A Village Childhood

Strange, isn’t it, that the best gifts often stare us in the face, unseen? The place in which I spent the longest stretch of my formative years, the village of Alvechurch, was like that.

I came there with my family as a nine year old, homesick for another village, Hagley; I spent much of my ten years there, wishing to be somewhere else. And yet, in the forty years since I left, I have returned often, as if to an old friend that never changes, one that can be counted on for welcome.

In recent years, as my mother has grown more frail, I spend time there at least once a year, more often if I can.  The familiar, 20-minute or so, early morning drive from Birmingham Airport passes an agricultural landscape of green, rolling hills and hedge-bordered fields, with picturesque stands of trees.

As we draw close to our destination, the road signs begin to mention Alvechurch and soon we pass the library, school and the big cream-coloured Red Lion pub and restaurant. We turn a corner and suddenly we are there– Tanyard Close, and Mum’s compact and cozy flat.

The name Alvechurch is derived from a woman’s name: Aelfgyth. It was Aelfgyth who, over a thousand years ago, built a church on the hill that looks down on the village. St. Laurence Church stands there now, but at one time it must have been known as Aelfgyth’s Church. Who Aelfgyth was is not known for certain, but she is thought to have been a woman of some wealth and influence–an abbess perhaps.

I count myself blessed to have had three years at the small Church of England school, itself 150 years old. I would walk there each morning, through the ancient church yard with its tall elm trees. High up in the swaying branches were crow’s nests and the air would ring with their loud cawing.  I loved to study the tipsy, tottering gravestones and try to make out the names and dates. A few of them were as old as 300 years.

At the school, my love of reading and art flourished, as well as a love of the hymns of the Church of England and prayers from the Book of Common Prayer. They nourished both the soul and spirit of the shy and sensitive child that was me.

In those days the church was not locked, and we children sometimes wandered inside, exploring its nooks and crannies. The air inside was cooler than outside and it smelled old, but not unpleasantly so. Colourful stained glass windows, including one depicting a young Queen Victoria, were a source of wonder, as was the tomb of a knight with his effigy on top of it, his hands folded in perpetual prayer. There is a scrap of a poem about him, entitled “The Legend of the Nameless Knight of Alvenchurch,” in a 1969 book, Alvechurch: An Historical and Architectural Appraisal for The Rural District Council of Bromsgrove. Here is the poem:

Beside the banks of Arrow,

Yet lingers this sad tale

Of the nameless knight whose effigy

In coat-armoure, and mail,

Lyeth in good St. Lawrence’ church

That is in Arrow-Vale.

On his shield there be no charges

Whereby he may be known

No holy text, no legend

Ingraven on the stone;

(And there the poem enigmatically ends!)

So I grew up in this village drenched in centuries of history, surrounded by hills and farms. And at last I understand the gift that it was to have such a childhood and to be myself, part of its history.

To read more about Belinda, click here .