***

It rains on the village fête, of course, but the turnout is good. A marquee is up on the cricket green with smaller tents dotted around. A brass band plays beneath one. Three people with vintage cars line them up to form a small car show. There is a tent of exotic animals. A man shows off a South American snake which attempts to wrap itself around a girl's ice-cream. There is also a young tortoise, a chameleon, two hamsters and a large rabbit. Entries for the village prizes are laid out in the main marquee, among them shapeliest carrot, longest broad bean and finest lemon curd.

I wonder about all this as I happily potter around. What is it that changes in us from the moment when we are young and learn to sniff at such enthusiasms and that moment in adulthood when we realise that such things deserve our admiration and reward our interest? Perhaps it is a city thing. Everything in our cities is so impossibly large, everything so completely sent down from on high that we end up by simply accepting our lot and thinking we can do nothing to change it. The other day I passed "the Shard" in London and was struck by what a hideous, attention-seeking act of vandalism it is. But there is nothing I can do about it.

Rural organising  provides an antidote to this, where every action of the individual matters and each patient demonstration of human effort is rewarded with consideration and respect. I suppose William Blake could have written a poem about this: something about each broad bean being a weapon in a fight. Or perhaps I am becoming a Green.