On the way home from Birdfair in Rutland, England’s smallest county, we pass within three miles of a childhood “homeplace”. Rothwell, which we knew as “Rowell” in the Northamptonshire dialect, was home to my paternal grandparents and where Dad grew up. We arrange to meet my cousin Phil for an evening’s walk.
Much has changed, and much has not; as the lanes narrow and the warm, ochre-coloured buildings come into view, it all feels deeply familiar. An old market town no bigger than many villages, Rowell has retained a rural community feel. Built from Cottingham ironstone, once quarried for nearby Corby steelworks, it glows a honeyed orange in the sunset hour.
We meet at Market House, one of Thomas Tresham’s quirky, religiously encoded buildings that he began in 1577, and wander out to the medieval fish ponds, now all filled in. I send a photo of Jesus Hospital almshouses to my brother, knowing that the name, carved with the medial S, will set him giggling at a joke four decades old: Jefuf Hofpitall. Phil confirms memories of the ancient Charter Fair, a secret passage between the little nunnery and the Holy Trinity church, and Groococks boot and shoe factory, which employed our grandparents.
What I loved most back then were the long walks with Mum and Nan, up to Orton or ’arrington, down Fanny Joyce’s Lane towards Ironstone Pit and the Ise Brook; always into countryside, Nan in a dress. Here I was privy to a woman’s world, away from house and husbands, and to Nan’s gossipy tales of the big houses, where she and her sister had been “in service”: Boughton House perhaps, Rushton Hall, or Rockingham. As the spaces between cottages stretched, the confiding nature of the stories deepened.
Passing Nan’s old house, we recall a vivid lightning strike on a house opposite, just one street over. There is a housing estate where a derelict orchard was, and a truck stop on the new, noisy A14 bypass. A group of lively young people trip past, laughing, calling out to a family in that distinct Northamptonshire accent.
We say our goodbyes at the amber-walled church, with its legendary bone crypt, and look for long-weathered headstones bearing my unusual maiden name, which I only ever find here. I rub my hand on the crumbly ironstone gatepost, tainting my hands turmeric.
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