Darfield

When I first went to North Staffordshire Polytechnic in 1974 to '˜read' (as they say on University Challenge) Modern Studies, it was quite a revelation to meet people from mysterious places like the Midlands and the South and the Far North. There was a curly-haired lad from Egremont in Cumbria, a place I'd never heard of, and there was somebody who came, as he memorably said on the first night of Freshers' Week, '˜from a little manor just off the Mile End Road.' I realised, almost straight away, that by '˜manor' he didn't mean '˜manor house'.

A casual visitor coming into the paper shop in Darfield the other morning would have been forgiven for thinking that they’d stumbled upon the last act of a shadow-based tragedy. A small group of people were standing around by the magazines and teacakes gazing into the air; brows were furrowed and chins were being stroked. Movement was minimal but somehow momentous. The casual visitor would have gaped for a moment then beat a hasty retreat through the less-than-hasty automatic doors and left us to our private musings.