chalfen

between two chalk hills. the station house is small and whitewashed and looks more like a chapel than a station; the former curate of the parish was the original stationmaster, and something of his temperament still hangs about the place. silence on the platform comes easily here. nobody talks until the train is in sight.

chalfen village sits in the dip beyond, a long village strung out along a single lane. it has a stream, a pub called the shepherd, and a flock that crosses the road twice daily. the train serves it five times a day. the line bends sharply just west of the station, so the approaching train can be heard before it can be seen.

the current stationmaster is an older man with thin hands. he does not give his name and does not need to; everyone knows it. he sells tickets, sweeps the platform, and, in the long evenings, draws the chalk hills from memory in a small book.

field note: a walker passed through last whitsun with a child on her shoulders. she did not buy a ticket. nobody asked.