Untouched by Brexit

Yesterday, unexpectedly, I entered an outpost of paradise. I should have used my phone-camera but I was too absorbed with what I saw. I must now make do with words.

Ashleworth is a village for the well-off, beyond Gloucester. The streets curve tightly and beguilingly through the greenery and one is called Nup End. To the north are the distant Malvern Hills. Yesterday was a rich summer's day but one suspects it's always summer in Ashleworth. That the residents have paid for summer to happen.

Within spitting distance of the centre (though no one here was so crass as to spit) was a spacious and well-appointed cricket ground: the boundary marked out neatly with Woodpecker CC flags, the practice "nets" a permanent fixture, the electronic scoreboard remotely operated, the pavilion extended with a full-length skittle alley.

All the players were correctly togged in white, not a pair of jeans to be seen. Bat met ball with that unique heavy thwack and play progressed. Daughter Occasional Speeder, who chauffeured us here, brought us beer and cider from the bar. Son-in-law, Darren, a member of the Woodpeckers, wore his pads ready to play, but his heroics were not called upon; his team were cruising.

Cricket is more ritual than sport. Best defined by a friend of mine: "Not only is a tie the most likely outcome, it's the most desirable." Impossible to explain to anyone from the USA. As a contest at Ashleworth it was unnecessary, as a mobile element set in the tranquil countryside it was essential.

A sharp shower intervened but its brevity suggested it had been scripted. Proof that this was happening in England. I wondered if the spectators included a country parson but decided he would have been too stagy.

Paradises must always be rural.