There be feuding in paradoise what ‘as bin goin’ arn fer forty year or more. And it continues roit at the very start o’ this week’s episode when a young girl boi the name of Nan throws a milk churn at our Laura. All roit, Oi admit that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but mark moi words them Fordlow folk are a bunch of hooligans and ruffians, so they are, wot no decent folk would ‘ave anythin’ to do with.

I wrote last week about storms in the teacups of Lark Rise and Candleford, but it seems I missed one squally shower that’s been pissing in a thimble over at Fordlow since Queenie was a girl and her grandma was head beekeeper at Lark Rise, and was accused of stealing Fordlow bees. If everything they say about Fordlow is true, I can’t imagine why she would have wanted to. They’d probably only give sour honey. Or should that be grapes? Anyway there’s not been so much bad blood between two groups of people since the Montagues and the Capulets, and it all gets stirred up again the day after Twister and Queenie’s wedding, when her bees go missing.

She thinks they’re just swarming; he’s convinced the Fordl’uns have nicked ‘em.

All this argy-bargy bodes ill for the burgeoning romance between Alf and Nan. Or what passes for romance back in those days. A bit of smiling and giggling and trying to decide what shapes the clouds make. Not so very different from today, then. Anyway the pair haven’t got round to holding hands yet when the bad feeling between the two hamlets is stirred up again and each is forced to take sides. But it’s alright in the end (isn’t it always?) because the Lark Rise folk take over a couple of trugs of weeds to compensate the Fordl’uns for their ripped up cabbages, Robert shakes hands with “Fordlow Man” (no, seriously. That’s how he’s referred to in the cast list. Those Fordlow folk are so backward they don’t even give each other proper names) and Alf and Nan wander off round a corner to hold hands.

And all that without Queenie having to admit that her Grandma DID steal those bees after all. So when it comes down to it, Lark Rise people aren’t so far above the others no matter how many airs and graces they put on. Even the place names are hierarchical. Lark RISE and FordLOW. As if there’s not enough trouble in the world (wanders off tutting).

Back in Candleford, whose name doesn’t give any indication of its place in the hierarchy but where in general people are much more refined, Mr Dowland is to be found moping about, taking too much whisky, and letting his business go to rack and ruin all on account of Miss Lane not replying to his note. Such behaviour, from a business man used to running five hotels, might be thought a little melodramatic, but not half so melodramatic as the cure: a single brisk visit from Dorcas, setting all her staff to man the barricades at the hotel and telling James in no uncertain terms that she’ll be a good friend and neighbour, but there’ll be absolutely no holding of hands or discussing of the shapes of clouds thank you very much.

If only James was as lucky in love as Thomas. *cough* *cough*

More strange weather fronts occupying the porcelain next week.