Twenty-six years ago, I left Exeter, where I’d lived for nearly ten years, to move back to Essex and get married. It was an exciting time, but my emotions were mixed. I was leaving a place I loved, a job I enjoyed and friends who were so embedded in my heart that packing up and saying goodbye was almost too painful to bear. On the other hand, I was looking forward to spending the rest of my life with the man I loved, with no need to spend all our disposable income on phone calls and train journeys from one side of the country to the other.
The first year was very hard. I missed the place and my friends with a physical ache. Every weekend I could, I’d head back to see them all, but inevitably as time went on, my visits grew less frequent. We stayed in touch by phone (this was pre mobiles) and by visits, but I was working full-time in London and we were in our first year of marriage, so as time went by, although we stayed friends, that constant contact slowed down.
Over the last twenty-six years, I’ve realised how fortunate I am. I’ve got friends who live hundreds of miles away and might only see me once every ten years. In spite of that, when we meet again, it’s like not a minute has gone by.
Last September, one of my oldest and dearest friends from those days got married to a lovely man. I was so excited at the thought of going back down to Devon again. We all met up for a meal on Friday night at a pub we used to go to. It hadn't changed, but I found driving through the city a strange and surreal experience. Road names and pubs and areas which were as familiar to me as my own name were still there, but threaded through with new roads, new houses, new everything. It was a bit like landing on Mars but finding your entire village replicated there.
The wedding was wonderful. It was a joyous day. I saw some friends who I can’t have met for about twenty-eight years. We hugged and starting talking at top speed about the old days. Even though lots of water had gone under it, the bridge remained unchanged.
Waking up the next morning, I gazed out of my window on to the shouting green of the Devon hills. I’d forgotten how much I loved them. I’d also forgotten how narrow Devonian lanes can be. Living here in rural East Suffolk, I spend a lot of my time driving down muddy roads and either pulling over or driving backwards to let another vehicle through. These, however, are like the M25 compared to the narrow ribbons of tarmac upon which I presently found myself. It was just after breakfast time and the whole day stretched ahead of me. I texted an old friend. “What are you up to today?” “Nothing much,” came the reply. “Why?”
Half an hour later, I was driving into a tiny village in Dartmoor National Park. My friend and her husband were doing up a house they’d been left by her grandmother, which I hadn’t seen for years. After the grand tour, we ambled out to the orchard her great-great-grandfather had planted at the beginning of the last century. It was one of those afternoons you remember forever. The late summer sunlight filtered through the apple trees on to the tufty grass studded with windfalls. In the distance, I could hear cows mooing. A wood pigeon flapped by.
We sat and talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and were silent. It was beautiful. It reminded me of things I’d loved and experiences which had shaped me. Before I left, we picked bags and bags of Ponsfords, a rare apple which originated in Devon in the nineteenth century. At home, I made jelly with them which we’re still eating now. I make apple jelly every year, but this was different. The Ponsfords produced a rich, deep, glowing jelly like nothing I’ve ever seen. Held up to the light, each jar seemed incandescent, ripe with promise. It tasted pretty good too.
It’s good to look back and to realise that however far in the past good experiences were, they are still with us. It’s a long way to Devon, but I’d travel a lot further than that to see my friends again.