This story is fiction but provides a description of Bluebell Wood as I remember it in the early 1950s.  At that time it was owned by my grandfather,
Cecil Dunn

            There was nothing more enchanting in Cawston in the springtime of the early 1950s than the stunning carpets of bluebells that flowered in the ancient unspoilt Bluebell Wood along the Norwich Road.  These bell-shaped flowers on tall stems always seemed to capture the spirit of spring in Cawston and appeared to create a magical sign of life after the long winter.  The mass flowering of bluebells was the most spectacular sight of all wild flowerings in Cawston and covered almost the entire wood in a truly breathtaking azure haze.  The flowers reached the climax of their display in late May when the wood had a sensual appeal to Sunday strollers who admired this unforgettable sight.

            Bluebell Wood contained trees of many species as well as wild shrubs which provided an excellent source of food for songbirds and attracted other wild species such as rabbits, hares and foxes.  The tall trees were a natural habitat for numerous local birds that would build nests in the early spring and bring forth their young ones in this peaceful environment.

            One sunny morning in mid-May Cecil, the owner of the wood and a man who led a hard and self-sufficient life, arrived there and found the main gate wide open.  “Odd” he said to himself in his broad Norfolk accent, “the gate was closed when I left last night and I am not expecting my brother today.”   He parked his old rusty bike along the hedgerow, put down his shoulder bag that he had made a few years ago from feed sack material and looked around to see if anybody was there.

            Cecil inspected the growth of the carrots in the field next to the wood and looked down at the long grasses growing at the roots of the trees which were wet with morning dew. 

            As he entered the thicket of the wood a bird came tiptoeing towards him with a worm in her mouth.  He looked up and spotted some robins in the trees, those plump reddish-breasted birds that had built their nests nearby. 

            Cecil continued walking into the wood and passed by the spectacular flowers of a rhododendron tree which was in full bloom.  Cecil saw two squirrels jumping up a tree after feeding themselves from acorns that they had buried in the ground the previous winter.  He remembered that in the winter months the wood were full of birds which found food in the seeds and fruits. 

            Listening to the singing of the woodland birds, Cecil wandered alongside the carpets of romantic bluebells that he knew had taken centuries to reach perfection.  It was here that he enjoyed the blue haze and strong fragrance of these beautiful flowers in the mist of bees and butterflies that were feeding on the sweet nectar.  The sweet scent of the bluebells reminded him of  nature's own aromatherapy.  As a countryman, Cecil know that the deep blue colour of these flowers symbolised that the clear blue summer skies over Norfolk were around the corner.

            Finding nothing suspicious he returned to the main gate where he sat down near his bike and lit his pipe.  There was a sweet smell of tobacco in the air when Cecil saw a young boy walking along the Norwich Road.  As he approached Cecil asked “And where are you going to my man?”.  “Can you lend me a bob?” the boy asked, “I need to catch the next bus to Norwich”.  After a long conversation the boy revealed that he slept in the wood that night as he had no where else to go.   The boy told Cecil that he was a keen hiker and had walked all the way from the outskirts of Norwich to Cawston and had missed the last bus yesterday.   Cecil thought to himself that the boy’s tale was rather odd, but as the boy seemed to be pleasant he thought nothing more of it.  The boy told him how he had just been to a shop in the village to get something to eat and drink but did not have enough money for his fare back to Norwich.  Being a good hearted soul, Cecil took out some coins that he carried loose in his trouser pocket and gave them to the boy.  “But I think you had better have a hot cup of tea from my bottle” Cecil said.

            As lunchtime approached, Cecil decided to take the boy home for a hot meal.  So off they went along the Norwich Road to Eastgate; Cecil riding his bike and the boy marching alongside trying to keep up with him.  “Got a good appetite?” Cecil asked, as they arrived at his home in one of the old red brick houses along the Ratcatchers Row.

            Walking up the garden path next to the house where an old red plum tree was growing  his wife Bessie saw the boy from the front room window.  After they had all enjoyed some pork chops, fresh garden vegetables and potatoes Cecil told the boy that he could spend the afternoon there and catch the late afternoon bus from the Ratcatchers corner.  That afternoon the boy helped Bessie in the kitchen prepare her traditional Norfolk shortcakes that was a substantial part of the family diet.

            With the smell of fresh shortcakes around the house two men soon appeared at the front door and asked Bessie if they could speak to the boy.  She wondered how they knew a boy was in the house.  “So there you are, you come with us and we are going straight back to Buxton”, one of them said.  Bessie stood there speechless holding a half-smoked Woodbine in her hand.  “I hope he has not stolen anything”, one man said.  “We are taking him back to the Red House where he belongs.”  Puffing her cigarette, Bessie now realised that he had not come from Norwich but had escaped from Buxton Red House, the school that provided formal education and industrial training to young criminals as an alternative to sending them to prison.

            Cecil arrived back home just after five o’clock  and told his wife that two men from Buxton Red House had spoken to him earlier that afternoon.  Still recovering from the shock and sipping a cup of freshly brewed tea, Bessie said, “He left his shortcakes behind.”    

Michael Yaxley

Bonn, Germany.         July 2008.

(This short story has been written for the website of the Cawston Historical Society and may only be copied or  published by requesting permission from the Cawston Historical Society).