I am from open coal fires, from Marmite, fish fingers and Wall's ice cream.
I am from the half-thatched farmhouse on top of the hill, with tumbledown barns, rutted drive and cluttered yard.
I am from hedgerows of hawthorn, elderflower and blackberry; from green pastures, corn fields and hay meadows.
I am from summer holidays and sandy beaches, from stoic countrymen in wellington boots, from village and countryside.
I am from cooks and teetotallers, from farmers and higglers.
From "do your best" and "mustn't grumble".
I am from Primitive Methodists, from John Wesley, harvest festivals and Sunday School anniversaries.
I am from Buckinghamshire farmland and wuthering northern moors, from roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
From the trenches of World War I, pheasant shooting in No-Man's-Land and poison gas; from haymaking in trousers tied with string to keep out the field mice.
I am from faded, nameless monochrome photographs, from Super 8 film of happy children playing, from slideshows of family holidays from years gone by. Beloved memories slip out of focus into distant genealogies. I am my past.