History's been preying on my mind a bit lately, what with the deadline for the village history book creeping ever closer, then closer and closer until suddenly it's been and gone.
History - it seems is stuff one knows, is sure of - but ha! perversely every known fact is like an island in a sea of uncertainty. For each bit we know there is something which remains a mystery. I wish we could just go back for the afternoon - to the c17th for example - just to find out what it really was like. No chance of that though - I'm stuck firmly in the here-and-now with a to-do list that appears to multiply like an evil bacteria.
Two years ago we put an exhibition together, D & I, and the inevitable question was - what to do with all the information we'd amassed? A book was the obvious answer and since then D has written thousands of words and I've chipped in with my two-penn'th of photos and maps. We've cajoled a friend into doing us some line drawings to illustrate those periods where only the imagination can now describe what life was like.
We've delivered, on time, to our publisher - giving him words and pictures on memory sticks, which somehow seem too small to hold the span of four millennia our book embraces.