A story of love's not so young dream and 'Forever Young' keeps a stiff upper lip.

Along the lane to the church are several cottages, and in Church Cottage, the one nearest the old church, a pretty white painted cottage dating from the 19C, its front door festooned with red roses and white honeysuckle, lives Mr Bartholomew.

Mr Bartholomew, always known by his full name, is a retired bank manager, now in his mid-seventies. A tall gent with somewhat military bearing, and it's said by those who knew him when he managed the bank in the nearby market town, that he ran the operation like it was a military unit. Not a man who suffered fools gladly, who could be a bit gruff at times, nor a man who leant the bank's money willy-nilly, yet for all that, he was much respected, and liked by his staff and regular customers alike. He has been retired over ten years now, giving up his flat above the bank to live out here in the sticks.

Because he is called by his full name, don't get the idea he's a bit of a snooty old gent, or reclusive in any way. He just seems a man who commands respect somehow. It's true that he keeps himself pretty much to himself, doesn't go to the local more than once a month for lunch, isn't a member of any groups in this village or the others around here. He's a regular visitor to the library, and a glimpse through his front door, open on a sunny morning whilst he works in his front garden, will reveal a hallway lined with bookcases, so we know he's a reader. And should you pass him out walking in the village, or on an errand to the post office perhaps, he will always smile and say 'Good day', but makes it clear he's not a man to hang about on the street having a mardle, as they say in these parts.

We also know he's a keen, and very good, gardener. Not only are there roses and honeysuckle around the door, but neat flower beds filled with cistus and hydrangea, old fashioned pinks and lavender... the smell is quite heady on a warm day. There are no weeds daring to poke their way through the Norfolk Red bricks laid in a herringbone pattern, that makes up the path leading to the front door. Behind the house is a well-stocked vegetable garden, with wigwams made of old branches, up which grow purple podded and green runner beans, amongst the peas held up with twiggy pea sticks, nasturtiums grow alongside salad crops and leafy cabbages. Green and red tomatoes tumble out of hanging baskets and grow in his greenhouse. He has a small orchard of trees, one each of cooking and eating apple, a pear and a plum, fruit bushes too with different currants. Nothing grown in large quantities, but enough to keep him supplied. The garden can only be properly seen by those who are lucky enough to be friends with Mr Bartholomew.. the rest of us can just glimpse it through the yews in the churchyard.

In his garage sits an old Volvo, which he lovingly washes once a week, spending hours on the inside and the outside, putting most of us to shame. Well, all except for 'OOH-ME-BACK', one of my neighbours who sometimes walks almost bent over like an old man (yet he's far from being old) and at other times manages a sprightly walk to the local. But if ever anyone asks how he is, his reply usually starts with 'Ooh me back's been playing me up again', hence his name. Yet he can spend a whole day cleaning his car, surrounded by buckets, cloths, hoover, and rubbish bag.

Anyway, back to Mr Bartholomew.. of course we were all curious about him. Rather like Jane Austen we assumed that as he was a single man in possession of, well if not a fortune then a portfolio of stocks and shares and a good pension at least, he would be in need of a wife. Maybe he had had one, 'been there done that' kind of thing. Maybe he was a tragic widower, though he didn't look tragic. (Though what does a tragic widower look like? Gaunt? Big sad eyes constantly red-rimmed from unshed tears? Unkempt? Certainly none of these fit Mr Bartholomew). Maybe he still had a wife, tucked away somewhere... a mental hospital, suggested the same drama queen who thought him a tragic widower at one point. Short of asking him of course, there was no way any of us would find out. A man of few friends, and none of them local for they all arrived in cars, sometimes staying for a few days, so clearly not from these parts, not a man to invite confidences nor offer them, so all we could do was guess, and imagine.

But then something happened to Mr Bartholomew. Those of us who notice these things, namely the drama queen, who I shall tell you is Elsie Drew, self-styled purveyor of village news aka gossip-mongering, has said that every Thursday evening he has been seen in his sitting room window, looking out. How does she know? Well, that's choir practice evening in the church and what better place to gather 'news' than when a group of people are gathered together like this, so not surprisingly, Elsie belongs to just about every group and society hereabouts. Sometimes he goes in the church and sits, listening to the choir practising. He has also taken to going to the library on a certain day, at a certain time, has joined the local history group there which meets once a month on Monday evenings.

