The world from my window

And so the Village Hall Arms calls time for the last time. The beer barrel is empty, there are red wine stains on the floor, a table tennis bat is broken and, in the morning, at least two ladies will be nursing hangovers the size of Devon. Mr Grigg gives a little speech and then I climb above the hubbub to give a little speech of my own. 'I'd like to thank Mr Grigg for organising these community bar sessions,' I say, to a big round of applause. 'And I'd like to welcome our new publicans. But most of all, I'm glad this is the last session. It means I've got my husband back.' 'I think he deserves some sort of award,' Mr Champagne-Charlie mutters. 'I'll see if I can have a little word in the right ear.' This, coming from the man whose new best friend is featured on the front page of the Daily Telegraph's  weekend supplement, our very own Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix...

On the afternoon walk, there are shiny conkers on the ground, disinterested sheep in the field and shots being fired across the valley. The dog limbos under the gate to greet three walkers by growling and barking at them. This is unusual, because Bertie is usually quite polite. Then I recognise the rabbit-in-the-headlights look of one of the trio and realise the last time we met he was canvassing for my vote in the General Election. It is Oliver Letwin, closely followed by a tall friend down for the weekend, who is trying desperately to get his phone to work. 'Fat chance, mate,' I say in my head. 'The Enchanted Village is a signal-free zone, as any fule kno.' I then realise the very tall man is no fule, he is Charles Moore, one-time editor of The Sunday Torygraph, The Daily Torygraph and The Spectator. I smile because I am more civil than my dog, which jumps in the stream and then comes out shaking water all over them. Just up the lane, I spy Pelly Sheepwash...

A blanket of mizzle smothers The Enchanted Village.  Pairs of grumpy jackdaw babies, feathers ruffled, huddle on chimney pots. Swallows, trying desperately to be cheerful, swoop low to the ground in search of food. They dart in and out of the damp cattle, attempting to stir up some frivolity in the misty rain and peasouper fog. Along the road in Trumpton, the weather has washed out fun day. It is doubtful the Red Arrows will be seen in the greyness, even if they miraculously managed to put in their planned appearance.  Down in My Kind of Town, carnival organisers are looking to the skies in advance of tonight's procession. Their hands are outstretched. They are saying 'why?' Over the hill, Doc Martin and Men Behaving Badly star Martin Clunes is anxious for tomorrow. For the past year, he and his family have been planning their horse and dog show at Buckham Down. It raises thousands for the local hospice and comes complete with funfair and squid tent run by the Riversi...

Today, the Daily Telegraph stood up and shouted from the rooftops about the excellence of a local restaurant. I could hear the noise, because the restaurant is just over the hill from me. And, now that we are missing part of our roof while the builders are working on the Grigg hovel, we can hear absolutely everything. Congratulations to chef Mat Follas, a nicer man you couldn't meet (although I actually haven't because we keep missing each other). His food is pretty good too. Anyway, for your delectation, here's the link to the Telegraph's piece. And for all my new blog followers, I'm posting a review of The Wild Garlic I prepared earlier - from August 2009. Mat actually responded to the piece when I posted it originally and I understand staffing issues have now been resolved. I'm looking forward to a return visit. The Wild Garlic Earlier this year, an IT engineer called Mat Follas won the UK television competition MasterChef . It is a gruelling contes...