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 through her window. She's on the computer.
It transpires that as a union member, she is online casting her vote for the next Labour leader.
'I've just voted for Ed,' she says and I say, 'that's nothing, I've just seen a brace of distinguised Conservatives up your lane and there's someone up there with a shotgun and do you think before they get shot we ought to buttonhole them about the burst water main that's been spilling down the road for the last fortnight and have a whinge about the new bollards and streetlights and, while they're at it, they could have an ice cream on the new village beach?'
'Uh, no,' she says. And then a look of mischief passes across her face as she spots the Letwin-Moore wagon in her parking space.
'I'm going to get my workers' rights poster and stick it on their windscreen.'
That's about it.
Love Maddie x
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That's about it. Love Maddie x