Gervase Phinn - The Other Side of the Dale

At long last, after a two-hour search up and down the Dale, along muddy twisting roads, across narrow stone bridges, up dirt tracks, past swirling rivers and dribbling streams, and through countless villages in an increasingly desperate search, I had eventually arrived at my destination. At the sight of the highly-polished brass plate on the door bearing the word BACKWATERSTHWAITE SCHOOL , I heaved a great sigh of relief and felt that sort of pioneering triumph which Christopher Columbus, Captain Cook and Scott of the Antarctic must have felt on arriving at their destinations after their difficult journeys.

I had seen no school sign, no traffic triangle warning of a school and children crossing, no playground, playing field, nothing that would identify the austere building as an educational institution. The tall, gaunt edifice deep in the dark valley looked like any other large, sturdy Yorkshire country house and I had passed it unknowingly several times during my vain attempt to discover the elusive school. Beneath the slate roof, greasy grey and edged with a pale purple lichen, tall leaded windows faced the ever-watchful fields. From the grey and white limestone walls gillyflowers and tiny ferns creviced. A little beck trickled alongside as I made my way to the heavy oak door. At long last I had arrived. I lifted the great grey iron knocker in the shape of a rams head and let it fall with a heavy echoing thud.

I had arrived at Upperwatersthwaite much earlier in the afternoon assuming, quite foolishly, that it was somewhere near Backwatersthwaite. As soon as I stepped through the door of the small village post office to ask for directions, all conversation ceased and every eye was directed my way. There were two sturdy, middle-aged women in thick brown woollen headscarves which were tied in enormous knots under their chins, a lean old farmer, clutching his pension book, who plucked the ancient pipe from his mouth at the sight of the stranger, and a young woman who jerked her toddler close to her when I made my entrance. I must have looked singularly out of place in the dark grey suit, formal college tie and white shirt. My black briefcase, with an official looking crest emblazoned on the front, was eyed suspiciously by the large, healthy-looking postmistress. She looked over the counter with a deadpan expression on her round red face. I joined what I took to be the end of the queue but was ushered forward by the pensioner.

Nay, lad, thee carry on. Tha look as if thare in an urry. Were not in any rush, are we ladies? His companions, still viewing me like an exhibit in a museum, nodded and moved away from the counter.

Thank you, I replied smiling and stepping forward.

Yes, young man? asked the postmistress dourly.

I wonder if you could direct me to Backwatersthwaite? I asked cheerfully. I seem to have got myself well and truly lost. The countenance of the large woman underwent a rapid transformation. She beamed widely and two great dimples appeared on her round rosy cheeks. She gave a long, audible sigh before she replied.