The village fête had to be cancelled because of what they called an ‘incursion’ on to the green. The way the local paper told it, an ‘unauthorised encampment’ put an end to the annual summer event that would have raised money for charity.
Actually, as I watched from my bedroom window, what happened was that the organisers of the fête arrived the day before to set up, unlocked the padlock on the gate leading onto the green, and left it open.
Our visitors then simply followed them in. The police were called, arriving with amazing speed in lavish numbers, and the new arrivals agreed to move to the back meadow and park their caravans there so the fête could go ahead.
But the notice went up anyway: ‘Fête cancelled.’ And a statement was given to the local rag saying the event had been stopped ‘for safety reasons’. Interesting choice of words, given that the visitors did exactly as they were told and then went on to do absolutely nothing all week but buy groceries and takeaways from the local shops and restaurants.
In fact, the village enjoyed something of a trade bonanza. And another benefit was that the green, which is normally a dog-walking park for retirees, was suddenly alive with children playing. The sound of squealing from the region of the swings was rather refreshing and made a nice change from the hum of sexagenarian gossiping, if you ask me.
The caravans themselves were hidden away in the long grass of the far meadow. The BB and I walked the dogs over there one evening and encountered a man hooking up his generator. ‘Hello mate,’ said the BB. ‘How ya doin?’ said the chap. ‘Nice caravan you’ve got there.’
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