It seems he is rather taken with one of the newcomers to the village, who belongs to the choir, the local history group too. Miss Asquith, a retired school teacher in her early seventies, arrived in the village in the autumn of last year, having left her home in the North of England for a new life in the area she had always holidayed in with her late husband. (Thanks must go to Elsie for this information!) As with most villages, once the dark nights set in, although people still go about their business, curtains are drawn early and a lot of it goes on unnoticed. Mr Bartholomew keeps his open on Thursday evenings, and on Sunday mornings, as the choir and other church-goers saunter past, he can be seen sitting reading his paper, or pottering in the front garden. He has been seen smiling, ever so sweetly - and for a man of his bearing this comes as somewhat of a surprise - at Miss Asquith, who returns it, sweetly, which is more becoming a lady of her bearing, a smidgen over five feet, slim build, well-dressed, pleasant, open happy face. Of course, Elsie has them married by now... the rest of us will just sit back and see what develops, but it gladdens the heart to see love, possibly, blossoming for a couple in their seventies.

Of course, not everyone is interested in such matters, some people are too consumed with their own lives. Take 'Forever Young' for example. She disappeared for a few days recently, and we all awaited her return, if not with bated breath exactly, with some interest shall we say. Because whenever she has gone away for any length of time before, she has always come back not quite the woman she was when she left. Some of the changes were not evident to anyone except her 'intimate' friends shall we say; after all, who wants to go flaunting their cellulite (or sudden lack of it) in public? And most of us could have done without the graphic description of the gunk that was sucked out of her by this medical version of a Dyson apparently. But the flap of skin under her chin disappeared, and we all noticed that. Then she acquired these perfect bag-free eyes all of a sudden. A breast implant job meant she was away for a longer period and was quite happy to flaunt the new boobies as she called them on her return. This time she came back protesting her innocence, she had just gone to visit an old school friend she said, with a stiff upper lip. Of course she hadn't had botox, she said, still with a stiff upper lip. Perhaps she'd have done better to stay away longer, let the swelling die down a bit. Because it did, and there was hardly much difference really, though she said it improved her kissing technique.. which was too much information really!

Two T's and a slice of hot gossip please!

When it comes to going out for morning coffee, afternoon tea or a light lunch, we are spoilt for choice in this area. There are several coffee shops attached to garden centres, some in old converted buildings, a couple in bookshops, but my favourite is one owned by Violet, and attached to her studio/gallery where she displays work by local artists and craftspeople. Here at various times of the year you can find examples of batik, watercolours and acrylic paintings too, felting, wood-carving, hand-knitted bags, wonderful cushion covers in silky fabrics, and the pottery done by Violet and Laurie, a tall, willowy blonde in her fifties who hails from California.

Out of season it's quiet, which makes it an ideal meeting place for the knitting group I belong to, along with the aforementioned Laurie, my good friend Rowena, Lizzie the freelance writer, Sue who's married to the vet, and Daisy who, together with her sister Esme, spinsters both, owns a village store in one of the other villages in this area. When we're not meeting at Violet's, we meet in each other's houses... summertimes in gardens or summerhouses with the buzzing of bees, splashing of fountains, and birdsong accompanying the clickety-clack of our needles, the occasional giggles breaking into the gentle hum of conversation, drinking sparkling wine or iced tea. In winter we might meet in Laurie's large kitchen, all sitting around her big old table by the Aga, mugs of home made soup to hand, or in Sue's conservatory, a huge iron edifice attached to the old vicarage where she and vet husband Peter, three children and several pets live in what looks like continual pandemonium to an outsider.

Anyway, out of season like now, it's usually quiet in Violet's coffee shop, nobody to bother us and nobody for us to bother, so it was with a sigh of dismay that I opened the door, walked into the warm, cinammony smell of the coffee shop, and espied the Two T's as they're known, sitting at one of the tables, papers and OS maps around them.

