My native village was situated in a natural and beautiful amphitheatre. On the
west and south-west arose two lovely hills, clothed in the richest verdure, and
interspersed with orchards and white-washed cottages, even to the very summits.
A deep ravine separated those hills, through which trilled a pellucid streamlet.
After turning a cornmill, the stream flowed through the village, overshadowed in
its course by pear and apple trees, and after passing under two bridges in the
true Doric style of architecture, it was joined by another stream in the centre
of the village. This second stream had previously flowed round the shoulder of
the western hill above-mentioned. Both streams united, now rushed impetuously
forward, laved the foot of the main street, washed the walls of a romantic
gothic cottage, overshadowed by a solitary willow, which dipped its pendant
boughs into the very waters, and was gradually lost amid orchards and flower
gardens.

The main street formed an oblong square. The north side was ornamented with a
picturesque chapel, battlemented in the gothic style. The eastern side was
adorned with gay gardens, profusely decorated with flowers and evergreens. At
the base rolled the united brooklets. No traveller passed but what stopped to
gaze on this sylvan, this Arcadian spot, and to wish it might be his lot to pass
his days in such a secluded, such a sweet solitude. And now, beloved village! I
am far away from thee, immured in the smoke and fogs of the great City. I pine
for thy tranquil recesses in vain: but in my dreams I oft revisit thee, and
every day of my existence memory stamps thy beloved image in fresher colours on
my heart.

Sent to us by Marilyn Griffiths

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Blakeney My Native Village.pdf