Hallaton is a picturesque manicured village of thatched cottages and curvy roads. Doorways are bowered with flowering vines. Nameplates are affixed: Rose Cottage, Ivy Cottage or simply The Cottage, which was formerly Angel Inn. We walked around the eerily deserted village. It was a workday after all and unlike earlier residents there was probably a much higher ratio of computer techs and bankers to actual farmers. We were stopped by the sound of a guitar being hammered, coming from an upstairs window of a sweet rose-brick house on the bend, a little mushroom cap-shaped tree in the front garden. Turned out to be the home of Siggy’s friends and the guitar hammerer, their son, came down to chat for a moment.

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.