A mere sliver of pavement separates a terrace of thatched cottages from the highway in this backwater hamlet. If I stretch out my arms, the fingers of one hand touch the rendered outside wall of a bedroom or living room, while the other arm reaches into the road. On the opposite side, farm buildings front the street itself. And for two hundred years such close proximity probably didn’t much matter. The odd horse and cart, a very occasional car, maybe a milk float in the 1970s. When I first came to this area, I used to dream of buying a house here, but it was an estate village, where the estate owned every property, so that was never an option.
Since those yearnings for a tranquil place, a pulse has come to run through this settlement that has nothing and everything to do with the people who live here. Even today, mid-morning on a winter’s weekday, I feel it where I stand. Every few seconds, a vehicle passes, every second one an SUV. They offer space, utility and a ferocious whoosh and draught of air that feels like an assault. On this thread of a pedestrian zone, there is no escape from the buffeting, and it becomes relentless during rush hours when chains of cars drive through in both directions.
