By Henrietta Clay, Senior Features Correspondent
You might miss it entirely if you blink, or if your cart’s wheel dips too deep into the roadside rut just past Larkvale. But nestled between two stubborn hills and one ever-grumbling brook lies the village of Grebbley-under-Hill — a place as modest as it is curiously proud of its chimneys.
The name comes, locals insist, not from the hills themselves but from the Grebble family, who once claimed the land by planting six turnips and one stolen bishop’s shoe in a ring formation. The legality of this claim is disputed, but the shoe is still displayed in the village hall, under a small plaque reading: “He Didn’t Come Back for It.”
Grebbley is home to just under 200 residents (198 last count, unless you include Stig Blarn, who is seasonal), and is best known for its unusual landmark: the Chimney Field — an open meadow where forty-two brick chimneys rise out of the earth with no visible buildings attached. Theories abound. Some claim they are the remnants of sunken cottages. Others whisper of a long-lost underground village. A few simply say “no one ever asked the right question.”
The current mayor, Marge Trottle, says only, “They’re warm when you need them to be, and they don’t leak. Can your roof do that?”
Notable citizens include Thomley Varn, a basket weaver who refuses to use anything but discarded fencing, and Miss Clea Podger, who writes long and emotional letters to the editor of this very newspaper every week but never posts them. Her cat, Professor Hum, is rumored to have once scared off a fox by singing.
Grebbley’s major annual event is the Murmuring Festival, held during Firstfall, where the townsfolk gather to “listen to what the hills have been saying all year.” This is followed by soup.
Visitors are welcome — though advised not to ask too many questions about the chimneys unless they’re prepared to hear four different answers and be handed a scone.