An Enchanted Village Lower Boscaswell

A Memory of Lower Boscaswell.

I came to know a magic place. Where the sun rises above an enchanted village, follow the two turns in the trackthat time left here unhindered. Sunlight surrounds the three sided island, infusing it with light, colour and air, nurturing wayside flowers - foxgloves, cornflowers, and for-get-me-nots. Sea sighs blues and green. Drystone walls, ancient bounderies still respected. They say the adders lie here, for me they are to shy to show. A wailing wind howls about the houses. Hydrangeas, blue and blowsy, nodding and lowering their heads in unision. Palmslip/slap split and dry, their long dancing leaves become. From the Atlantic cold heavy rains arrive. Transformation, disenchantment, drudgery and dreariness. Grey seas hurl themseles against the cliffs ,three chimney stacks and a ruined mine. Surely this is how the world could be towards its very end. Swiftly the sun returns, turning raindrops to rainbows. One day I took the stony path, to see what I might. Living in a wretched cottage a woman struggles alone. I dared myself to knock. Inside I came to hear her tell her tale. Such sorrow loss and misery her life had been for her. When her sobbing ceased, colours and shapes of her distress were discharged through the windows, leaving her calm and weary to enjoy a peaceful sleep. I knew surely I was in an enchanted place and its magic would keep me safe.

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