The case of the vanishing poem
As I write, the hunt has just left the village square after its annual meet hosted by Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie. Mr Grigg holds a whisky mac while shovelling up horse manure with the other hand and puts it on my roses. The fragrant Mrs Putter and Mrs Bancroft dodge the back ends of horses to take around sausage rolls and dainty sandwiches to the assembled throng. Mostly, the riders are polite, but there are an ill mannered few who seem rather sniffy. The Sheepwashes are notable by their absence and I justify my attendance by recording the event with my camera from the window. I'm not a hunt fan, despite being a farmer's daughter brought up in south Somerset. Conversely, though, I did not approve of the hunting ban, which was imposed on the countryside by an urban government. Today is a chance for the village to socialise in the open air, watching the horses, riders and hounds and partake in light refreshment. Since our pub closed in September, we grab any chance...