The Cherry Orchards
Not the least of the seductions of Campden, neither village nor market- town but a unique self betwixt and between, is its cherry orchards that ring it round, into which the " diddecoys (half-gipsies) swarmed for the picking season. . They used to create waves of disturbance on the placid surface of Campden's life, and so did the popping of the guns in the orchards when the cherries were ripe. It must be nearly twenty years ago that I heard the following from the lips of a Campden worthy over a pint of " scrumpy " (the local cider) at the Eight Bells, whose inn-sign is a row of real bells in diminishing sizes:—, "It be lovely when they be in vlour [the cherry-trees], and there byunt nothen so nice as to hear they little birds a-chackeling and a-twittering and a-singing so sweet of a spring mornen. But so soon as they starts a-minding, some unkid swine must start and try and blow oil they little birds to hell."
Where will you hear such folk-poetry to-day ? But I noticed one thing this autumn that much pleased me. These orchards were thoroughly well stocked with sheep, pigs, geese and poultry.
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