A few days ago I took a stroll from Hilton to Fauld, which took me through the villages of Hatton and Tutbury. Until our move to Hilton at the end of 2019 I had spent my entire life living in these villages and they have practically become a part of who I am. Down every road and in every croft there’s guaranteed to be at least one house that a friend of myself or my family calls home. It’s impossible to walk through these villages without seeing at least one person I know and it’s nice to have a sense that, even though I don’t live there anymore, I’m never very far from home. It was a chilly day, typical for this time of year, but the sun was shining, which took the edge off a bit, and the direct warmth of the sunlight almost allowed me to actually enjoy the weather. There were bike riders and joggers out in force, nodding or smiling as I passed them, and there was an innate feeling of peacefulness about the whole scene, as if I was walking across a canvas as it was being painted. 

I took a route I’ve taken a million times before; down Marston lane, past the church and through the bridle path next to the factory before rejoining the main road straight through to the top of Tutbury. I used to take this route when I braved the long walk home from school sometimes, or when I’d been ‘playing out’ in Hilton in the summer, or a million other reasons that I could list. The memories that I’ve collated on this route over the years are endless and, as I wandered down there once again, with the sun beaming down, I couldn’t help but remember some of them.

One memory I thought of was an evening where Lizzie came round to mine after school and we went out ‘exploring’. Lizzie used to come to my house after school quite a lot, so I’m not really sure why this particular day sticks in my mind, but it does; she was wearing a black top, a floral skirt and white trainers, yet I can’t remember what I was wearing, although I’m sure it was something along the lines of an adidas t-shirt, grey shorts and Janoski trainers. I had my backpack with me, which usually contained nothing more than a bottle of pepsi max, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and some body spray, and we made our way down the bridle path, wandering over to the fences by the railway track, where we sat down in the grass with the sun setting behind us in the distance, casting the sky in a beautiful orange hue. We sat there for what seemed like forever, smoking and talking, wondering what life had in store with us if we ever made it past the age of eighteen. At the time we both had a lot on our minds, as we always did when we were younger, but as we lay there watching the sun go down, we were united in our shared determination to forget about everything other than the scene of nature that was playing out in front of us, content that whatever happened when we grew up, at least we’d have each other. 

Another memory that crossed my mind were the times Sam and I used to gather up all my old newspapers and burn them. We were probably about fourteen or fifteen years old, although my subscription to The Times would have you believe I was closer to forty four, yet I was still childish enough to enjoy setting fire to stuff. So, in what became a sort of ritual, every few weeks we’d gather up all of my old newspapers and head down the bridle path with them, our usual spot being just behind the fields off of Eaton Close, which you accessed by following the brook round the back of the path. There was no logical explanation for it, I could have just recycled them like any normal, responsible person would have, but as we used to sit around the fires we’d start, there was an inexplicable sense of satisfaction that the two of us shared. In that moment, as random as it seems, I felt at ease, relaxed and safe, surrounded by nothing but the light generated by the fire and my best friend. 

The further I walked, the more memories I was reminded of. As I wandered past the Tutbury Mill, I thought of the countless times that the ‘Inbreds’ have congregated there over the years. The Inbreds, in our prime, consisted of myself, Brooks, Morris, Adam, Kiera, Deville, Izzy, Nicola and Phoebe, although we often played host to guests at the Mill; Fern, Liam, Robyn, Haydn and many others, interchanging largely depending on who I’d fallen out with or who one of the girls was ‘talking’ to. Most nights we’d meet there after school, get a takeaway from the Village Grill and set about formulating a plan of how we were going to obtain the required amount of vodka and cigarettes for that weekend’s gathering. It’s hard not to look back and smile at the innocence of it all. 

As I walked past the end of Portway Drive, one of my former residences, I recounted the frankly immoral number of gatherings I’d hosted there and some of the regular occurrences that happened at these events; chasing the dog down the street as he escaped when guests were arriving, heading to the park for a ‘PC’ with whoever I was arguing with that week, politely reminding people that it wasn’t ok to finger someone on my bed, gathering everyone’s food orders when things started to die down at 2am, and so on. There was the time I refused to let Morris in to the house so he tried to jump over my fence and broke it, or the time that Deville fell into the windowsill and spilt vodka and coke all over the soundbar and we attempted to save it by using my mothers hairdryer to dry it, or the time everyone decided to light candles and wander round the house with them so my carpets got covered in wax, or the time someone managed to get red wine on my kitchen ceiling. There always seemed to be some sort of drama, often caused by myself, and there were always at least two or three arguments throughout the night, yet whenever these events took place, I often found myself taking a moment in the middle of it all to savour the company of the people I was surrounded by and appreciate the immense amount of fun my circumstances had allowed me to have. 

There are an endless number of other memories that I could write about but the point is that, as I was walking in that winter sun a few days ago, a smile spread across my face and I realised that, despite problems with my Dad and my mental health, I am so lucky to have had the childhood that I did and the friends that I still have to this day. I smiled because I realised that the bridle path is a spot that has played a huge part shaping me into the man I am today, a spot that witnessed several defining moments of my adolescence, a spot that I spent years going to when I was happy, sad, angry, heartbroken, grieving, celebrating, despondent, jubilant and a thousand other emotions. I smiled because I realised that, rather than enduring my teenage years like it often felt I was doing, I actually enjoyed them so much that I look back on them with a fondness that is almost indescribable. I smiled because I realised that, no matter what I do, where I go or who I meet, I will always have these small villages in the middle of the English countryside that I can return to, full of people I love, bursting with memories stretching back as far as I can remember, and I know that I’ll be home. I smiled because I realised that, although it’s taken me far too long to realise it, life is a wonderful gift and I am so lucky to have been able to share it with the remarkable people I call my friends. 

I hope you’re all doing as well as you can be in these circumstances. Stay safe.