I should perhaps briefly introduce them to you.... they have an almost-unpronouncable surname, one you have to be really careful saying or you'll end up making an embarrassing blunder, so people just started calling them Mr and Mrs T, or the Two T's. They see it as their job to keep these streets safe for the rest of us; they initiated the Neighbourhood Watch schemes in all areas of this village; they were instrumental in getting community police introduced to the villages around here and a mobile police station to visit one of them as well on a regular basis; they were involved in the setting up of a team to keep the green areas planted, weeded and generally tidied; they bought several benches and had them placed at strategic spots in the village for people to just sit a while; in short, if there's anything good going to be done around here, then the TwoT's will be in there somewhere, rallying the troops, getting things done. A nice couple, but despite all their involvement in the village, nobody really knows anything about them, they tend to keep themselves to themselves when not embarking on some village project or other.

Anyway, it looked as if they were up to another scheme now and I was a bit worried our liveliness would distract them, but as I moved over to where two tables had been pushed together to accomodate the six knitters, they gathered up their papers, almost furtively as if they didn't want me to see them, and hastily made their exit.

I smiled over at Laurie, sitting with her first cup of coffee. There was an air of excitement about her, she looked as if she couldn't wait for me to sit down, flapping her hands at me, beckoning me over, making sure I sat close to her. It seemed she had been privy, accidentally, to some juicy titbit of gossip, had been keeping it to herself all week trying to decide what to do, whether to speak out or not, and wanted to tell me now, before her courage failed her and she once again began havering as to whether to spill the beans or not.

Looking over her shoulder to make sure Violet wasn't around, she leant in towards me and I almost expected her to adopt a phony French accent and utter those immortal words...'Listen very carefully, for I shall say this only once.' Of course she didn't.. but what she did say certainly had me listening carefully.

Last week her car had broken down, she'd had to leave it with Vic at the garage but needed to get into Norwich, so had to go on the bus. She lives away from the centre of the village, at the other end to our wonderful Phoebe, in a beautiful converted barn. Luckily there is a bus stop not too far away, and alongside it, a rather dilapidated red telephone box. As you can see from the photo, it's a bit lop-sided, sadly in need of paint, but even so, has much more character than these glass and plastic things that BT replaced them with. (Perhaps the Two T's ought to have a campaign to restore these red telephone boxes, most villages around here have at least one of them, all falling into disrepair, but still operational.)

As she was waiting for the bus, the phone in the box began to ring. This is one of those dilemmas isn't it... do you answer it or pretend you can't hear it? Worse if it's in a busy public place, but here, isolated really, easier to ignore it. However, Laurie is an inquisitive soul and of course, had to answer it. Before she had chance to speak, this rather husky male voice at the other end spoke. 'Look babe, I can't speak long.. she who must be obeyed is due back any minute, said we had to be at someone's place by six and you know what your sister's like about time-keeping. Anyway, I'm going to have to cancel tomorrow evening.. I know, I know... I promised this time nothing would stop me coming over, but it can't be helped, it's a work thing babe, sorry. We'll get together soonest babe, promise. And when we do....' and here he made a deep growly noise which he presumably thought was sexy but sounded more like a St Bernard with laryngitis according to Laurie. Then he suddenly hissed 'Bye babe' and the line went dead.

Laurie said she put the phone down when she saw the bus coming, but something about the voice was bugging her all week. She was sure she recognised it she said, and then last night, it came to her. She knew who this man was, knew who the 'she who must be obeyed' was, and her sister too. And we all knew them!

I was about to urge her to tell me more, when the little bell tinkled above the door, and in walked Sue and Daisy, and the moment passed. 'Later', Laurie hissed at me, smiling in greeting to our friends as they neared the table.

Well, 'later' hasn't yet arrived.. Laurie has been called away for a few days, and so here I sit, wondering who I know who has a sister, who's particularly fussy about time-keeping, and more importantly, who could possibly be married to someone cheesy enough to call a woman 'babe'?

Trouble on t'hill? I don't think so.

