The cottage is filled with gadgetry, zooming around the world on an Amazon sell.
I think of a quieter time remembering.
Of the cottager going to work at the farm’s 5 a.m. bell.
Walking to his work at the yard, the horses preparing.
I think of the first electricity in the valley and a burning oil lamp.
The first bathroom arriving in the 50s, the outside loo.
Of warming range and wet stone walls ringing with damp.
Of the three pigs brought, two for market, and one in the shed for the family too.
But I think of a quieter life too and a certain repose given.
Of walking to market six miles away and staying in one county place.
Of the village school, long closed, once filled with children.
Of the community gathered in the village hall and a sense of peace.
And on Sunday the hymns at the tin Methodist chapel and others walking to Eucharist at the village church and a burning candle.
And maybe a few others on a five-mile walk to the nearest pub to open a barrel.