Monday, 28 January 2013
(Ssh. Keep my choice of West Stow secret)
I don't quite know what it is about West Stow Anglo Saxon village, but I totally love this place. Sometimes I think what moves me is the rise of the hill and the child's shape of the houses on the crest, then I think it must be the feel of the timber doors, or maybe the smell that rises up of sun on wood, or the feel of the curved floors and walls that reconstruct these Anglo Saxon houses. Maybe it's the way the village has knowledge and care behind it; there is thinking and consequence here, people have thought through ways of building, brought knowledge of hand constructions, made in this space artistry and practical considerations of living, all of another time.
Whatever it is, I've told the children they can scatter my ashes here, maybe from my right leg, just between the trees, the left leg can go to Grimes Graves, but don't tell Bury St Edmunds Council or Weeting-with-Broomhill Parish, obviously, because they're sure to disapprove.