Well, perhaps to call the slight bump on the horizon a 'hill' would be to endow it with a greatness it doesn't deserve. As most people know, Norfolk is flat, but in places, that's not strictly true. There are some pretty gentle undulations, even some slightly bigger, from the top of which you are nearly always guaranteed enough breeze to fly a kite. One such is Primrose Hill I think it's called, near the coast, Cromer way. Round here, the landscape is a bit smoother, but not far away there is an area of raised ground, with several acres of old orchards and a small copse, a couple of small outbuildings, in the midst of which stands an old farmhouse, Orchard Farmhouse. Built in the late 1800s, and lived in until the late 1990s, when the last occupier died. He had no family, and nobody seemed to know what was going to happen to the house and land.

It was the cause of many a discussion in the local pub, the possibilities were endless it seemed, but as the months passed by and nothing happened, the months then turned into years and eventually other subjects became the main topic of conversation. The house stood alone, looking sad with no lights inside, flaking paint and all around it the land untended. Not many of the windows have been smashed, there seems to be little damage done to it, probably because you'd have to be a pretty determined vandal to make your way up the rutted track, full of muddy potholes in winter and packed hard and dry in the summer, that leads to the house, several hundred yards from the road into the village.

But last Monday, as people made their way to work, passing by in their cars and on the little green bus that makes its way along the coast, those who were in the habit of casually glancing to look at the house on their way past were horrified. The one thing a lot of villagers dread, if there is any spare land in their village which nobody seems to claim, is the arrival of travellers, gypsies, call them what you will. The sight of a caravan and pick up parked on some derelict unused land can strike dismay into the hearts of even the most liberal-minded local. So it was hardly surprising that there was a larger than usual crowd in the local that night, and that the main topic of conversation was the arrival of travellers, in not one, but two caravans by lunchtime, as it turned out. The fact that one was an old Airstream caravan, quite the noblest of American caravans and much beloved by officianados of caravans, the other a large modern one, and that there were two four by fours parked alongside also, didn't seem to make much difference to the panic that seemed to be rising.

It was the Major, of course, who was the first to say he had got on to the local council 'first thing' about the arrival of the travellers, but he got short shrift from the person he spoke to, which led to yet another tirade about 'little Jobsworths they employ in the council these days' and so on, an argument the regulars had heard many times before. Then Farmer Giles had to have his say, since his land is alongside the old farmstead. (And yes, he really is a proper farmer with hundreds of acres, bright red combines and all, and he really is called Giles!) He could remember a family of travellers arriving unannounced in one of his fields many years ago, and it was 'a devil of a job to get the blighters moved' - and yes, he really speaks like that as well!

Several other opinions were thrown into the discussion, suggestions for how to deal with the interlopers, and when one of the WI ladies pointed out that the caravans and cars didn't look like those that belonged to your average, living off benefits travellers, her comments were not taken seriously.

Halfway through trying to decide between the serious and sensible solution (getting legal advice from the CAB) and the downright stupid and emotional solution (going up there mob-handed with flaming torches and the like) the door to the pub opened and in walked a couple in their forties, accompanied by two labradors. Being strangers they were stared at of course, treated with a little caution by everyone, except Polly, the landlady, who is friendly to everyone.

Whilst the regulars carried on with their discussions, rather quieter this time, it was Polly who managed to find out that this couple were Leonard and Pru, and they had just bought Orchard Farmhouse, living in their caravan whilst they renovated it. You could almost hear the bodies sagging with relief when the locals heard this, their visions of flaming torches vanished with their sighs, along with the visions of hordes of travellers with an assortment of caravans, lorries, cars, animals and children running wild, washing hanging on makeshift lines strung between the caravans.

The weather hasn't been conducive to working on an old house lately, a couple of feet of snow and below freezing temperatures kept the couple snug in their caravan, the modern one that is (the Airstream they use for trips to see family around the country apparently), poring over plans, and colour charts, catalogues and brochures, but they intend making a start soon as it's warmed up considerably over here in Norfolk.

And you might like to know that Phoebe has lived up to her reputation of being eccentric and rescued a parrot! He's called Birds Eye for some reason she doesn't know except that he has only one eye and can sing CAPTAIN BIRDS EYE as on the television adverts. But that's not the only sound to come out of his beak, oh not, by a long chalk. He used to belong to the owner of a beachside cafe, where he entertained customers with his cheery banter and rendition of television ad jingles. Then he began to copy the sound of police sirena, along with somehow managing to mimic the sound of gunshots, and this, not unnaturally perhaps, unnerved several of the more genteel or elderly of his customers. Which wasn't too bad, once the owner of the cafe put up a sign warning his customers this was what Birds Eye did so people knew what to expect. But then the summer came along, and some unscrupulous youngsters from out of town began to teach him swear words. I won't offend you by telling you what they were.. some began with F, lots with B too.

