Large signs invite visitors to pick their own pumpkin, acquire skills needed for zombie survival or enjoy afternoon tea. There were notices indicating where one could find the local pet cemetery, piano salesroom and a stone* of baking apples for the bargain price of £2. Huge scarecrows and a suspicious-looking inflatable snowman (disguised creatively with black bin bags to resemble a witch - maybe) loom from behind hedgerows, reminding readers where the local Halloween and firework celebrations would be held.
And then there is/are the pheasants. So many, brightly coloured males and dull brown hens huddled in large groups along the walls and fences, plotting a suitable (survival?) strategy for the coming season.
I nearly stepped on a toad last night.
Last time we came this way, it was for a family get-together, celebrating achievement, birthday, travel and isn't-it-nice-we-can-all-be-together-ness. As time goes on, these things happen less often, usually only at Christmas, so are cherished all the more. I love and enjoy them, then worry afterwards in case I failed to get it right. Did I respond in the right way to what was said? Was I understanding /sympathetic/supportive or did I miss the point? the opportunity? fail in the eyes of others?
After a few days of this, a kind of sanity prevails.
I remind myself of the moment, the fun and the glow from being together. I try not to judge, and therefore have to hope am not judged.
The food was good.
With family, it is always food - the eating, the talking, the preparing, the wasn't-that-a-rubbish-programme? and I-did-enjoy-that-recipe.
So a few piccies from a fab afternoon tea.
