Hot tea with a splash of milk is so comforting. I hadn’t really touched the stuff since my thesis when, alone in the dark of the night I sort comfort in pots of the stuff accompanied by the soothing murmurings of ABC classical FM. I felt that familiar comfort as we drank mug after mug, we were in England now, a world away from the blue bottled beers that were being passed around on site in New Mexico. And only in England would someone be giving it up for a while to break their addiction, Paul was on herbal teas as the caffeine was starting to become a crutch. Kineseology Chris (not to be confused with rigger Chris) proved the point by getting Paul to hold a tea bag to his chest and pushed on his arm to test for strength, there was a different result for a beer bottle.

We tested our butterpat joints, with a pile of past failures destined for the fire looming nearby. The kind of went together, like a seasaw… Ben taught a neat little trick of putting leaves in the joints and then checking where the green marks were left to see where it rubbed. They needed work.

Then an excursion to see the building Ben did for the national trust, a finely finished home and a school multipurpose room. On the way we scooped up a fallen cyclist who had got himself tangled trying to remove some dangling string from his wheel. The hospital was closed, but he was recovered enough by then to be dropped at the train station. I hoped I would not require similar saving in my biking adventures.

I’ll leave the photos to show you around, but I was particularly charmed by the school building. It was so much fun with a rope ramp entry, green roof and underground secret space. That’s what school buildings should be.

Then it was pizza night, with Dylan head chef (as usual when it comes to doughy matters). What a delight to have Smoky woodpile pizza sitting around the fire with new friends and homemade cider delivered by Ben in a giant glass flagon. Every year they have an cider making day in the village, a real communal event with children running through aprons and the like. Last year someone left a terse note regarding apples rolling onto their driveway and the next day unknown scoundrels lobbed apples at their door, they didn’t have the right village spirit I suppose and promptly move on.

Watching now familiar faces flickering in the fire we Thought, too soon the course would be over and off we’d fly rootless into the breeze. But enough tomorrow, now there is nettle pesto and feta pizza and lots of other creative toppings to be devoured.