I LIVE in a little village in the Chilterns. It is rather isolated from the main roads and, while attractive to those who are well off and drive large cars, it is less appealing to younger folk. The remaining elders of the village have to make do with one village shop, a twice-weekly bus to town, and me as the local painter, carpenter and handyman with a small van.
Years ago, the village had a railway and station. You can still see the trackbed and the remains of a bridge over the road at the end of the village. The railway was closed in late 1962 – not from the Beeching cuts, but following an accident that took place at the bridge. The line had been used for occasional main line diversions and, on one night just before Christmas that year, a heavy train collapsed the bridge and tumbled down the embankment to the road. Fifty people died
