Dyrpirh was one of the tiny villages you drove through on your way to the city.
As it faded into the distance behind you, so did all memory of it.
The locals liked it that was for that meant their precious village was theirs and they didn’t have to share it with anyone.
Not that there was much to share. A few scattered houses remained from what history suggested was a thriving mining town boasting ten pubs in its day.
It was a place the locals struggled to say anything about mainly because there was nothing to say about Dyrpirh other than it existed. Like all small villages, the locals were very good at discussing each other. Gossip and rumour were the village’s main assets. And they were good at it. Which was good when you consider there was not else to talk about.
The village had one shop, which served as newsagent, café, bottle shop and delicatessen. In the eyes of the villagers, the fact the village had a designated delicatessen set it apart from other villages. You could buy any array of cold meats and the occasional cheese, though if you left it till Friday, the cheese was usually sold out. The biggest breakthrough in sales came when the owner discovered the art of shaved cold meat. The locals flocked in their one’s, and two’s eager to buy something different for the harsh reality of a place like Dyrpirh was it had become stuck in its ways, and the expression ‘same old same old’ came to symbolise daily life in the village.
At one time the shop owner tried to sell fresh flowers, but the locals poked fun at him and called him names like ‘pansy boy’ and then ordered a half kilo of sliced corned meat and a loaf of white toast bread then went home put the toaster on and rang the neighbours to tell them about the cracked ideas the shop owner was having. Pretty soon, the story spread around the village, and the shop owner discovered he was being vilified. Which in itself was something different.
This would last a week until they were all hungry and so back to the shop they would go pretending it wasn’t them who had said anything nasty about the shop owner.
Usually, this went with sitting in the café section, ordering a pot of tea and a lamington and discussing the weather and the upcoming Dyrpirh Fete and Fair. This was an annual event; the only time the village came together to celebrate the uniqueness of Dyrpirh. This year promised to be a big one in much the same way every year was touted to be.
It broke the monotony, it gave the locals something to look forward to, and this year the shop owner was thinking of a cheese display, which excited everyone, as they all believed you couldn’t get better than a mild, sliced cheddar usually sold out by Friday.