Damn His Blood
“Mr Parker of Oddingley Nine months earlier, September 1805 THE PARISH OF Oddingley lay low and inconspicuous, sprawled over a shallow undulating valley in the mid-Worcestershire countryside. It was a picturesque but isolated place, a blend of open fields, twisting lanes, stray oak trees and fruit orchards, which all told measured about a thousand acres. The seven farms at the village’s backbone were distinct and self-contained. Their pretty half-timber or red-brick farmhouses stood behind trimm...ed hedges and wooden gates and were surrounded on all sides by barns, workshops, stables, ricks, muddy pools, old marl pits and, in the fields beyond, the huddled roofs of labourers’ cottages. In the summer months the meadows and open pastures rang with the rattle of traps, the moans of livestock being driven from fold-yard to market and the shouts of labourers at harvest. But now, with autumn approaching, the pace of life slackened as the leaves began to yellow in Trench Wood and the cold night drew steadily in.MoreLess
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