Hazon Part 2

. . . His name was Bruce, his wife was called Helen and they had lived next to Hazon Mill for about 12 years. Their neighbor, who lives in the old mill, was on holiday but they gave us a quick tour of the place now called “Hazon Mill Cottage”, built in 1700. Its a low, stone building with a wood beamed roof and a loft. You can still see the channel through the backyard where the burn was diverted to the mill wheel.

We had a lovely talk in the storybook cottage garden, set just next to the burn. We spoke of weather, and the local farming news. At some point, Bruce apologized that he didn’t know more about the history of the place, and said that we need to find Drew Bell . . .HE would be able to tell us more. 

Bruce gave us a slightly different set of directions, but I discerned that they would lead to the same place Pat had described. We exchanged email addresses, promised to up-date him on our adventure, and headed back toward the village.

2 minutes later we passed another little story book place called “East Hazon” right next door was, of course, “West Hazon” and then at a bend in the narrow lane was “Hazon Cottage”, covered with climbing roses and ivy; a picture perfect spot. Across the way was a lane which lead through large stone pillars and an open gate beside which a sign read “Hazon House”, a relatively imposing three story stone house of some size, with several outbuildings. . . But this was not our destination. 

Drew and his wife had sold off large portions of the land (including Hazon House) years ago, and now lived in the old estate carriage house, one lane over. Another family of “new comers” now occupied the big house.

We turned down the next lane and passed under what seemed to me, ranks of ancient oak trees to emerge into a working farm courtyard with a gate opening onto a small yard and house, barn to our left, a shed, parked tractor and various implements off to the right.

The girls took up their hiding places for a third time and I walked through the gate, up to the house and rang the bell.

It was answered by a stout, 60-some year old man in working clothes with a shock of snow white hair and a quizzical (if not a little grumpy) expression on his face.

“Mr.Bell?”, I asked.

“Yeah?”, he half-questioned.

I went into my, by now practiced, introduction: “Hello, my name is Dan Hazen from America . . . ” and I stuck out my hand.

Instead of reaching to shake my hand, Drew Bell extended his hand and swung it back against his own forehead, leaned back against the wall and said in slightly less than a shout,

“Oh No! . . . Not ANOTHER one!”

. . . To be continued

It’s hard to know where to begin . . .

We walked the lanes of Hazon today, and there was more to it than I had thought.

I had looked at Hazon on Google Street View a couple of weeks before the trip and saw that it consisted of exactly two houses, one called the Hazon Cottage, the other larger house had a sign that read Hazon Lea House and I decided I would knock on this door,  which I did while the girls hid around the corner.

A lovely lady named Pat answered the door and I said, “Hi, my name is Dan Hazen and I’m visiting from America.” Recognition bloomed on her face as she shook my hand.

“Ha-zen, you say! I can guess why you’re here!”

We had a lovely chat in which she explained that she and her invalid husband had only moved in 4 years ago, and that the couple in the nearby cottage had been there for less than 2. She knew only that the name of her house, like all named houses in England, came from a distant family name.

I was not surprised, but I was admittedly a little disappointed that there was not more to discover.

Then Pat said, “Have you been up to the village yet?”

“Village?” I said

She walked me out into the garden and indicated  a group of trees on the rise just across the field from her place and explained that the MAIN house and a few other houses still stood, just on the other side of Hazon Burn (creek).

She said that we need to find Drew Bell, the “Ol’ Timer” in the village and that he would know more. She gave detailed directions, and scrounged up Drew’s phone number for us and sent us on our way.

We drove a short distance further down the lane which rapidly narrowed into a one lane track, flanked by high hedges for which the place and my family get their names. It began to look just like a scene from “All Creatures Great and Small”: a lane winding through alternating stretches of wheat and oat fields and stands of enormous oak, elm and larch.

As we came to the bottom of a hill, we crossed over the babbling burn, and I got distracted by a sign to our right which indicated a gravel road and read “Hazon Mill”.

Hmmm. Down the road we went, and out from a wee stonehouse came a man to investigate his barking dog as we pulled to stop. Standing just behind the open car door, I gave my same greeting, “Hello, I’m Dan Hazen visiting from America. . .” He smiled a broad smile, turned and shouted into the open door of his house, “Did ya’ hear, Helen!? ‘is name is Hazen!

“Wha!” came the exclamation from inside?

“Hazen’s ‘is name . . .’e’s come from America!

 . . . To be continued.