This place is a pleasant place.

People who lived here, things that happened here, have made a difference.

Not so much now, not any longer.

Maybe a clever child will be born here and do something special.

Now there are families raising children in two or three bedroom houses, driving to work every day to the nearby town.

There are people who have come here to live quietly and reflect upon their lives, or make a safe place for grandchildren when parents are busy.

There’s a big house just outside the village. It’s been bought by the manager of a hedge fund. He’s quite an important man in the City.

This village, like others, is on a ridge. Down below the villages are the wetlands. They are called the Levels.

These wetlands were once a seabed. Arms off the ridges stretch into the wetlands like the resting paws of a great cat. You can see where the sea-cliffs once were. The levels still flood in winter but by March the water is gone most years and the cows are put out to graze.

The levels were once a wilderness, a tangle of willows full of waterbirds. Into this wilderness, over a thousand years ago, fled a young king who went on to form a nation.

His name was Alfred.

Down on the Levels there are “droves” which dry out in the summer. I have bought a bike so I can explore them. The cycle shop suggested a hybrid bike because the lanes around here are full of debris in the winter. I had many punctures until I had the tyres replaced with Schwalbe Marathons.

But even with the stronger tyres my Giant Roam 2 struggles on the droves where  huge ruts made by  wallowing tractors in the spring, when the cows return, are hard as concrete by the end of the summer.

I probably should have got a mountain bike with fatter tyres and full suspension.