This is mainly a memoir, describing the author's early years growing up in the 1950s in the unspectacular, but pretty, North Hertfordshire village of St Ippolyts, which was named after the patron saint for horses - Saint Hippolytus. Describing his family background and daily life in a village council house, he re-captures not only the social and economic background, but also the spirit and thinking, as well as the prejudices of the time.
It is, in addition, a history, putting the village in its historical context - since its settlement in the 11th century - by means of short commentaries from throughout the centuries. These highlight certain episodes in the village's past. For example, explaining who St Hippolytus was or describing the visits of Henry VIII and John Bunyan.
The book was first prompted by the author's 26-year-old daughter's amazement and amusement at the way people lived. What? You didn't even have a telephone in the house? You only had a bath once a week? As well as the baby boomer generation, the book should also appeal to a younger set who are curious about the lives and times of their parents and grandparents.