The Market Place in Barton-upon-Humber in Lincolnshire has boasted many fine shops in it s day.
Number eleven was where I used to live and I spent many happy hours with other kids of the time playing in the Butchery. My Mother ran the shop in the corner of the Market Place as a bed and breakfast caf and it was the first place the local police would visit should any shady characters hit town.
Mum was a Christian in the true sense of the word and I have often seen her give passing hobos a wrapped packet of sandwiches and filled their can with hot tea in winter- time to help them on their way.
When two Austrian travelers called in on their way to Lincoln they had lunch then they opened a big case and took out a Dulcimer. They laid it on the table and played it with four sticks that had felt pads on the ends.
I sat there enraptured by the sweet sound of waltzes, jigs, reels and marches. I was sorry when it ended and they repacked the Dulcimer back into its case.
When they asked for their bill my Mum told them, Forget it, the music was a fair exchange.
