Saturday dawned blustery and wild, clouds scudding across the sky like yachts in a fastnet race. After a spot of breakfast and a mug of tea we headed up the hill to the Great Rock, the wind pummelling the car as we crested the hill by the Golf Course (best view from a course ever?) then pushing us down the road towards Staups Lee. Once parked we scurried into the shop, picking up a bakehouse loaf of better bred brown and a pack of six eggs. Pausing for a look in the freezer but no lovely Burnt Edge sausages were available. Jon picked up a Blackshawhead fete pamphlet (last year I entered and picked up three second prizes for my jam, chutney and apple pie) and was invited to help put the tents up on the show field. Another twinge of longing that we lived up here - part of that little community. From shop to hens we then ambled, to visit the chickens who had laid our eggs, their luxuriant hut and grassy intak testament to the definite free range nature of the product. George called to them cluck cluck cluck and pointed...CHICK CHICK....A HENNNN...then spotted the large trampoline and raced off....I LIKE BOUNCING!