jtd@dec.uk.net

When I was about twelve (in 1973) I used to play in a very special, hidden place. Very few people in my hometown of Hungerford know of my secret domain, as it is located off the beaten track beyond Freeman’s marsh. I used to spend many hours there amongst the derelict buildings, water and foliage locked within my fertile imagination and sense of grand adventure.

I remember the hot summer day that I first came across the old trout farm. I had planned to spend the day on the marsh building dams in the numerous streams and swimming in the cool, crystal clear water but it seemed that each place I went to other local children had already staked their claim. Therefore I kept on moving further towards the edge of the marsh in search of my own, private play space.

I knew of a broad shallow stream that few people ever visited towards the western end of the marsh. The stream was too wide to build a dam and too shallow to paddle in. The cows favoured this location as an ideal drinking spot and therefore the adjacent grass banks were usually covered in cowpats. When dry they made ideal Frisbees and flying saucers. But sadly this spot was also occupied by a courting couple so I took a wide birth around them, as they were trying to eat each other’s faces, and sneaked into the dense undergrowth towards the railway embankment. To my surprise I came across a crossing point that was guarded with numerous signs designed to keep children like me off the railway. Ignoring the signs I climbed over the style (a type of gate) and clambered up the steep railway embankment feeling the heat of the angry stones reflecting upon my face.

As adults we always can give the name of one teacher that really made an impression upon us. My teacher was Mr Priestley who inspired my imagination and filled my mind with useless facts. Indeed his teaching style has influenced my own as I insist that the children in my care receive exposure to a wide range of facts and general knowledge. Indeed one day, during a maths lesson, Mr Priestley (who was obviously getting bored) announced,

"Children do you know how to detect if a train is coming from over two miles away?"

"No, Mr Priestley," we chorused in unison hoping that he would wheel in the piano and take it apart again for us. This usually lasted a whole hour and helped to pass the time.

"Well, you have to take care doing this as it is rather dangerous and I shouldn’t really be telling you this," he said in secret intonation so that the headmaster, if passing, would not hear.

We all listened attentively to this forbidden fruit of knowledge. He continued, carefully looking towards the glass panel in the classroom door,

"First you check to see if a train is coming. It will be rather obvious, as you will hear the noise of the metal wheels on the track. If all is still and quiet just place your ear on the track and you will start to hear if a train is coming or not as sound travels better in a solid rather than air."

Yes I remember many things about Mr Priestley but back to the story...

When I was at the top of the embankment Mr Priestley’s advice came into my mind. I looked either way along the dual track railway and could see no trains. I listened but could only hear the calls of nature and children playing in the water at a distance. I placed my ear on the track but regretted it as the hot metal burnt my ear. After a quick rub it was better and I poured some water from my flask on my ear and onto the rail to cool it down. I repeated the process and heard the feint sound of metal upon metal. I quickly moved back to the comparative safety of the hedgerow and waited. Sure enough a fast express train approached some minutes later and split the balmy air into two for the briefest of moments. Once gone the air returned to its balmy state.

When all was clear I crossed the railway track safely and clambered down the other side. At the bottom was another style, which launched me into a field of corn. I carefully walked along the edge, trying not to damage the ears of corn, until I came to a sort of dense woodland. There appeared to be no way in and the hot summer sun was beginning to burn my fair skin so it was imperative that I found shade sooner rather than later. I had abandoned hope of ever finding water, as I was some distance away from the marshland within this parched, barren landscape only observed by a Sparrow Hawk hovering above. I knew this land was private property but other needs prevailed.

To my complete surprise I found a small gap in the thick hedgerow and forced my way in. Before me was dense, mixed woodland and the ground appeared to fall away as though the woodland was hiding a small ravine. I carefully made my way down the slope towards the sound of running water; again a surprise as I didn’t know of any water in these parts but I do remember Mr Priestley telling us that all of Hungerford’s water comes from underground as the water is trapped beneath a thick layer of chalk.

What I saw took my breath away. Before me was a spring probably about 3 metres square and 1.5 metres deep covered with an umbrella of verdant foliage. The water was crystal clear and the base was free of all life, only sand with a small L-shaped iron pipe coming out of the ground. It reminded me of a sulphurous hot water spring from Iceland. The water was diverted into numerous concrete channels, which went off in different directions. This structure was hidden within the woodland and the sunlight cast peculiar shadows over the features as it broke through the dense leaves illuminating my own, magical wonderland. As I was so hot without hesitation I jumped into the cold water, which hit me like a hundred knives and I floated around my own personal Jacuzzi trying not to scream out in pleasure or pain. The sensation of the cold spring water (upon my sunburnt body) coming up from the central pipe was most unusual and gave me goose bumps but the taste of the water was superb.

I spent several minutes in the water enjoying the sensation of the sand between my toes rather than the usual sharp stones that the Marshland Rivers offer. I then climbed out and lay in the only patch of true sunlight to dry my clothes. The peaceful surroundings, warmth and physical exertion sent me to sleep.

I woke to a symphony of colour; green, brown, gold and silver and my heart soared yet I knew I should not be there. I paddled along one of the five concrete channels and found myself at an abandoned, derelict wooden cabin. I peered in through the window and saw that it had not been used for many years. Within were a brown, wooden stool, a small table and russet-burnt, rotting leaves that had made their way inside through numerous gaps within the roof. Having made an innocent judgement that the structure was indeed safe I went inside and had a good look around. My keen historical brain decided that the hut was last used on the 23^rd May 1948 as a discarded newspaper offered this wild assumption for my continuing pleasure.

During the course of that magical afternoon in August 1973 I came across another two similar huts in differing states of decay; the direct cause of their location within its humid confines. But I could not solve the mystery of my adventure theme park’s original function. I had numerous theories ranging from a watercress farm to a secret agent’s hideout but the reality would have to wait until the autumn term when Mr Priestley, the font of all knowledge, would reveal this mystery.

I spent the rest of the afternoon exploring, swimming and building a dam within one of the channels. I was in paradise.

I went back to old trout farm many times but as time passed I forgot its mystery and adult life called.

I do remember one day, as I was revising for my A’levels, making my last journey. All was visually familiar yet its magic and mystery had dissolved into pending adulthood. All I saw were three huts, in advanced state of disrepair, a dirty spring, a rusty pipe and mud.

Sometimes I wish that I had not made that final journey and left that particular memory to the innocence of my childhood.

18^th May 2003.

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