A charming 2-storied white birdhouse with a red-shingled roof, tenanted by equally white pigeons greeted us in the car park of the Neville Arms. I am always on the alert for signs from the Universe, and as my unpublished novel is titled: A Birdhouse In Brooklyn, I took this as a sign. The Neville Arms is just what I had in mind of rural England. In the village of Medbourne and so authentic it was rebuilt in 1863. It was originally an old stable yard and inn and reachable from the car park by a pack horse bridge across a placid, algae-patched ford. One enters through an impressive studded oak door to an interior with oak beamed ceilings and a stone fireplace, with a gentle diffused light coming from the leaded windows. A peek into a separate rear dining area revealed a modern upscale setting that would suit a discerning Manhattanite’s taste, even one as wealthy as our “struggling” TARP wife. But I wondered, why here?

I tucked into a welcome plate of perfectly cooked fish and chips served with mushy peas. Grimsby Fisheries couldn’t hold a fishhook to this version. Chatting up the barmaid/server, Siggy asked her about the upcoming bottle kicking. Seemed this would be the pub to catch the spillover of a hungry and thirsty crowd who followed this wacky annual event in the countryside on Easter Monday. The Mister and I were lucky to experience it two years ago. It involves beer and hare pie and a rivalry between Hallaton and the neighboring village of Medbourne that goes back to, oh, Pagan times; halted only once, from what I’ve read, by a scare of foot and mouth disease in 2001. Quite an impressive event all started over a bit of looted beer. Feuds die hard in the countryside. The barmaid was looking forward to the celebration, cheerily declaring it would be “…all hands to the pump.