Last week I made the mistake of revisiting the
village where I grew up. It was a small, friendly community with
tow farms and a number of old cottages round the village green.
I realized very quickly that although in many ways it appears unchanged,
in reality hardly anything is the same. All the pretty cottages
are there, and most of the picturesque farmhouses. But none of the
inhabitants are country people. All of them are commuters, who leave
early every morning for the nearby town. Neither of the farmhouses
is attached to a farm these days; the land has been sold and is
managed by somebody in an office somewhere. There are a few new
houses but they have none of the local character; you can see the
same style anywhere in the country. The whole of the village, in
fact, has been tidied up so much that it has become nothing more
than just another suburb.