Old news I’m afraid. I didn’t write about it at the time as it took the wind out of my sails, a wind which continued to be taken away by other circumstances. And now they’ve found out it may have been an arson attack by the disgruntled, dismissed ex-chef. That someone can torch a building as ancient and special beggars belief.
It was very dark and very early on Christmas Eve morning. I was scraping out the cow palace with the bobcat when I saw Olly running up the feed barriers, I stopped,
“What’s up?” I called out
“I can smell burning. Toxic burning I think…you know, plastic, rubber or something.” He shouted over his shoulder, not stopping.
‘Uh-oh’ I thought ‘the chimneys…’ jumped off the bobcat and went in the opposite direction.
As part of our energy-saving-lean-time measures we are trying to use our two woodburners and our own wood only for heating this year. Despite a myriad of safe guards, as well as the stoves having been expertly and carefully installed, along with their own insulated flues (meticulously cleaned every year), I find myself worrying sometimes as we do have a thatch roof. And as we’ve never had the stoves burning continuously in the past I feel the risk is slightly increased.
But all looked damply darkly peaceful over the farmhouse and I could just make out pale coils of grey-white wood smoke rising languidly from the chimneys into the dense blackness. There was, however, an unpleasantly acrid tang in the air.
“Did you see anything?” I called
“Maybe someone getting rid of a toxic burn under the cover of darkness…duh, and that’s a very stupid thing to say.” I remonstrate with myself “Far more likely to be seen at night!”
So we get on with the morning chores.
I’m coming in for breakfast, and Olly calls down
“It’s the George!”
“What’s the George?”
“The burning, the smell…the George burnt down.”
“What? No! You mean our George? It can’t have. No, it’s impossible. The George? Are you sure? Quick, let me see.”
I dash upstairs to look at the news on his pc – and there it is the horror, the devastation, the ferocity. I’m speechless. It seems unbelievable.
Will interrupts “I saw it! Late last night when I went out. I saw this great orange glow in the sky. I thought there must have been some new or festive lighting put up in Hatherleigh.”
Well in a way there was, though under no circumstances could it be called festive.
It’s amazing how much the obliteration of a building has affected the community. ‘For god’s sake it just a building…’ I expect people are thinking. And yes, that’s right, it is; but it’s one of Hatherleigh’s most ancient; after all it’s been in existence in some form or other since the 10th century.
The George was unwittingly the heart of the community, of Hatherleigh, and like most hearts it was taken for granted, occasionally worried about if it wobbled, but also worked hard and cheerfully for countless festivities (Robert and I celebrated our marriage there). It stood as an emblem and gave the town its distinctiveness; now all that’s left is a gaping blackened hole surrounded by depressingly forlorn crumbling cob. The heart no longer beating.
Did I hear someone shout “Bring back the stocks!”?