Three weeks after Brexit and the village is burning with heat.
There is little sign of the hatred reported in other parts of the country, but there is anecdotal evidence that the whole shebang has caused rifts in families and between friends and also among Little Englanders sniping at foreigners just trying to earn a living .
At least two people in the village have suffered extreme stress attacks, including me. After three months that no family should ever have to endure, the referendum result tipped me over the edge. I ended up in hospital, hence the lack of new material on A Dorset Year’s home page for the last four weeks.
Today, the village lanes smell of summer holidays as the children break up from school. In a world in which lorries can be used as weapons to such devastating effect, a caring politician can be snuffed out just for being caring and Turkey teeters on the brink of yet another disaster in that part of the world, it is a joy to be living in the back of beyond, far from the madding crowd in Dorset’s green and beautiful hinterland, where the only things to complain about are potholes in the road and lamp posts that are out of keeping.
Back on Referendum Day, the village bunting was still damp and in situ, strewn across golden sandstone cottage and house fronts, after celebrations for the Queen’s 90th.
‘Let’s keep it up for the football,’ said someone, as England battled it out with other European nations on the soccer pitches of France.
‘No, let’s keep it up for the Referendum,’ said another.
And then the first poster appeared, rather shyly, in a window on the high street.
Not long after, it was met with a triple reposte across the road.
‘LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE.’
Among the good natured banter on the street, in the village shop and in the pub, there has been discord on social media. And now none of us can quite believe that we’re actually out of Europe, even those who voted for it.
But there’s no turning back. It is what it is.