The treat on a Saturday or a Sunday night was a walk across the fields to Humberstone village, which had two public houses: the Plough, which according to many sold the best beer and kept it the best; and a quaint thatched country public house, the Windmill, which was the families’ choice because it had a garden so you could sit outside. It seems funny to reminisce, as the evenings always seemed to be sunny and the general atmosphere was always friendly and convivial with impromptu singsongs and organised games for children. Money was quite scarce so drunkeness was always minimal, except for one or two characters who shall be nameless, although even that was non-aggressive. I suppose, because the majority of the men were old soldiers who were used to the camaraderie of the trenches, this was to carry through to a civilian life of mutual help and friendship. I remember the long walk back down the hill, across by the asylum, and being carried the last piece by my father, half awake, half asleep, and then being put to bed in utter contentment. Is it imagination?
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