The Squire of Milpond - Fiction

What follows is a work in progress. As with the story of Martina, it is inspired in part by real people, places and events, but is essentially fiction. I'm posting The Squire, though unfinished because I have no idea where he's taking me, or how long it's going to take us to get there. I'd like feedback, if you have any to offer - constructive criticism is very welcome!

The Squire of Milpond
In his ancient woollen cardigan, he certainly was a vision of agrarian gentility, unless you observed closely his upright carriage and quiet confidence; then, surely, you would guess at his soldierly past. As our story finds him, Soldier had laid down his sword, and taken up his ploughshare as Squire some time ago; however, it will be observed by our reader that a man truly a soldier will remain so whether he be on the field or on the land.

Our setting is the quiet hamlet of Milpond - a sleepy place it was, home to decent, hardworking souls. Its name derived from the flour mill, which harnessed the power of the pond as it tumbled into the Black River, bringing regular commerce to the few local shops. Its main renown, however, came from the hops grown in the fields outlying its borders, and the resultant beers and ales. It may be for this that our Squire chose this part of the country for himself upon giving up his uniform, but he always said it was the land which drew him here.

Squire took up residence in a tidy farmhouse, well constructed and proof against the elements. It sat protected by a hillock within a small garden beyond which stretched his land. He kept some few chickens and a cow, and had plans to graze sheep, but his main delight lay in the fruit orchard and vegetable garden. Squire was partial to pickles and preserves, and his pantry was richly stocked with the bountiful gifts of his harvests.

His property was overlooked – as if guarded – by the tall spire of the Church of St. Phillip, just visible over the top of the hill at the back of his garden. His neighbours were on one side a somewhat elderly couple whose son recently married and moved into the city; and on the other, a Town doctor and his wife who had bought a country property to play at being Land Owners but spent all their time attempting to cure the local populace of their simple ways.

Milpond, though small, was thriving in its quiet way. On market days vendors enjoyed a bustling trade on the fairgrounds. There was a Musical Society and frequent Amateur Theatricals for the artistically inclined. A small and somewhat unreliable restaurant owned by a temperamental chef who relied on whim for inspiration, and an even smaller though happily reliable pub addressed the gustatory needs of the people.

All in all, it was a happy place to enjoy peaceful years – so thought our Squire each night as he looked over his land from the fence dividing garden from field. Being a sensible man, and one of extensive reading, he realized he had much to learn about his newly chosen life. Would he, for example, have to construct a ha-ha if he did acquire sheep, to keep them from intruding on his vegetables? Was it expected that he would attend every church fete in the district? And just how often must he have the Reverend to the house for sherry? Country ways were very different, it seemed than what he’d been used to. This brought to his mind the fact that country folk enjoyed their victuals at an early hour; and even now his plate was most likely waiting for him alongside a tankard of his favourite ale.

How he loved this time of the day best of all: his labour was done till the sun rose again, and now as that sun slowly drooped below the horizon, his home glowed with the warmth of lamp light and happy souls. As St. Phillip rang out the hour, Squire left his fence perch and walked with eager stomach to his supper which tonight was surely going to be the rabbit promised by cook.

Scraping loose dirt from the bottoms of his boots, he stepped over the threshold of his back door, fully prepared to enjoy his meal and the book which arrived today by the afternoon mail. He’d ordered it months ago from a book agent who specialised in military history – an area of interest not well stocked in Milpond’s small lending library. Trading boots for slippers, he called a welcome into the house to signal his arrival and the need to have both meal and beer ready.