Chapter 1 [Excerpt]

Ian Rose was a new journalist on the Saturday Telegraph. Having achieved a 1st Class degree at Oxford in English Literature he had decided on a career in journalism, and had been allocated to the travel department of the popular broadsheet newspaper.

The Travel Editor summoned him in;

“Ian, we keep hearing things about a town in the Cotswolds called Ashthorpe Magna, but not only have I never heard of it, I can’t even find it on my map. Be a good chap and get down there to see what is going on.”

Ian sat in his battered Austin Mini on the road running from the main Lechlade to Cirencester route, and looked down the hill to the river valley below where he had been told that he would find Ashthorpe Magna. It was shrouded in mist, although where he sat and the area behind was bathed in bright sunlight. The mist started to roll back, and slowly to his left he saw a large Tudor mansion gradually emerge, and to the front the spire of a church, and roofs of other buildings started to poke through the haze. He headed for the town.

“Farmers’ Bloody Market!” The booming voice of the Bailiff of Ashthorpe Magna reverberated around the ancient pillars of the Town Hall.

“That bloody weasel-faced Mayor has proposed a Farmers’ Market here in front of the Town Hall”

The Reeve of the Court Leet, deputy to the Bailiff, visibly trembled as the sheer bulk of the Bailiff seemed to engulf him. Other Court Officers faded into the background only too aware of the wrath of the Bailiff. After all he was at least 6 feet 3 inches in height with a not dissimilar girth and a weight of at least 22 stones.

“That bloody little ferret of a Mayor proposes a Farmers’ Market!”

“This one little piece of information was to rock the foundations of the medieval township “

This one little piece of information was to rock the foundations of the medieval township nestling into the foothills of the beautiful English Cotswolds in a manner probably never seen since the Roman establishment of Ashthorpe. Despite the glorious early summer evening outside, a gloom settled over the interior of the hall. As the Bailiff pounded up and down the oak floor of the upper floor, The Bailiff’s Hall, the 16 officers stood in huddled groups muttering between themselves in an effort to predict what would come next.

The previous month the Town Council had attended a meeting at their purpose-built Council Chambers to be addressed by an official from the South-Western Tourist Board under whose auspices Ashthorpe Magna fell by only a few miles. They had been excited to learn that many thousands of pounds would be available to Councils for the promotion of tourism in the region; the government of the day in its final fling of popularity claimed the credit for these monies although the fact was that the huge sums came from the European Union as a bribe, or even conscience money, for the dramatic overpayments from the United Kingdom for many years. The British MEP’s had provided a constant barrage in Brussels until even the most hardened critic of the UK was fully aware that whilst the French and Spanish were net beneficiaries of EU funds, it was the Brits paying in the largest per-capita contributions. Through the iniquitous tourism subsidies to our neighbours their tourist figures were hugely larger than the Brits who were paying! So the 6,000 population of Ashthorpe Magna became fully embroiled in political arguments in Europe.

The Town Council was a post-war institution, a fact constantly mentioned by the Bailiff from the shield of his 700-year-old post, and although theoretically ruled by an elected body was in actuality governed by the Town Clerk. This most unprepossessing little man had ruled the roost for over 20 years despite a terrible stammer which caused him to salivate from the corner of his lips when speaking. Such was his undoubted political skill and pomposity that when the Council in the 1980’s decided the Mayor should have a robe so as not to appear inferior to the Bailiff of the Court Leet, he managed to get the Council agreement that the Town Clerk should also have one. But his in a rather imperial deep blue! He did not realise that with his slight build and short stature the robe actually looked more like the dressing gowns provided by Hilton Hotels than a gown of office to be respected. This same truth probably applied also to the Mayor, John Sleight, and whilst the Bailiff’s description was due more to the rivalry and animosity between the two bodies it was probably true! Weasel features and ferret faced could not bring too much disagreement.

This entry was penned on Tuesday the 8th of April 2008 at 4:47 pm and is filed under Story. You can leave a comment, or trackback from your own site.