I was mesmerized by dark splotches in the still bare trees that turns out are rookeries. The big black birds—rooks—create havoc when they are nesting and drop twigs into the villagers’ chimneys. Alfred Hitchcock came to mind (how could he not?) under the unnerving squawking of the things in the treetops across the road and I deflected my over-stimulated imagination from a frightening scenario.Hungry now and disappointed that both pubs in this idyllic village were shut we headed off in search of a late lunch. We stopped to ask about our chances of finding a pub still serving. What fun to discover a poster in the window of the village post office announcing an upcoming gig of Siggy’s band Midlive Crises.
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