Village Green

A wide stretch of grass sits at the heart of the village, kept short by a pair of grumpy goats who belong to no one in particular. An ancient oak stands at one end, its lowest branch worn smooth by generations of children climbing it, and a weathered stone cross marks the other. Cottages of honey-coloured stone line the edges, their gardens overflowing with roses and runner beans, each one quietly competing with its neighbour.

A little whitewashed halt stands at the bottom of the green, where the train from the city stops twice a day if it remembers to. The lane out of the village winds off toward the farms, and across the way, the crooked sign of the village pub creaks in the breeze.