GARVALD JUBILEE

They had erected a plain white gazebo in front of the east church.  A line of Union Jack flags hung from the apparatus, sagging slightly in the middle - a brave amateur attempt.  This was Diamond jubilee Monday in Garvald.  I parked my car next to an ambulance in the parking bay.  The ambulance had the legend 'transfer vehicle' on its side.  The morning was sunny, but cold for June.  There was no-one about.  I walked over the playing-field to the footpath near the stream. This stretch of water was bubbling away merrily, like a pan on an open stove.  Someone had piled up a load of old pallets in one corner, and these had formed a skateboard park. The dark, brooding forest occupied the opposite bank.  It dominates the pretty village, giving it an air of foreboding, especially on dank, chill mornings.  There was no foreboding this morning.  The firs and pines merely stood gravely to attention, watching over the village.

Garvald comprises mainly of a single street occupied by various cottages and bungalows, strung out in a pleasing higgledy-piggledy fashion like a line of swallows on a telegraph wire.  The gardens back onto the cottages on the south side of the main street, and these wend their way lackadaisically down to the footpath upon which I was walking.  They were full of blossom from clematis, broom and weigela. In the sunlight, it was hard to conjure up a more attractive sight. 

I crossed the main road and passed a weary old Land-Rover, complete with as many scars as a veteran of the Boer War, and made for the western churchyard. It is a pleasing sight.  The graveyard isn't level.  It meanders up and down like a Dunlopillo mattress, the graves seemingly having been dropped from the sky completely at random.  The west church is a modest but delightful affair, not much bigger than a modern detached house, but entirely in keeping with the charm of the village.

I looked at some of the headstones.  Most of the graves contained the remains of farmers and foresters, the majority of whom were interred in the nineteenth century. Common names were Dods, Hogg and Foggo, which might have been a firm of ancient solicitors.

I made my way back to the church.  Two men had appeared from their houses and were deep in converstaion outside of the Garvald Inn.  One was short and bald, the other white-haired and portly.   The latter wore a blue and white striped shirt that gave him the appearance of a yachtsman who spent rather too much time in the bar of the sailing club than out at sea.

"You'd better blow your back tyres up," the sailor said.

"I was just about to do that," replied the other.   I noticed the bonnet of his car was propped open, and a container of water stood on the ground beside the car.  He was plainly going to do more than just check his tyres. 

Nowhere in the village did I get a sense of the Great Day.  There was no urgency, no-one scurrying about with jugs, dishes, bunting, or folding chairs.  Garvald seemed almost unaware of the occasion.  I returned to the east church and looked at the community notice board.  Amongst the advertisements for Zumba classes, gutter repairs and the minutes of the last community council meeting, was a printed notice which welcomed residents to a 'Diamond Jubilee lunch' which would be held in that self-same gazebo.  The cost was a reasonable five pounds, the food to be provided by the Garvald Inn.  There was a reminder that one had to bring one's own drink. After the meal, there was to be a tug-of-war, and then a service in praise of the monarch, finally, some sort of parade around the village.  I was thankful that fancy dress was not required.

I had spent a pleasant early morning hour wandering at will around the village, but real life once again intervened and with some regret that I wouldn't be around to partake of lunch, if not the tug-of-war or, heaven forfend, the parade, I climbed back into my car and drifted away.