Sheet 06
The village
You turn off the national road onto a narrow branch between hills of short grass. The Saxon village shows as a run of tiled roofs, with a white chapel at the far end.
The branch
The asphalt is patched, with grass in the cracks and a tractor that takes the whole width. There is no room to hurry, and nobody asks you to.
A single poplar stands at the entrance, taller than the tower. Dogs announce the car from the yards before you see a gate.
The houses
The houses have thick walls and red or brown tile, and the curve of the tile throws shade on small windows. The wood of the gates is dry and cut plain.
A woman sweeps dust that has settled again since morning. The street is quiet enough that you hear the broom and, apart from it, a hen behind a fence.
The chapel
The white chapel stands a little higher, with fresh lime on the wall that faces the road. The door is locked at midday, and the shadow of the tower lies on the grass.
There is no queue. You let the engine go quiet and look at the lime, the tile, and the hill behind.
People on the side road
People who live here take the car for bread, for the post, and for the town twenty minutes away. The national road is a way out, not a picture.
A small truck brings sacks and leaves with crates. The driver knows the dip before the chapel and goes around it without looking.
Back on the national road
On the way out the branch feels shorter than on the way in. The national road, wide lane and a truck overtaking, makes the noise of another country.
The notebook keeps the chapel, the tile, and the dust on your shoes. The village does not compress into one line, and it stays tied to the rest only by the road you came in on.