Ashford 2017

The peeling paint and empty shop fronts. The verandas, wide and still fighting the fierce sun.

But there is no-one. The bustle, the busyness, the activity has drifted away, the buildings - memorials to past glories – the days when the local stores kept what you needed but not much more. The things that kept you going from day to day when you would shop often for the ice box couldn’t keep things for too long. The butcher with his daily carcasses, meat wrapped for the evening meal. And veggies, well they came when they came. Seasons. Fruit when it was ripe, beans when they were full and green and filled the billy can.

The local mechanic could fix almost anything – the car the bike, the diesel, the water pump all could be pulled apart and put back together for another day. But he is gone now, retired or given up. A sparkling new SUV cruises past, its electronics guiding everything, service just a short hour to the nearest big town.

Distance and time blended – easy to get the groceries once a week now and the big freezer works just fine pulling power from the wires stretching vast distances from the steaming power station or wind farm or from the blue glinting roof. The local power station and the coal mine which fed it closed years ago. People moved away. Even the pub isn’t open on a Saturday afternoon anymore. And the theatre – the shows which packed the place now closed. There wasn’t the TV or internet then.

Still, it remains neat and tidy. No litter, no graffiti. Just a few spider webs in the windows of the closed stores.

RG Barnes