I’ve mentioned Beckenham Place Park often this year, its ancient woodlands, carpeted with bluebells in the Spring and now stinging nettles and flowering blackberry bushes thronging the muddy footpaths. Loosely woven hedgerows form to entice nesting birds, squabbling squirrels, foraging foxes and invisible adders that scurry and flutter setting up a rustling and releasing fresh scents of earth and crushed leaves.
Hubs and I take an afternoon walk through these pathways on a Sunday when it is too cold to go to Kelsey Park with its ice cream van and promise of a whipped soft serve after two laps of the pond.
Beckenham Place holds the charms of a countryfied club house that overlooks the golf course. Defying all licensing laws it stays open as long as there are thirsty passers-by wanting to wet their whistles.
We’ve partaken at this watering hole only twice in our year here yet it holds fond memories, as if we stop in regularly, because it is so very, very English.
The first time, we sat in the sunshiny outdoors of a November afternoon, jackets off as we’d worked up some heat from our trudge across country. We shared our table with a couple of parakeets that were arguing about property boundaries and looking very attractive in the doing.
The mother of two young children, running around the thickets, was expounding on the properties of soy milk to a table of parents who couldn’t care less.
We gazed across the golf course enjoying the greens.
The second time, we sat in the drizzly outdoors of a cloudy July evening and eavesdropped on a conversation between departing friends about the nature of foxes,
“My foxes don’t kill anything; I feed them cheese and jam sandwiches…now let’s see, the jam provides their energy and the cheese is good for their cholesterol…” the woman was drinking wine, from the array of empty glasses on the table the group had been there a while.
“You’d better watch out for your foxes, they’ll attack small dogs and cats if you’re not careful…” said one of the men.
“Not my foxes, I feed them jam sandwiches, I can’t remember why I give them cheese…they’re sweet, they wouldn’t harm a fly…” the wine is playing havoc with her memory.
“Watch out for them foxes, they’ll come into your house and scavenge, vicious pieces of work, a danger to your small animals,” persisted the man, winking in our direction.
“Not my foxes, they eat the cheese and…was it jam? Well, some kind of sandwiches I feed them, come right up to the back door they will, they are very friendly…”
Another round of drinks had arrived delaying her imminent departure.
“Talking about foxes,”
Ah hah! Hubs and I grinned over our halves,
“If you come out to the golf course in the morning there’s a three legged fox that lives over near the 9th hole,” another man this time, perhaps a golfer?
“Three legged you say? Over by the ninth hole…well I never!” a wicked grin flashing our way!
“Now hang on a minute,” the cheese and jam sandwich lady had pricked up her ears, “when you say ‘three legged’, what exactly do you mean…’three legged’?”
Hubs and I spluttered into the dregs of our drinks and left with a good giggle tucked under our belts.
Such is the stuff of memories.
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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