Feting the Spirit of England

On a hot summer's day, the sort that we all long for summer to be a continuous succesion of but it rarely is (it's raining now here) Nick and I went off on his motorbike to join his family to celebrate his father's 80th Birthday in a small village in Wiltshire which delights in the name of Teffont Evias.

I love riding on the back of his BMW 1200GS. It's a dream machine and Nick rides it as if it were a thoroughbred that he's loved all his life, it really does feel as though the bike and he are as one as it curves effortlessly, surges smoothly and weaves in and out of the baking cars, stuck at a standstill on the motorway, with all the ease of the winning horse in a Three-Day Event final. From the vantage point of the bike not only do I have the height to see further than the car in front but also to smell the fresh mown grass. As Stonehenge hove into view I began to wonder if Tess of the D'Urbervilles was there.

Get out of London and there it is, beyond the M25, the truth that indeed England is a very green and pleasant land: its rolling hills, just so, undulating into the distance like a green wave with white horses of gleaming golden corn; the big rolls of hay looking like stacks of pennies waiting to be pushed into a race; the Wedgewood blue skies of an island embossed with their cameo vingnettes; the quaint little cottages which seem almost as old as our island itself. It has that timelessness and also its very own distinct culture.

We all had lunch in a little hotel called Howard's House which has the most charming garden and good food. The chef very kindly made us some vegetarian food of fresh, local ingredients and seasonally fresh Cherry Tart. We definitely needed to go for a walk afterwards. And this little village with its small stream running along the one-car-at-a-time lane was the most perfect place to venture.

It so happened that we were there on the day of the Teffont Village Fete. I would gladly return just for this event alone. It was a total delight, quintessentially English, with all the innocent charm and ageless serenity that you can possibly imagine. Sometimes I looked round thinking that for sure there was a Hollywood Camera Crew lurking somewhere recreating it for one of those Murder-In-The-Village Mysteries. Then I realised that of course there could not be a film crew becuase this was so real, authentic in a way that films never manage to successfully capture in their recreation. This was England, timeless England, how it's always existed since Boadicca through the Tudors, Thomas Hardy, the stoicism of the World Wars, till now. This Fete gave me the confidence that there is a coherent, consistent and contained spirit of England, with all our quirky eccentricities.

There's something about Brass Bands which is so reliably pulls at the strings of an English heart with jaunty tunes conjuring up smiles all round. The British Legion Band was superb and a spectacle all on their own.

Next ot it was the tent where children were being made up to be animals, fairies or whatever took their fancy. Then there was the ubiquitous raffle offering rather dashing prizes, and so the little stalls continued all round the Ring.

Behind the Ring complete with fluttering Union Jack flag, was the Marquee, the stalwart of an English Summer, where we forever have to hedge our bets on rain or shine. Step through the side opening to enter the secret world which makes this village tick. Displays of fine vegetables and roses, displayed with all the gusto and reverence that is usually reserved for costly antiques, next to the truimphant Victoria Sponge in its regal splendour - and looking far too tempting to resist a little taste, but oh no, that simply isn't done. This was a village of homes, a community of dedlciated to sharing and honouring excellence, a homage to the natural and good.

In the far end of the marquee was the Tea Room, decked out in the mandatory gingham tablecloths, and wooden folding chairs and an urn puffing out steam and dripping hot water.

By far the most entertaining and comical, not in that rather nasty snide way of laughing at others' misfortunes, but in enjoying the sheer fun of diversity and exuberance was the Dog Show in the Ring. Categories which never make it to the Crufts Calendar were the order of the day such as the Dog Most Like Its Owner (which I'm sure that if Millie-Pup had been with us we would have won). The Grand Finale was a selection of Dog Races classified as Small, Medium, Large and Allcomers. There was a touch of the Heath Robinson to the contracaption which pulled the stuffed football sock for them to chase from the starting area (it was definitely not a line) to the finish. Just finishing and not wandering off to enjoy some ad hoc snacks from the Hot Dog stand whilst not on the lead was enough to earn a winner's rosette.

You can tell tthe characteristic of a culture by the way that they celebrate at a local level. Here was the prime example of all that is truly heart-warming, innocent and charming about the English - it was the good and noble of the land. These Fetes happen all round England and if you're passing by do stop in, immerse yourself and enjoy it. For this is who we truly are.