As the mists swirl around this village like something out of The Land That Time Forgot, the hall is ready to open its doors for the annual flower show.
Last year, I had the honour of opening this event, much to the dismay of my oldest sister, a primary school deputy head in a neighbouring county. So far, the extent of her duties in the village in which she has lived for 35 years has been to judge a children's art class. I am sure she did admirably. However, she has not yet forgiven me for usurping her.
'I'm the queen,' she hissed. 'And I can't believe you wore a hat.'
Given the opportunity, I will wear a hat every time. I am toying between hats for Number One Daughter's wedding. I am reluctant to wear the huge pink panama from Snooks the hatters for fear of obscuring the view of the guests behind me.
'But you're the bride's mother,' Mrs Bancroft sagely says. 'You can wear what ever hat you like.'
So I'm thinking about it.
Hats were off the menu meanwhile when I went to The Wild Garlic restaurant twice in one week. To find out how I got on at the place run by MasterChef winner Mat Follas (an occasional reader of this blog), go to Westcountry Miscellany.
That's about it
Love Maddie x
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That's about it. Love Maddie x