On my way to the butcher’s I meet Peter Hopkirk wheeling a large home-made trolley containing a builder’s spade and a complicated device for unblocking drains.
He is wearing his best boiler suit and waders and gives me a cynical glance before steering the contraption scornfully past the satellite van and the array of media vehicles by the green.
Peter Hopkirk disapproves of newcomers with a silent bitter intensity; of the media, obviously, and of the Hunts, who will soon have been at Cobblers’ Cottage for thirty years. They are throwing a celebratory party at Christmas. As if staying in the village for any length of time is something to celebrate!
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