Sunday

A trip out yesterday afternoon to Brawby three miles or so down the road, a small rather uninspiring village but home to the farmer who had our house built.  This time a church affair/fete to gather money, of course for the church, Paul says they should get more commercial;)

And yet it was a wonderful experience, we sat in the shade of an old tree, Lucy fast asleep, and drank tea and elderflower whilst eating scones.  A sign led us into the car park of the farm, a field covered in s--- and goose feathers.  They were penned in another field. The field itself had a rolling effect, was this medieval ploughing - check.  The farmhouse had a bungalow attached, when you hear about the misery of growing old in the cities, see how the farmers build extra space for the older generation - and weep.

We talked to the farmer Steve, as happy as anyone can be, we talked hens, he had just been to the Ryedale Festival, all animals so he said.  He has a yard full of rescue hens, people come and give them to him.  Telling us about an experiment,  breeding from a cock whose young produced brown eggs and a hen who produces blue eggs, the progeny came out with - wait for it - green eggs, apparently greatly admired.

Our new vicar, who is vicar to several churches in the area came and sat with us, his wife is a postie and they live in Middleton, the church of which has Viking stones, but I can never get into it because the door is always locked.

No photos for the moment, you have to go over a small packhorse bridge to get there, we have two close by, there is a confluence of the rivers somewhere, the Dove and our Seven joining the river Rye.

Brawby only claim to fame is 'The Shed' run by someone called Simon Thackray, who runs wacky events such as the Yorkshire Pudding race. You don't believe? I reckon he had been to Harriet's pub next door to dream up this idea, you get two y/p on a Sunday with your roast...