I find myself often reminiscing to my childhood and early teen years when we travelled from Scotland all the way down to rural Kent to holiday with my Gran. My Dad was born and raised in Biddenden, Kent so we went down every year, sometimes twice.
I mention this because these were the simplest and happiest memories. On a Friday the baker from the village a quarter of a mile up the road brought in his basket in front of his bike, my Gran’s weekly loaf which she would duly slice for us each meal, then return to her bread bin. She did not get another loaf until the following week. Around the table each meal, without visitors there would be five of us.
The bread was not wrapped in anything, yet it lasted. No addatives or preservatives, just wholesome locally baked bread.
These were also the days when the butcher would deliver on a Saturday on his bike, All the fruit, or most of it and all our veg, and flowers came from her large garden. They don’t call it the garden of England for nothing.
I would love to go back in time to experience all this again. This was the 50s and 60s and early 70s.❤️❤️
