Virgil’s Holy Weekend Dispatch

Ah, Eastertide. A time of chocolate offerings, questionable bonnets, and the vague but undeniable feeling that something ancient stirs beneath the soil. Virgil here - ensconced in my slightly listing armchair by the window, the very one I inherited from Cousin Noreen after she vanished so mysteriously during that unfortunate incident with the flock wallpaper. But that’s a story for another day.

The light this afternoon has taken on that peculiar thinness it always seems develop around Holy Weekend, hasn’t it? Like the air itself is a little threadbare, the world slightly translucent, and if you squint - just so - you might glimpse the old ways bleeding through at the edges. I sometimes fancy I see old Silas Grympitch lurching about the allotments, despite the fact he’s been dead a good forty years, his ghostly wellies leaving no trace but a sense of unease and the faint whiff of parsnip wine.

I meant to head up to the allotments earlier, but of course - as ever - was waylaid. Her at Number 23, Mrs Whistle, was out front wrestling with her wheelie bin. Word is she’s carrying on with The Postman again. Oh yes, you heard it here first. Apparently he’s been popping round of an evening for “a spot of light sorting” and left the other night with his arms full of chutney and what Mrs Whistle insists was a mystic footstool. The village will talk, and rightly so.

And speaking of talking, old Maurice Clench swears blind he heard church bells in the dead of night, despite St. Mavis-in-the-Marsh having had its bells stolen by students in ’73 and replaced with a rather convincing recording of cows mooing the key of C. Could be the air’s carrying old sounds again. Easter does that. The veil and all that.

I miss how Easter used to be. When I were a lad, Creme Eggs were the size of respectable goose offerings, and the Easter bonnets were practically architectural, replete with dangling stuffed chicks and miniature washing lines. Now you’re lucky if you get a bit of foil with a whiff of chocolate. Even the lambs look smaller somehow - though that could be due to old man Titheradge insisting on rearing a breed of pocket lambs to fit better in his car boot.

On my way back I took a quick snap of what I think is someone’s attempt at an Easter display- though I wouldn’t swear to it in court. Might just be a straw hat fence post, or perhaps an abandoned scarecrow’s headgear. It had a certain haunted air about it. You’ll see. I attach it here for your scrutiny.

Anyway, the kettle’s back on, and I’ve half a simnel cake that looks at me funny if I leave it too long.

Wishing you all a quietly strange Holy Weekend.