Commentary

Keeping a historical village alive

December 11, 2025   ·   0 Comments

By Constance Scrafield

It is so very heartening to see a Christmas concert being staged in Hockley Village at the Hockley Historic Community Centre and Church. I have quite a history with the village, the Hockley United Church, as it was, and the Community Centre.

It was October 1990 when my daughter Patricia and I, coming back to Canada from living many years in London, England, moved into our new (1850s) home on the Mono-Adjala Townline. The house is situated right at the juncture of the Townline and the 15th Sideroad, a scant kilometre from the village. Its centre attraction was the Driveshed, a crumbling 1800s general store owned and run by a series of folk, but there was always a source of fresh and packaged food, dry goods and – of course butter tarts. There was never an owner who failed to have butter tarts on the shelves.

We had transported my darling horse, Patrick, and our dog, Zen, to Canada (I had owned Patrick for some time before I gave birth to my daughter, whom I had, forever ago, decided to call Patricia after my late mother). The people in England at the stables where Patrick was boarded laughed somewhat incredulously that I named my baby after my horse…

I had already found suitable accommodation for him in stables on the nearby 7th Concession, and we right away met companions for riding out in the beautiful Hockley Valley. On those sweet summer days, we habitually rode down to the village to sit outside the Driveshed where we tied the horses and ate butter tarts that could not have tasted better anywhere else.

Our neighbours up and down the 15th Sideroad and the Townline were a varied collection of generations of families living right in Hockley Valley, some dating back to original settlers, some more recently come and we did our best to introduce ourselves to the nearest of them over the first few weeks of our arrival. Indeed, as a single mother of a young child on our own (that is, without a man), we were quite a novelty to this rural community.

Immediately next door to us was an older couple. We had bought our house from a lady who had lived in it for the whole of her 85 years. Naturally, our neighbours, who had resided next door to her for many decades, were very interested to know who we were.

They gave us good advice about country life.

In such a perfect place, inevitably perhaps, a number of us suggested a Strawberry Festival in support of the church and the centre.

The totally adequate kitchen in the community centre housed the pancake breakfast – those ladies knew all about feeding lots of people. They dug into the cooking, serving and cleaning up with cheer and efficiency that was wonderful.

Of course, there was a bake sale: all those perfect pies, scones, cookies, chocolate things, and fruit perfectly embellishing pastry treats.

Someone had brought a collection of antiques and memorabilia to buy.

There was a band of drums, sax and horns. We pitched a tent for them, and the whole day was all that it should have been. The Strawberry Festival stood for years, and it was brought back this year to a great welcome.

In due course, and for better or worse, I married Colin and Patricia, and I moved into his log house (1835), which was basically around the corner. We were married in the Hockley United Church and contributed to the running of it. Colin built a baptismal font from wood, and I think it is still there. We accepted our first communion at its altar.

In 2002, the church put out a follow-up cookbook to one that the ladies’ association put together in 1973. The congregation, neighbouring people, their grandmothers and local restaurants contributed to the recipes of the new book, which a committee of church members compiled.

In the front of the cookbook is an introduction, a poem, an acknowledgement, and a fulsome history of the village and church by local resident, historian, artist, and architect Jacques Brooksbank.

Hockley Village took its name from the Hockley Hotel, owned by Thomas Hockley, whose name was finally officially adopted when the post office was established on August 1, 1863, Brooksbank wrote.

The church also has an interesting history.

Brooksbank wrote that it was originally built as a Methodist Church in 1869 and stood on the (now) Airport Road. In the winter of 1887, the building was “sawn into four pieces” and moved by horses and sleds to its present position in Hockley Village, where a new foundation was ready.

The book is charmingly illustrated by Brooksbank of Hockley’s buildings and homes.

For some years, Patricia played the organ for the services in the Hockey Church until the DuBois family became part of the congregation and Mark DuBois took over the music with Patricia, bringing it to a delightfully high level.

There is a frenzy to demolish the old and revered, to replace them with new cookie-cutter houses and mediocrely designed buildings that are in fashion now.

It is so wonderful to witness the wisdom of people still caring, still understanding the value of these ancient places, for all of us.

And I thank them here.

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