A bit about me and Corby Glen

I'm back in Corby for a few weeks while I train in Peterborough, to do my job in London. I lived in Corby for the first 18 years of my life, before I moved to London to study, and so it's packed full of (mostly) happy memories and emotional significance. While this sort of post is probably akin to posts of people's cats (yes, your cat is lovely to you, but why do I have to look at it?) I thought it'd be a nice departure from the "I did this, I did that, then the next day I did this" that my posts seem to generally follow. So here's a few snaps of the village and a bit of chat about what it means to me.

	This is my parents' house. It was built in or around 1988, by my father, in nearly every aspect. It was later propped back up again when it started sinking into the garden. In 1997 I had two excellent parties here, much to the concern of our immediate neighbours. The lawn on either side provided me with hours of diversion as a young teenager, and I learned to drive a car when I was about 13 or 14 on the back garden.
	Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church, moved 150 years ago from the Irnham Estate, stone by stone in a bunch of wheelbarrows. I was the altar boy here every week for many years, and played flute with my aunt for the services for years after that. Now they have one service monthly on a Thursday evening. Many of my relatives from decades before I was born, are buried in the grounds.
	The Glaziers Arms, no longer trading, is where I drank and played pool for many years, and later celebrated my 18th birthday there, with my younger brother. There's one in every village, and this was the one. One evening, we were almost thrown out for singing Radiohead on the karaoke machine. When my grandfather died, one of the locals headbutted my cousin Howard for no apparent reason, and I still liked the place. Very odd.
	The Fighting Cocks. Usually more stringent with its age limits. Not so many memories from this one. My brother is in there a lot though.
	This lane runs from Bourne Road down to the Marketplace. I used to use it as a go-kart track. Most of my shoes from that time had a triangular wedge worn out of the soles at the back, from where I'd used them to brake. I don't remember ever being hurt, but I bet I was.
	The Methodist chapel. Home of many services relating to the Scouts, also choir rehearsals at one stage, and the local Guide troop.
	My old Primary School. I used to hopscotch just underneath the big window on the left.
	The Green. Home of one of Lincolnshire's best slides. Not that one, it's rubbish, the old one. As a child the swings seemed to hold a strange fascination. As an adolescent I was more fascinated by bottles of cider and chatting rubbish until midnight. On the swings, mind.
	Derelict building just outside the village. I don't know what it was for, nor have I ever asked. One day I'll go and have a closer look (without wrecking too many of the wheat plants, I hope).
	As you can see, we're well situated for several small towns, and a much better pub than either of the Corby ones, in the next village across.
	Corby from the top of the hill. The two tall trees on the left mark the back of my parents' garden, or they did until they sold the plot at the top of the garden. This is the view that I usually woke up to, when we would come back from long caravan holidays in France.
	The Coachman - formerly the Woodhouse Arms, or simply the Woodhouse. Once home to a transvestite, swingers-party-organising landlord with an oven in the back you could roast a whole pig in. Now, much more normal, and much duller for it. But allegedly a good place for a meal and a bed for the night. We didn't go here much.
	The Willoughby Gallery. In the Easter holidays as a student, I would occasionally study in the library here. It's a lovely building, well-maintained, and worth a visit if you're in the area.
	The Ron Dawson Memorial Hall. I once went camping with someone called Dawson, but I don't think it was Ron. Either way, this is where my uncle had his wedding reception, and to this day is the only place I've got properly off the ground with one of my kites.
	St John's Church and the old Village Hall. From the age of two, or something like that, I attended playgroup here. This is also where I correctly identified the village's Santa as being my grandfather in disguise. The real Santa was busy, he said later.
	The Fire Station. My father and brother are retained firefighters here. I once borrowed Dad's uniform for a New Year's Eve party, which I recommend to any young man for fancy dress. There's no pole, which I think is a shame.

Well, that wasn't nearly as soppy as I thought it would be. It's a nice place, and I'm glad to have been raised here. And I reckon there'll be some sort of family tie to the village for the rest of my life, so I had better like it!