I sat on a bench close to the wall-with-grooves where the
mediaeval forefathers used to sharpen their arrows, and ate a banana. I was
surprised at how brown the skin had become as a result of being carried for a
mile in my pocket.
I talked briefly to an elderly man from the village who was
strimming the long grass at the base of the headstones (that’s the bit the
mower misses, you see.) He informed me that it was spitting with rain, which
intelligence I considered vital to my plans for the immediate future, although
I had actually noted the fact for myself.
I visited the grave of Isabella to pay my respects, as I
always do when I visit the churchyard. Readers of longstanding might remember
the interesting story of Isabella and her daughter, Isabella, and I’m not in
the mood for telling it again.
On the way back I was passed by the strimming gentleman in
his 8-year-old pick up truck (see what an eye I have for detail?) He was
obviously on his way home, and we exchanged waves. It’s what you do in the
countryside.
Then I was crept up on by Ange (the female half of Sam-and-Ange,
the sheep farmers) who was approaching – somewhat furtively, it seemed – from
behind on her unshod chestnut mare (unshod horses don’t go clippety-clop. Get
it?) Said mare was due to be shod on the morrow, apparently, and it’s the
practice to take them out unshod first. Don’t ask me why, since I know nothing
about horses. Maybe it’s to do with planing off the rough bits or something.
The mare shied away from me at first, but later seemed to decide that I was
safe enough to tolerate. Then Ange walked off – well, the horse walked off and
Ange was sitting on it, so you know what I mean.
At about the same point I noticed a herd of young heifers in
the landlord’s field. There were ten of them (see what an eye I have for
detail?) Nine of them were almost completely black, which is pretty unusual for
the Friesians we get in Britain,
and the tenth was almost completely white. It reminded me of a film I saw as a
kid called Tommy the Toreador. I
won’t bother to explain.
A little way further on there was a field containing older
heifers, the properly balanced, black and white sort that one has a right to
expect in a British field, don’t you know. One of them trotted over, apparently
wanting to make my acquaintance. Then she didn’t, then she did, then she didn’t…
I gave up in the end.
What should I find a little further on, but the single-track
lane all but blocked by the strimming man’s pick up truck. He was leaning on
the side of the body, talking to Ange who was still sitting astride the unshod
chestnut mare. So tell me, where else can you block a single-track lane with a
pick up truck and not have your eardrums assaulted by an orchestra of hooting horns? That’s because only about ten cars a day
drive along Church Lane,
which is one of the reasons why it’s my favourite lane in all of the Shire. I
asked them whether this secret assignation was accidental, or whether it had
been planned. Ange said ‘I knew you’d overtake me,’ which is maybe an answer of
sorts.
And then I went home, fully satisfied with the admirable way
in which my knee had negotiated its two mile perambulation.
So you see what a
fascinating place the Shire is, how there’s never a dull moment, and how heartbroken I would be if circumstances ever persuaded me to leave?
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