I meant to write this yesterday, coming back from the walk full of enthusiasm and amusing ideas, but after a long-distance phone call, a hungry husband and needing to do things that only I know how to do, I simply ran out of time. Anyway, I'm here now, so if you're all sitting comfortably we'll begin.
It was a mild Sunday morning. We set off, the boys running ahead, me trailing behind composing little anecdotes in my head. We trailed up the path that runs behind the Footballer's mansion (did I tell you I think I flirted with him at the T-junction? But that's another story...). I noticed the muddy path, the horse poo, the damaged branches after the fierce storm. We made our way over to the Fruit farm. The men were already busy there. Beep, beep with their forklift trucks, putting up the polytunnels to protect the early strawberries. I love the smell of the strawberries on summer mornings, when it's just us walking there. I waved at the forklift driver and he tooted back. It's quite an operation, slick and well-practiced by the look of things.
We walked on. What on earth are they doing to the Polo field? Once upon a time, it was a beautifully green track, marked with smart black fencing. Now, it's been dug up, with heaving mountains of clay soil dumped everywhere. The cost to put it right will be eye-watering. The view across the polo field used to be quite breathtaking, out over the Village and up onto the hill where the Lydling beasts graze. Not any more.
And then we saw the giant beech tree blocking the path. I tried to look over it, around it, through it. It was a mass of twisted broken branches. This will take a man with a very large saw to remove! Two girls from the Stables came over with garden loppers. I laughed out loud at the thought of them trying to move the tree. No silly, they've come to cut the fences away so that they can take the horses out on the other side. Of course!
We ended our walk running the gauntlet passed the three vicious yappers. At least one is a Spaniel of sorts. They must have heard us coming because they were waiting for us in the road. I tried to shoo them back inside, but they stood their ground. The Boxers didn't even look at them. They walked on by, not even recognising these interlopers as dogs, leaving them behind, perplexed and still barking. Sorry, neighbours, but it wasn't us!
And there is more great excitement in the Village - the film crew is on site. The field on the Farm is full of vans and cars and people looking busy. Important people are being dropped off in expensive-looking taxis. Last time, it was Midsomer Murders. I wonder what it is this time?