It was obvious he would have to go... and Phoebe heard about this from a friend of a friend and decided, though she only ever had cats, that a parrot would be a fun thing to have. She was going to teach it to say 'More tea vicar?' for when that person decided it was time once again, to try and get Phoebe into church (he seemed to think she needed saving though was never clear from what exactly when she challenged him). But the first time Birds Eye saw the vicar he came out with such a string of vitriole against vicars, the church and religion in general, that it was obvious where his previous owners thoughts lie on that subject, and Phoebe now lives in hopes that the vicar might find someone else to save instead.

Every village should have a Phoebe!

There is a list of things a typical English village must have it seems... including a village green, village pub, village school, village post office, and village shop. These make up the quintessential village, especially if you ask outsiders. But it also has to have a village eccentric. You know, the mad old woman who lives alone in a tumbledown cottage with her cats, shaking her stick at anyone who trespasses into her garden. Or maybe the old gent fallen on hard times, who sits and talks to himself about the good old days, occasionally shouting at strangers from his spot on the bench outside the pub.

And of course, this village is no exception. Allow me to introduce you to Phoebe. In her youth a beautiful young woman, with the kind of looks much beloved by artists.. doe eyes, curly red hair, creamy skin never allowed to be kissed by the sun. I have seen photos of her, being one of the few people she will actually tolerate long enough to have a conversation with, and believe me, she was absolutely stunning. Even now, you can see remnants of this, her skin smooth and creamy still, despite her age of 'somewhere between 80 and 90, shall we say dear?' according to her.

What most people don't know is that she was once married, briefly, to an Army officer, who turned out to be a bully and treated her like one of his raw recruits, turning her from a vibrant young woman to a quiet young woman who wasn't allowed to express her own opinions but to kowtow to his. It didn't last of course, and it was with relief she isn't ashamed to admit, that he died during WWII. The whole experience put her off marriage, but not men by any means. She had affairs with an actor ('always put on a stirring performance!' she would tell me, with a twinkle in her eye); the son of a very wealthy landowner who was friendly with the Royals, or so he told her; a politician ('he liked the sound of his own voice that one!'); and several other men who were charismatic, romantic, interesting, and exciting in their own way, including the local poacher. I did ask, how good a poacher was he if everyone knew who he was, but she thought I was being impertinent and refrained from answering, something she often did when the question was not, in her view, worth answering. He was her 'bit of rough' apparently, something she said all women like, rarely admit to liking, and even more rarely do something about. I refrained this time, from commenting!

Well, people in this village call her eccentric because of the way she dresses, her protests over the years about this and that, the fact that she keeps to herself, gives short shrift to anyone she considers a waste of space to use modern language, which she would never do. Phoebe is incredibly well spoken, loves the English language and hates the way it has been corrupted. She is very intelligent, an intellectual, who did an Open University degree course, achieving her degree in her seventies. She painted the outside of her cottage lilac, the only painted cottage to be seen around here, which wouldn't have been too bad but the window frames were all different colours, turquoise, scarlet, green and yellow. As this stands apart from any other housing, surrounded by her little copse and orchard, nobody complained. She has plastic flowers amongst the rambling roses, the gypsophila, the asters and nigella. And of course a few cats, all Persian.

Anyway, Phoebe's latest rant as the villagers call it, has been about a fir tree which was due to be cut down simply because it's branches overhung the road and could be dangerous. Major Hutton, whose house is nearest the tree, was the one who told Phoebe about it, they get on quite well at times, and said he would not be sorry to see the back of the vermin. The vermin being grey squirrels, who had built their summer drey on one of the stout branches, a perfect ball of twigs and so on, covered with leaves and mosses, beautiful in its way. And Phoebe thought the same, so she got in touch with the leader of the Parish Council, who said it was nothing to do with him, and referred her to the Highways department at the local council. Phoebe wrote letters to the local papers, the councillors, and generally got a bee in her bonnet about this drey, though nobody knows why as she hasn't been averse to having vermin like this humanely trapped, if there is such a thing.

