Saturday, October 10

Pungent smell of the countryside

I returned from Tavistock a half-hour before lunch to find the lad next door had spent his morning painting the fields with slurry. There are few thing more likely to kill an appetite – the kitchen smells like a byre at the end of winter.

As with most Saturdays the roads are obstructed by pelotons of Lycra-wearing cyclists, one of the principal scourges of our time.

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