Introduction

Kirby Cane is one of the small villages nestling in the heart of the Waveney valley.

When viewed from the high ground on each side of the valley, but especially from the Suffolk side, they formed an attractive picture. In the foreground, the winding Waveney wandered along among the lush water meadows on its lazy way towards the sea. As the ground rose beyond the valley, the clumps of willows and poplars gave way to thicker wooded slopes, with clusters of houses and farms forming the hamlets and villages. In Kirby Cane, few of the old dwellings remain unaltered. Now surrounded by scores of identical bungalows, and improved to modern standards, they bear little or no relation to the originals. Inevitably, the way of life has altered in the same way, although there are signs of the return of the old community spirit.

My old home, which had adjoined the Chapel, was pulled down some years ago. All that is left are a few brick ends in the Chapel car park, and the elm tree still standing by the lane at the back. Old Caddy's house is still there, but now forms part of a larger dwelling. The old School Room has been converted into a smart bungalow. Chapel Meadow, the scene of many Sunday School Anniversaries, is covered with bungalows, and the old carpenter's shop and smithy have disappeared altogether.

It may sound a bit 'Irish', but it seems that the best way to relive the old days is to get among the dead! Kirby Cane Church stands isolated, about a mile from the main village. As one enters the churchyard, there stands a magnificent cedar, many hundreds of years old. As I stood and looked, the memories started.

The massive trunk still bears the scars where an unfortunate young villager tried to fell it. His brain was suddenly affected for no apparent reason, and he was found in the middle of the night backing away with his axe.

Almost every gravestone rekindled a memory. Just inside the gate lies "Noddy" Rendlesome and his wife, our next door neighbours for many years. He was acknowledged as a dab hand at catching moles, and I spent many an hour watching him skin the little creatures and pin up the skins on a board to dry in the sun.

Next lay a maiden lady, Miss Youill, who was Noddy's neighbour in life as well as in death. She had her first, and last, motor bike ride when my brother and I fetched her home on the old Triumph and sidecar from the hospital where she died.

Albert Osborne, a much respected citizen, who, amongst other things, taught me to play cribbage. He could turn out the most beautiful copper‑plate writing with each capital letter a joy in itself.

Ben Adcock, who spent a lot of his time as drunk as a lord. At his funeral, the four bearers, me amongst them, were just preparing to lower his coffin when the webbing straps broke. We all catapulted over backwards, and the head of the coffin fell into the grave with a crash. When we had struggled back on to our feet, there was Ben standing on his head in the grave, a most undignified but not altogether surprising way of departing this life.

Billy Read, the greengrocer, who drove his horse and loaded cart into Bungay every week. He would sit in the cart, flicking his whip, and singing 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me ‑ Giddup, y're learsy old bugger ‑ Let me hide myself in Thee!'

The old village came to life as I wandered round ‑ each stone a story. Finally, there was the resting place of Grandad John Harvey, Grandmother Celia, and of Joe and Agnes, my own parents.

What a host of memories came flooding back! Surely, I thought, these were too many and varied to be forgotten, and I promised myself that I would record as much as I could remember, before I, too, became just a memory.