A visit to the place where I was born led me to make comparisons with the urban village where I now live and ask the question – are cities the new villages?

Travel has, for obvious reasons, been limited this year, but I did manage to get away three times in September.  And as the UK then went into Lockdown 2, I’m glad I did, as we don’t know when the next chance will come!

One of those jaunts was a trip down memory lane, to Chilcompton, the village in Somerset where I grew up.

I went with my sister, and we stayed in a cottage near the house where I was born. We visited old haunts, trod paths we used to walk as children, and reminisced.

It was a bitter-sweet experience. One reason being that my sister, who is nearly 10 years older than me, has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimers, with all the associated distress and emotion that such a prognosis brings.

Another is that a lot of the charm and character of the place I remember from childhood now seems lost.

Chilcompton is in the former Somerset coalfield and was historically a farming and mining community. It once had its own small colliery on the edge of the village.

Childhood memories

Growing up, my impressions  were not of a hugely affluent place, although there were some massive houses. There were also two council estates, tiny on-street terraced cottages, and a wall daubed in graffiti by the disaffected youth of the village.

Now, judging by the cars, the gated mansions and the property prices, you have to be moneyed to live there.

It was, and still is, a picturesque place. The river Somer flows alongside the road through the older part of the village. When we were kids, we’d  splash around in the water and watch the ducks and moorhens frolicking . Now the stream appears to be devoid of life.

For a lot of my childhood, we had no car. We’d walk or cycle everywhere, undeterred by the one-in-five hill we had to climb to get anywhere.

Chilcompton was a place where everyone knew everyone. It had a village shop, Post-Office, butchers, haberdashery, timber-merchant, three pubs, a primary school and several farms.

When the village got cut off by snow one year we collected unpasteurised milk from the local farm.

Characters

There were characters in the village. My favourite was the Cornflower man. A little wizened old man with a round face and twinkly eyes who’d present us with flowers from his garden when we walked past. 

There was a blind lady who spent most of her day sitting on a bench half-way up the hill, as a succession of people stopped and joined her for a chat. She couldn’t see, but she knew everything that was going on.

There was a bunch of old men who sat on another bench, putting the world to rights.

Our neighbours used to lob things over the hedge for us. One day it would be cabbages, the next, super bouncy balls for me and my four siblings. 

Chilcompton today

The village shop, the butchers, the Post-Office and the sawmills are long gone. The graffiti wall painted over.

There are two surviving pubs, which is good-going in the current climate. One of them has reinvented itself as a fine dining gastro pub.

One of the farms has diversified, converting some of its barns into small creative units or craft workshops. There’s a café here and gift shop. This development in the heart of the old village is a welcome find. Especially as the shop agreed to stock and sell copies of my debut novel Blue Tide Rising!

A village with no soul?

But to me,  the village seems to have lost its soul.

People walking are few and far between. And it’s easy to see why. There’s no pavement, the village appears to be a rat-run for vehicles travelling through.

Walking alongside the stream is no longer a relaxing experience. You have to press yourself into the railing whenever an SUV goes by, which is every few seconds. I wouldn’t fancy my chances as a cyclist in the village now.

The rec, which was a playground for smaller kids and a hang-out for teenagers,  is still there. But although the play equipment now looks state of the art, the place is deserted. The benches are empty.

Although there’s a great network of footpaths across fields that link to nearby villages, we were the only ones walking them. There were no kids splashing in the stream.

A vibrant, eclectic place?

The village website describes Chilcompton as  ‘vibrant’ and ‘eclectic village..’ so perhaps I do it a disservice, but I didn’t see much evidence of this in the week I was there.

And it wasn’t just the dampening effects of Coronavirus. I’ve visited a few times in recent years and come away with the same impression.

Apart from the area near the church and the farm, where there are pockets of community activity, there’s nobody out and about.

If there’s life in Chilcompton today, I suspect, it lies behind closed gates.

Don’t get me wrong, we had a nice time there. And it’s still a great centre from which to explore the Mendips. But I won’t be in a hurry to go back.

The urban village

By contrast, we have Sherwood, the place where I now live.

Not to be confused with the forest by the same name, which is 17 miles out of Nottingham, Sherwood is a district neighbourhood within the city boundary.

I describe it as an urban village. In fact it’s more village-like now than the actual village I grew up in.

After returning from my time away in Somerset, I took a walk to the local park on a sunny October afternoon.

The place was buzzing with people – dog-walkers, cyclists, families out for a stroll, kids on scooters or playing football. The play area was full. The benches occupied by people, young and old, passing the time of day.

Community

The contrast with Chilcompton was marked.

In Sherwood, there are always people out and about. On the main drag –  the A60 that cuts through the area –  it’s rare to walk from one end of the other in without bumping into someone you know.

There’s a butchers, a greengrocers, a bakery, several pubs, cafes, restaurants and shops of all descriptions, including small independent art and gift retailers.

And people walk. They walk to do their shopping. They walk to the park. They walk to work. They walk to the cafes, restaurants and pubs. They walk into the city centre.

Cities are the new villages

I appreciate this is just a microcosm of a bigger picture. And it may read like I’m harping back with nostalgia to an era of rural life lost for ever in the digital age. But my conclusion is – and has been for some time – that cities are the new villages.

Urban areas like Sherwood are where you find communities that function like villages did in the past.

Sherwood in lockdown

During Lockdown 1, as well as the Thursday clap, the Sherwood community put on other events and activities to make sure nobody felt isolated.

For my neighbour’s 60^th birthday, we stood outside our houses and toasted her.

During what would have been Sherwood Art Week – an annual event which couldn’t happen this year due to lockdown – people did their own thing in their neighbourhoods.

Our street and the adjoining street put on our own mini (distanced) event, with art displayed in windows, poetry readings at the intersection of the two streets (I read a piece of flash fiction), and live music.

A sense of home

Looking out now, from my home office, across the landscape of rooftops, trees and terraces that makes up Sherwood, I have a sense of living among friends, of being part of a community that cares.

I know all my neighbours. I know people in surrounding areas, across the city and beyond.  And that’s what I call home.

People often ask me  – when they learn I grew up in Somerset – wouldn’t you like to move back there? The answer is a resounding no! I’d rather have my urban village any day…

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