But nobody, not even Phoebe, knows why she gets wound up about some things, but in the end, when letters were ignored, phone calls never returned, she invited the local papers to watch her climb the tree to protect the squirrels! This caught everyone's attention of course, and who knows if she would have gone through with it if it hadn't been for the council having a change of heart and deciding just to get rid of the branches overhanging the road, leaving the rest, warning Phoebe meanwhile that they wouldn't be held responsible if it were lopsided now and blew down in the next gales. Which satisfied Phoebe, but didn't much please the Major!

Heated debate over the coffee and walnut cakes!

Welcome to my blog about life in a Norfolk village, though really it should be 'villages' in the plural, since what goes on in mine is very little and I will need to expand my horizons to find you interesting (I hope!) glimpses into life in Norfolk.

Whilst it is quiet here, around me there are villages all within easy driving distance where there is much going on and much to see, and a favourite visit is to a particular farmer's market, where amongst the usual greengrocery and butchery, you can buy everything from hand-made wicker baskets to micro-brewery beer, hand-dyed silk scarves to smelly cheeses. Not to mention excellent bacon butties!

There is always a cake stall, this seems to be the one most people head for first, and the selection is always mouthwateringly tempting, and diet and calorie counting are words which you need to drop from your vocabulary, just for the weekend at least. Normally trade is brisk, the customers are all regulars, know what they want, and after a brief chitchat about the weather, maybe a titbit of local gossip now and then, said in quiet undertones so that you have to sidle along discreetly if you want to pick up anything at all, they all go on their way, politely, smilingly, happily with their cakes. But this last weekend the stall was attracting more attention than usual, there was a small group of half a dozen or so locals getting quite hot under the collar it seemed to me.

So less than discreetly I walked over to the stall, pretending great interest in the cakes but with an ear on the conversation. And since it was getting quite loud and heated, I only needed the one ear to listen with! I heard comments like 'What about freedom of speech then?', 'We all have our own views on this subject you know', and 'There's a place for such things and the side of a bus isn't it'. Well, this last one was my undoing, I had to join the group. Fortunately this wasn't quite as rude a thing as you might be thinking, as I realised that one of the ladies was Jill, who I recognised from a sponsored walk she and I took part in a month or so ago, for a local charity.

I think we were drawn to each other because we looked so out of place, everyone seemed serious about it and we thought it was a 'Fun Walk', but both raised eyebrows at each other when we caught sight of several people wearing serious walking boots, others doing warm up exercises, and there we were in our flowery wellies, she with her lurcher and neither of us looking very serious about it at all. And when there was a sort of scuffle between two middle-aged gents about who should walk alongside Polly, the landlady of one of the pubs in the area, well.. we seemed to decide silently to just walk and talk together at our own pace.

In a break in the conversation I caught her eye, and she gave me another of her 'Would you believe this?' looks, before bringing me into the conversation. It seemed that Martha, another of the group, had been shopping in Norwich the previous week and noticed a small gathering of people staring at a bus, with much shaking of heads, tut-tutting and so on. A local television camera crew were there filming the bus so she went to see what the fuss was about, and there, on the side of the bus was an advert which read 'There's probably no God so stop worrying and enjoy your life'.

This caused great offence to many people, including this group at the market, who seemed to be divided as to whether or not this kind of advertising was wrong and should be banned. The bus company FIRST has this advert on about 800 of its buses around the UK, and they were put there by The Humanist Society, and apparently, more than one Christian bus driver has refused to drive a bus with this advert. The Humanist Society on their website say that they never intended to offend anyone, and are pleased that the Advertising Standards Authority had decided not to launch an investigation.

I didn't really have much to contribute to the conversation, since I have always maintained that my religion and my politics are nobody's business but my own, and so I was more than happy to join Jill when she broke away from the group and suggested we go for coffee in the new coffee shop around the corner, where the cakes looked suspiciously like the ones on the cake stall we had just left, but luckily, the conversation was kept to a low hum.