The peaceful haven of Harpenden
December 10th 2009 08:29
There's nothing more charming than an English village. Small and quaint with classic landmarks like the manor, the church and vicarage, the green, the pub, handful of small shops, the little cottages, the hedgerows, the lanes and of course, the local characters, villages are both a remnant of times gone by and a testament to an enduring way of life. They dot the countryside and encircle the cities. Happily for the millions who commute every day, you don’t have to travel far from London to enjoy the peace and tranquility of village life.
Just 40 minutes from frenetic St Pancras Station, lies the sleepy village of Harpenden. The train line leads into a little wooden station, which, when we arrived at mid-morning on a drizzly late autumn day, was completely deserted.
We set off down a sloping, curved and empty street towards the village, pausing in the first lit and populated shop – the Oxfam Store. Racks of damp-smelling tweed and stout shoes, glass cases crammed with one-short sets of sherry glasses and shelves stacked with travel books suggested that the good folk of Harpenden are fond of winter walks and arm chair journeys with a fortified wine. They are also painters, or at least collectors of paintings and it was near a pile of gloomy oils that I met my first Harpenden character. Carelessly groomed and shabbily chic in shades of peat and moss, with a voice like the Queen, she was commanding a bemused village lass to authenticate a dark, foreboding landscape. When the girl shook her head helplessly, she left the shop with an exasperated snort and slammed the door behind her.
We followed her down to the high street, past the solid and disproportianately large post office, past rows of small, old world shops, where modern village businesses had taken a tenuous hold - Thai, Indian and Italian restaurants, dress shops full of shiny stuff, a gelati parlour and a boulangerie/pattisserie - and from which idle personal stared vacantly at the street.
The High Street is dominated by the pub on the corner and the church halfway down. At the church café, offering morning teas Monday to Thursday and lunch as well on Friday, a village matron in a floral apron served us piping hot tea and buttery scones. At table near the counter, a tiny old lady, with a booming voice that belied her frail, stooped frame, shared a postcard from Canada with the vicar. A few doors down from church is a survivor of old Harpenden, the tobacconist. Dark, small and with a deliciously exotic pot pourri of smells, its corners were crammed with stands of canes, shelves of cigarettes, cases of cigars and packets of sweets.
Further down the High Street, Sainsbury’s holds half the block. Here, we came across the Oxfam art connoisseur again. She was shouting at a shelf-stacker. Across the road a Café Nero had the corner. We headed into the back streets where there were quiet cottages, greens, graceful manors.
Harpenden, as we had already half guessed from the racks in the Oxfam shop, is the departure point for some wonderful walks. One follows the Ver River, another skirts the Moors and another crosses the Common. They all follow routes marked with fascinating names, like Sopwell Nunnery, Smug Oak Lane, Frogmore Pits and Jack Williams’ Wood. Unfortunately we were unable to tramp out these paths. We discovered them at the Harpenden Library, under the sharp gaze of a stern-faced Librarian in brown tweed and brogues, just before our 5.30 train left.
Harpenden Village
Just 40 minutes from frenetic St Pancras Station, lies the sleepy village of Harpenden. The train line leads into a little wooden station, which, when we arrived at mid-morning on a drizzly late autumn day, was completely deserted.
A Harpenden Street
We set off down a sloping, curved and empty street towards the village, pausing in the first lit and populated shop – the Oxfam Store. Racks of damp-smelling tweed and stout shoes, glass cases crammed with one-short sets of sherry glasses and shelves stacked with travel books suggested that the good folk of Harpenden are fond of winter walks and arm chair journeys with a fortified wine. They are also painters, or at least collectors of paintings and it was near a pile of gloomy oils that I met my first Harpenden character. Carelessly groomed and shabbily chic in shades of peat and moss, with a voice like the Queen, she was commanding a bemused village lass to authenticate a dark, foreboding landscape. When the girl shook her head helplessly, she left the shop with an exasperated snort and slammed the door behind her.
The "green"
We followed her down to the high street, past the solid and disproportianately large post office, past rows of small, old world shops, where modern village businesses had taken a tenuous hold - Thai, Indian and Italian restaurants, dress shops full of shiny stuff, a gelati parlour and a boulangerie/pattisserie - and from which idle personal stared vacantly at the street.
The pub
The High Street is dominated by the pub on the corner and the church halfway down. At the church café, offering morning teas Monday to Thursday and lunch as well on Friday, a village matron in a floral apron served us piping hot tea and buttery scones. At table near the counter, a tiny old lady, with a booming voice that belied her frail, stooped frame, shared a postcard from Canada with the vicar. A few doors down from church is a survivor of old Harpenden, the tobacconist. Dark, small and with a deliciously exotic pot pourri of smells, its corners were crammed with stands of canes, shelves of cigarettes, cases of cigars and packets of sweets.
The tobacconist
Further down the High Street, Sainsbury’s holds half the block. Here, we came across the Oxfam art connoisseur again. She was shouting at a shelf-stacker. Across the road a Café Nero had the corner. We headed into the back streets where there were quiet cottages, greens, graceful manors.
Harpenden
Harpenden, as we had already half guessed from the racks in the Oxfam shop, is the departure point for some wonderful walks. One follows the Ver River, another skirts the Moors and another crosses the Common. They all follow routes marked with fascinating names, like Sopwell Nunnery, Smug Oak Lane, Frogmore Pits and Jack Williams’ Wood. Unfortunately we were unable to tramp out these paths. We discovered them at the Harpenden Library, under the sharp gaze of a stern-faced Librarian in brown tweed and brogues, just before our 5.30 train left.
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