Village of the damned

Sea mist and a continual downpour: even the week-old lambs in the fields looked fed up. We were scheduled to meet outside the church at two o’clock. At two minutes to, I was the only person there waiting and I wondered whether the guided tour of the village, led by a local archaeologist, had been cancelled.

I tried the handle of the church door, hoping it would be unlocked and I could wait out of the rain. It was. I went in and stood on the flagstones in the porch and stared balefully out through the open door at the dripping tombs.

To a passer-by, I must have looked like a new gargoyle that had just been delivered. I was in a bad mood and knew it. My eyeballs felt hard, which is a sure sign. I knew why I was in a bad mood, too. Post-Cheltenham Festival blues — that was the matter with me.