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Memories of the village by my late cousin, written in the mid-1970s.
But Finchingfield meant more than a motor-bike and sidecar, exciting though it was to ride pillion, short young arms clinging round Uncle Bert's leather-jacketed waist. It meant pungent woodsmoke; prolific cats with prodigious litters of kittens mewing in the logshed; rabbits cavorting in the meadow at dusk beside the cottage; and carrying, in the early morning, pails of cold, crystal-clear water from the spring. To my parents, Finchingfield meant parsnip wine, country and cheerful evenings of conversation in the oil lamp's glow. In 1944, my wife and I sought Finchingfield for our brief wartime honeymoon. American fighter planes flew from Wethersfield and peace was frequently, if temporarily, non-existent. And not only in the air! How my cousin John laughed when I repulsed two allied airmen, in true RAF fashion, as our party sauntered down the hill from the Green Man! He could be amused, but we'd been married a mere 24 hours. After the war, the Americans were still much in evidence, and now it seemed that every available vacant cottage was theirs. I hope the villagers' material living standards rose in consequence, as in many other villages in many other lands temporarily ceded to Uncle Sam. Had happiness kept pace?
Hopefully the soul of Finchingfield has changed as little as its appearance. More modern bungalows edge the Bardfield road than I remember as a boy. "Town houses" - the term so beloved of estate agents - nestle just off the Sampford road. I wonder what their occupants would have made of my great-aunt Maria, who sat all day, old flat cap crowning her white hair, at the ever-open door of her thatched cottage on the Spain's Hall road. For all her eighty years, she was always quick to point out that she had seen us pass whenever, on the odd occasion, we had omitted to pay our respects. Smoke curled unceasingly from the cottage chimney, and the woodsmoke smell, that still means Finchingfield to me, saturated the air. Although I remember great-aunt Maria in no other place than by her door, she must have moved sometimes. For my grandfather invariably stayed with his sister whenever he went back home. Even as a septuagenarian, bowler-hatted, and undressed without his brolly, his sister pulled his leg unmercifully about his alleged adventures in The Thicket. No, great-aunt Maria missed nothing! In those days it was a rural trait to be aware of all who passed by. Nosiness? But one can die unnoticed in a town. Nevertheless, villagers today must have a desperate job carrying on the custom. For Finchingfield in summer is Mecca in Essex. Cars litter the village, and the green that rises from the duck pond, past the war memorial, to elegant houses by the chapel and the old school, swarms with visitors. So many summers ago I played in peace with Eric and Eileen whose father ran the local bus service. It was safe then to kick a ball into the road, or chase a hit to square-leg down to the water. It would be certain death now. Then in safety too, one could lean over the narrow humped-back bridge by Linsell's store and watch a pony and trap ford Finchingfield's picturesque pond. Yet who could deny these Finchingfield folk their share of the fruits of progress? Or their right to a living - and a bit more if they can get it - from the much publicised charms of their village? The dominating church, the chapel, the Fox, the Green Man, the butcher's shop, the Post Office, and the Causeway rim the bowl of Finchingfield, the photographers' phobia. Fear that it might change? The famous old windmill still stands, white and silent, reminding transient trippers that it, anyway, has a right to overlook these traditionally arable Essex acres. I have good reason to remember those arable traditions. In about 1936, I spent a holiday with my cousin John at Duck End. It being harvest time, he took me to the customary rabbitting, when we youngsters encircled the cornfield and, as the harvester worked inwards, chased the fleeing rabbits. In those days, before myxamatosis, rabbit pie made a cheap and delicious meal. As usual, the farmer was there, armed with his shot-gun, and made it clear that he would get first crack at any rabbits running within his range. The harvester approached us and suddenly a frantic rabbit shot out of the corn. I shot after it, egged on I thought by the yells of my companions. The rabbit escaped, I'm happy to say now. All I got was a right "royal" rocket from the farmer. Only narrowly had I missed the indignity of a load of buckshot where it would have hurt a 14-year-old most! John and I agreed to forget it, but there are no secrets in a village. Uncle George, an invalid who made beautiful leather purses, merely berated his son for not looking after me well enough. Aunt Julia remarked that had the farmer been "chapel" instead of "church" such an incident could never have happened! The sole divisive issue in village life that I recall. And what of Spain's Hall? Is it still mentioned in a voice of reverence and respect? Last summer I saw a notice announcing that, one Sunday, Spain's Hall would be open to visitors; proceeds in aid of SSAFA, a worthy cause. Presumably the Hall is not open every day, like Woburn Abbey. Here was a chance to fill another gap in my association with Finchingfield, for in all my visits I had never been nearer the Hall than the end of its majestic avenue of a drive. This ideal opportunity to tread holy ground, though not as it turned out to enter the Holy of Holies of my boyhood, was accepted.
I reflected that my father, when a boy, had made it his business to be at the drive every morning when the squire had ridden out, to be rewarded generously for opening the gate. I was disappointed that the house remained inviolate on that sunny Sunday afternoon, for it is human nature to wonder how the other half live - and lived. I was glad, too, because invasion of my privacy is intolerable. My affinity for Finchingfield, however tenuous my connection with Spain's Hall, made inspection somehow distasteful. Here resided no ordinary gentleman. Here lived my personal chieftain. And my father's. And my grandfather's, at least. Driving homeward, only one memory was clouded. One vital aspect of true village life remained hidden. Is there still cricket in Finchingfield? If so, where? At forty years' distance the geography is obscure. The only certainty is one miserable entry in an old scorebook when this particular Digby, despite the propaganda put about by his cousin John, had been bowled "neck and crop" first ball. Sad it is that this lovely village, from which my forbears went out to fulfil their destinies, of me records only a "duck". But perhaps the pitch was at Duck End! Hopefully, the years have been kind to Finchingfield, for the dream that one day I should go back to stay is real. But Finchingfield's beauty is a byword. Estate agents make that point. Decisively.
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In the late 1920s, Uncle Bert and Aunt Jessie had
a motor-bike and sidecar. That was one good reason for spending
a holiday at Finchingfield. They were my father's cousins
and, fortunately for us, always happy to provide room and
board for our summer holiday. "Fortunately" because London
based father felt cheated without a holiday at Finchingfield,
and that is easy to understand when one's ancestors are from
such a delightful destination. Which makes me a chip off the
old block in that respect.
The well-tended gardens bore thousands of inquisitive feet.
The magnificent cedar, lateral branches propped, spread shade
for the weary, while local ladies dispensed tea and biscuits
to the multitude. The greenhouses, harbouring astonishingly
productive grapevines and exquisitely scented blooms and plants
that unwiltingly withstood the sniffing of countless noses,
were popular enough to necessitate a one-way system of
exploration. A potted history of Spain's Hall, at the entrance
to the walled garden recounted the story of the house and its
site since well before the 13th century.