Who’s grumpy now?

“A lovely lady and a grumpy old man live here.” Painted on a small wooden board, the sign is stuck in the flower bed, just outside of the front door of the 15th Century cottage. Stable-style, the front door is painted a deep green.

The red-brick residence with its original crook frame, beamed ceilings and bay windows, sits across the street from the village church—its clock chimes every hour—and is attached to Stowe-by-Chartley’s only public house, The Cock Inn. In this instance, “The Cock” refers to a feathered male bird and not a male member.

“It’s the highest village in England,” said the grumpy old man the other day with an air of authority, referring to the village of Flash, located 30 miles north from where he sat at the bar in The Cock Inn, and 1518 feet above sea level.

“Must be great views from there,” said George, one of the locals.

“No, there’s absolutely nothing to see,” said Grumpy.

“How’s that possible, if it’s the highest village in the country?” asked John, the bartender.

“Because of the bloody hills,” said Grumpy. “It’s not the highest “point” in the country, it’s the highest settlement.”

“Ah, but what’s the definition of a settlement?” enquired the only woman sitting at the bar.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Grumpy.

“Of course it matters,” the woman said, “you said ‘village,’ and then you said ‘settlement.’ Are you saying there are no hamlets located on higher levels of ground elsewhere in the country?”

“Or what about single family houses?” asked George. Other locals listening in on the conversation nodded their heads in agreement.

“Makes a difference,” said John the bartender.

“It doesn’t make a bloody difference,” said Grumpy, “I was told it was the highest ‘settlement’ and that’s that.

“I think we need to clarify exactly what’s meant by ‘settlement,’ said the woman.

“I’m not getting involved,” said George, “it’s difficult to argue with him. Just easier to nod your head and agree.”

“What’s this place like then, Flash?” asked John.

“Not bad, when it’s not foggy,” said Grumpy. He handed his pint glass to John for a refill.

“Have you seen those big houses they’re building up the road from here, right next to the railway track?” asked John.

“They’re not right next to the track,” said Grumpy, “they’re at least 100 yards away.”

“More like feet,” said John.

And just like that the conversation switched from high settlements on hills—or not—to ones by railway lines. No one missed a beat. Except me. I was the lone female and chose at that point to return to the “lovely lady” sitting next door: my mom.

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