An old gentleman in the neighbourhood used to tell with much enjoyment the following story of his younger days.  “I found myself,” he said, “gradually increasing my allowance of whisky and water, as I sat alone of an evening, and I said to myself:  ’Now look here, H.W., you began with one glass, very soon you got on to two, and now you’re taking three.  I’ll tell you what it is, H.W., you shan’t have another drop of whisky for a month’;” “and,” he added, “H.W. did it, too!”

Shortly before I came to Aldington the men were suddenly seized with what seemed an unaccountable epidemic; their symptoms were all similar, and a doctor soon diagnosed the complaint as lead-poisoning.  Nobody could suggest its origin until the cider was suspected, and, on enquiry, it was elicited that the previous year the stones of the cider-mill chase, which had become loosened by long use, were repaired with melted lead poured in between the joints.  The malic acid of the apples had dissolved the lead, and it remained in solution in the cider.  To the disgust of the men, the doctor advised removing the bungs from the barrels and letting the cider run off into the drains, but nobody had the heart to comply, for there was the whole year’s stock, and it meant a wait of twelve months before it could be replaced.  After some months the men got impatient, and told the master they were prepared to take the risk.  They began with great caution, and finding no bad result, they gradually increased the dose, still without harm, until the normal allowance was safely reached.  It is probable that the barrel which caused the symptoms was the first made after the repairs, and contained an extra quantity of the lead, and although the remainder was more or less contaminated, the poison was in such small amount as to be harmless.

There were many old apple-trees about the hedges and in odd corners, which went by the name of “the roundabouts,” and the fruit was annually collected and brought to the cider-mill.  Some of these were immense trees, and not very desirable round arable land, owing to their shade, but they were lovely when in bloom, for standing separately, they seemed to develop richer colours than when close together in an orchard.

The story of Shakespeare’s carouse, and his night passed under a crab-tree near Bidford, about six miles from Aldington, is well known.  It is stated, but not without contradiction, that he excused himself by explaining that he had been drinking with: 

     Piping Pebworth, dancing Marston,
     Haunted Hillborough, hungry Grafton,
     Dudging Exhall, papist Wixford,
     Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bidford.

A carousal at all these places would have been a heavy day’s work, and I have often thought that if the lines can really be attributed to him, he might have meant that he had met people from all the villages at one of the Whitsuntide merry-makings annually held in the neighbourhood, and passed a jovial time in their company.