If we want to see how the village looked, before our world was rocked by two world wars, one world cup and a worldwide pandemic, we can revisit the photographs taken by renowned photographer, Archbold Quinlan. Shot at the turn of the 20th century, these sepia-toned images capture a vanished way of life, when men wore hats, beer was a penny a pint and the only people who had tattoos were sailors. They offer an intoxicating glimpse into a world that, though only four generations away, already seems infinitely and achingly distant.
In the picture at the top of the page, the presence of the photographer - a man dressed in Harris tweed plus-fours and a deerstalker hat - has encouraged curious locals to stand about in the dusty roadway. The arrival of a travelling photographer was probably the most exciting event they had witnessed since Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee, which they celebrated, as village tradition demanded, with cock-fights, strong liquor and a street-party.
A boy and his sister don’t seem in any great hurry to move. There’s no good reason why they should; another dozen years would pass before the first motor car appeared in the village. They look towards the camera with studied indifference, giving the distinct impression that they have nothing much better to do with their time: very much like the youth of today, in fact.
The village blacksmith remained out of shot, in the smithy; he didn’t have time to stand around and gawp. With the fire going full blast, the forge was as hot as hades. Shoeing horses was thirsty work; almost single-handedly he kept the Farrier’s Arms in business. Anyway, he was unimpressed by photography and other short-lived fads. He knew that as long as we needed to get from A to B, we would need horses, and as long as we kept horses they would need shoeing. Sadly, he was still repeating this mantra when the first car eventually did career through the village: raising dust, scattering chickens and changing the tenor of village life for ever. The blacksmith took early retirement (he didn’t have much choice in the matter), and spent his declining years propping up the bar in the Farrier’s, bemoaning the invention of the internal combustion engine.
No comments:
Post a Comment