound across the field in pursuit of tennis balls all day. There’s a morning labradoodle, a pair of lunchtime terriers and a willowy afternoon whippet. But even dogs are in short supply. Many of them have vulnerable humans trying to stay at home, fearful of the awful virus that’s causing this period of springtime hibernation. Creaky swing chains normally interrupt my quiet time, but not now. The playpark is padlocked. No fun to be had today.

I am lucky though. Despite everything, I have company. Starlings have been making a nest in our roof, and one will not shut up from his perch on top of the telegraph pole. He’s not the only one. His call joins that of a great tit, and a song thrush on the other side of the playing field. Someone provides percussion with a drill in their back garden. A wood pigeon hoos its breathy vocals, but I can’t spot it, nor the owner of a soft voice on the phone to a relative, somewhere through an open window to my right. I hope the lady downstairs is alright, but she seemed nervous of me last time I checked. Two weeks ago, she held a strong opinion that “it’s only a flu”. They weren’t going to stop her going out to the Co-op. I suspect that may have changed now, as the daily press conferences on Radio 4 seep up to us through the floor, their urgent messages muffled by carpet. Food deliveries have started to appear, and visitors have stopped. The birds are still invited though, and she keeps her feeders topped up. I watch a young blue tit as it clings to the mesh, pecking crumbs of peanuts whilst ignoring the sparrow on the other side. I hope they bring as much comfort to her as they do to me.

It’s hard to avoid seeing images of busy hospital wards, and exhausted nursing staff in inadequate protective equipment. My anxiety rises with the death toll, accompanied by upset and frustration at not being able to visit friends and family. Vulnerable friends are at the forefront of my mind. Staring at the news on my phone screen makes it worse, so I’m replacing it with staring out at the village. A bumblebee detours past the balcony before dipping back down to something tastier in someone’s garden. The more I look, the more there is to see, and it’s clear that although the grockles may not be here for Easter, the village is still very much alive.

First Published in The Thinking Pen