So, I was in this village called Hilgay the other day…
Now, Hilgay—that’s in Norfolk, England. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s in Scotland. Or my mind. I don’t know. I just know it exists because I saw a sign that said “Welcome to Hilgay: Please Drive Slowly, We’re All Asleep.”
And I thought, That’s nice. A whole village that’s honest about its priorities.
So I pull in, right? And the first thing I notice is… nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not in a bad way, just in a “Did I accidentally drive into a painting?” kind of way. There’s a church, a pub, and what I think is either a post office or a very small castle. Hard to tell—the sign just says “Gone for Tea.”
I walk into the pub—The Duck and Also Duck—because when a pub is named after the same animal twice, you know they’re serious about… something. The bartender looks at me like I’ve just asked him to explain the plot of Inception, and I say, “Pint of whatever’s least likely to kill me.”
He slides me a glass of what I can only describe as “liquid nostalgia”—tastes like a childhood memory, if that memory was of licking a tractor.
I ask him, “So, what do people do for fun around here?”
He stares into the middle distance like he’s trying to remember what fun is, then says, “Well… there’s the annual Turnip Festival.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, leaning in. “What happens at the Turnip Festival?”
“We look at a turnip.”
“For how long?”
“Depends on the turnip.”
And I think, Wow. This is a village that understands commitment.
Then he tells me about the time a second turnip showed up, and the whole village had to have an emergency meeting to decide if it was too ambitious.
“We don’t want to get carried away,” he says. *”Last time we got excited, someone planted *two* daffodils, and the council had to step in.”*
I nod like this makes perfect sense.
Then I ask, “What’s the biggest scandal that’s ever happened in Hilgay?”
He sighs, like the memory still haunts him. *”2004. A man from out of town… wore *two* hats.”*
“At the same time?”
*”At the *exact* same time.”*
“My God.”
“We still don’t talk about it.”
I finish my drink—which, by now, has somehow refilled itself, like a magic trick or a curse—and I realize… I don’t want to leave. There’s something peaceful about a place where the most exciting thing that’s ever happened is a suspiciously large beetroot.
So I ask, “What’s the housing market like here?”
The bartender squints at me. *”You’d have to *wait* for someone to die.”*
“How’s the waitlist?”
“Well, Old Tom’s 102, so… fingers crossed.”
And that’s when I knew—Hilgay wasn’t just a village. It was a state of mind. A state of mind that says, *”Why have *two* turnips when one will do just fine?”*
So if you’re ever in Norfolk—or maybe Scotland, or possibly a dream—stop by Hilgay. Just don’t wear two hats.
Some wounds never heal.
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