Last Sunday we all tipped-up at the Fernie Country Fair in a Leicestershire field. 'Fun for All The Family' included Dog Shows, Terrier Racing, Falconry, Archery and Digger Driving. At one point some big men got out of an equally big van and started making little chairs for the kiddies out of logs with chainsaws. In thirty seconds flat. I averted my gaze and spotted this beautiful 1948 Morgan 4/4 with its spare Avon tyre on the back. Avon. How English is that? I don't know whether they're still made in Bradford-on-Avon or whether they're still fitted to new Rolls Royces, but I love that logo. My Morgan Specialist tells me the car looks a bit of a hybrid, judging by the filler cap and other pointers. I really couldn't say. Anyway, at the epicentre of all the hog roasting and people putting ferrets down their trousers, were the Fernie Hunt's kennels. I also love foxhounds. They regularly stream through my village, out for long distance exercise with kennel men on bicycles fore and aft. Such singularity of purpose, such friendly animals who all work with one accord. Their kennels looked as if Hugo Meynell had just finished an inspection, spruce and clean with wash-down floors and big straw beds. I went to find Youngest Boy (he loves hounds too) and discovered him winning at how much milk he could get out of a plywood cow. Much to my surprise I also managed, for the first time in my life, to knock a coconut off an iron pole with a cricket ball.
Sunday Poem 226
18 hours ago