Our first encounter with Ezra
One fine day in the 1980s, I was in the front garden with Corinne, when Ezra suddenly emerged from the footpath around the field. He was curious about how we were coping with village life.
Thats was a nice jesture, but left us thinking "Is Bures hiding something?"

As we chatted away, a peculiar "roaring" noise interrupted us-that left us puzzled.
Then it happened again, then suddenly a hot-air balloon appeared, skimming the trees over the cemetery heading our way.
The pilot was frantically burning gas to gain altitude, and by now, the balloon was floating over the road above Dennis Partridge's cottage, still heading in our direction.

The three of us exchanged worried glances, our thoughts on the high-voltage power lines lurking ominously beside our property and of course the balloon now hovering over Friends Field.

Ezra took it upon himself to become an impromptu "Air Traffic Controller", shouting instructions to the pilot with the fervor of a man who'd just discovered his true calling.

Corinne, perhaps overwhelmed by the potential destruction of our chimney or Ezra's colourful language, wisely retreated indoors.

Ezra continued his enthusiastic guidance with his arms waving and gesturing with a clench fist, as the balloon drifted directly over the top of us.
The passengers were leaning over the basket's edge, waving wildly in what could only be described as sheer panic.
Miraculously, and thanks to Ezra's colourful advice, the basket narrowly missed our chimney by mere inches.

It then gracefully glided over Eaves Orchard and finally touched down on the Recreation Ground, leaving us with a story that would be retold for decades to come

A Nightmare Encounter

One day I needed some local information from Ezra, so I decided to pay him a visit at his bungalow in St Edmunds Lane.
I knocked and waited, finally the door creaked open, the sight before me, put me immediately into Panic Mode.

Ezra stood there with a blood-soaked rag clamped to his face. His grubby pullover was saturated in blood all the way down to his trousers and onto his shoes.
For a split second, I honestly thought he had lost a fight with his chainsaw.
I blurted out, "Are you okay" but he just shook his head, calm as ever. "Just a nosebleed," he said.

Blood was now dripping onto the doorstep. I suggested we head to the kitchen so I could help him clean up, but things only got worse as we walked down the hall. There was a trail of blood from the front door along the hall and straight to the kitchen. The kitchen itself looked like something out of a crime scene-blood spattered in the sink, streaks across the draining board.
For a moment, I really did wonder if I'd walked into some horrific accident.

Ezra, though, didn't seem bothered. "Nothing to worry about. Happens all the time," he said. I managed to get him to sit down, leaned his head back and I threw the old blood soaked cloth in the sink.
Without the cloth, blood from his nose was now dripping onto the floor so I immediately found a grimy tea towel laying on a chair
I soaked it under the sink tap and held it tightly on his nose.

After 5 minutes of more the bleeding finally slowed. I could actually breathe again.
But my nerves were wrecked.

The only thing running through my mind, was a nightmare scenario of Ezra asking me to clean up the mess, as if I was supposed to erase evidence of some sort of murder
Before he could even ask, I made sure he was now OK and quickly made my escape back to home

Later, after I'd calmed down, I walked down to Eves Orchard to see his sister Mary.
I told her the whole story-the blood, the panic, the mess.
Oh she said " Don't worry about Ezra, he is often in Colchester Hospital with his famous nose bleeds. He will have most probably have caused yet another Ambulance to be taken out of service so it can be scrubbed clean".
"Don't worry about the mess at the bungalow, he will clean it up"

Mystery of the vanishing Petrol.

Mains sewerage arrived in the village in 1955, at the time The Suez Crisis was unfolding, and every drop of petrol was precious.
Laying down pipework should have been routine, but with fuel in short supply, every day brought a new challenge.
Then came the night of the missing Fuel

Ezra during one day collected several drums of petrol from The Colchester Road Garage for use with the heavy machinery they were using.
It was stored and locked in a small wooden hut at the end of Claypits Avenue

The door was sturdy, the lock secure, and Ezra-the man trusted with its security , kept the only key.

But when dawn broke, the drums of fuel had mysteriously vanished. No sign of a break-in, no tracks, just empty space where the village's hopes had been stored a few hours before.
Ezra said he was stunned. "How could they have vanished?"

He'd checked the lock himself before leaving work in the evening,