Creature Feature No 8

Oh what a joyful sign! Morph the word 'vicarage' into 'Animal' and we've got a superb cover for Orwell's farmyard classic. And it does what it says on the sign, with a field of hens over the hedge scratching about being admired by a Kellogg's Corn Flakes box rooster. And if all that wasn't enough there's a cut-out pink pig on the ridge of a nearby barn roof and another little sign talking of Homemade Cakes. All that's brilliant about the English countryside in just a twenty yard stretch of road between Southwick and Bulwick in North East Northamptonshire. Quite possibly the best farm sign I've seen; cue Viv Stanshall's Jollity Farm.

Cakes & Bails

Hallaton entertained Harborough Taverners yesterday. The home team won by ten wickets on what is without doubt one of the most beautifully situated grounds in Leicestershire. At the top end of the village, the surrounding fields and woods fall away to the north and east; Horninghold church spire catching the fluctuating light every few minutes amongst the dark trees, the cloud shadows scudding quickly over Fearn Hill and crowning hilltop spinneys. Is there a more perfect way to while away a Sunday afternoon? I was, of course, found staring meaningfully at the rusty roller and motioned towards the pavilion. There was a tea laid out the like of which I have never seen before. A plate was piled up for me with cakes, topped out with three meringues. I ran off with it to a remote part of the outfield. So you can see I absorbed all the finer points of the match. But I have to say I much prefer this bucolic scene complete with correct cricket whites, rather than those disgraceful exhibitions of vile coloured sponsored lycra that appears to be the way it's going in the professional game. Bring back Len Hutton I say.

Blue Skies, Cream Teas

After a Saturday morning of rain lashing down, the village draws a collective sigh of relief as blue skies start to dominate the western horizons, and the perfect English summer afternoon smiles on our annual fete. The Pimms bar, the homemade cakes table, the straw-hatted ladies sorting out the yellow raffle tickets. I am always amazed at how much stuff is still managed to be cajoled from local households for the ritual displays on trestle tables: the still pristinely-boxed jigsaws, unloved teddy bears, the unplayed board games 'so kindly meant' as Betjeman had it. My Neighbour Who Knows What I Like (blogs passim) also Knows What My Son Likes, and I see him walking off with a box containing an unconstructed Lego Bionicle on his head. Later she comes up to me covertly and a deal is struck over three huge boxes of the stuff, she looking over her shoulder and me rummaging for cash like we were dealing outside a night club. The Mother of My Children eyes the boxes from a distance with suspicion, but I assure her that she simply hasn't got enough tiny pieces of plastic all over her cottage yet. Youngest Son buys yet another stuffed penguin, and gets chocolate all over his hands which he washes in the plastic paddling pool meant for a game with yellow plastic ducks. We loved it all so much we had to have two cream teas each in the village hall.