Barbara Shellard's memories of North Marston
My husband and I lived at 17 High Street in North Marston for two years, from spring 1972 until spring 1974. It was a two-up, two-down terraced cottage facing the village green, which we rented for the princely sum of £2.50 per week. Although somewhat lacking in basic amenities and presenting difficulties of access to anyone over 5'8" tall because of the height – or lack of it – of the front door and the ceiling beam in the living room, I loved that cottage.
It was our first proper home with its own front door (however small!). Internal doors were latched and had iron hinges, the staircase was precipitous and tucked away apparently in a cupboard, there was an open fire with a brick fireplace in the living room which heated the whole house – it was so romantic!
North Marston itself in those days was somewhat off the beaten track. The winding road down into the village was quite steep and it could be tricky when it was icy, especially if one had an unreliable and rather antiquated car like mine. The village itself lacked the self-conscious beauty of Whitchurch or Oving, but had its own charm. There were two shops – an antique shop (not much patronised, as far as I could tell) and a little general store, which didn't carry a very large stock but was useful if the weather was inclement and the car wouldn't start. Socially, life for us was centred on The Bell Inn, which was one of the first local pubs at that time to serve really tasty pub meals. Since it was only five or six doors away and I was a novice cook, we supported it enthusiastically.
Our intention was to remain enjoying our rural idyll for a few years while we saved up enough money to build our own house. Unfortunately, Fate – in the shape of a black Labrador dog wandering unleashed on the Buckingham Road, which I swerved to avoid – intervened, and I crashed the car. I spent six months in Stoke Mandeville Hospital with multiple skull fractures, a dislocated shoulder, a fractured collarbone and a broken back. This meant that for the rest of my life I would need to use a wheelchair for much of the time.
Once I was discharged, we quickly realised that our picturesque cottage wasn't particularly suitable for someone with a severe disability. We tried to make it work – I remember that my first 'walk' using a walking frame took me to the pub for ham, eggs and chips (very nice, too, especially after the awful food at Stoke Mandeville). But once I discovered that I was pregnant, we had no choice but to look for somewhere more convenient, particularly since we had now only one bedroom in the cottage, my husband having converted the other into an accessible bathroom. Reluctantly we moved to central Aylesbury, which was close to the Council Offices where my husband worked.
But I shall never forget my home in North Marston. I can still picture the village, bathed in early autumn evening sunlight. When I try to imagine a characteristically higgledy-piggledy, quintessentially English country scene, I see it looking like this.
Barbara Shellard