Thursday: We go to the village pub
I say pub, but in this part of the world that means a restaurant with decent beer. The barmaid umms and ahhs when we ask for a table for two, because even midweek the snugs and lounges book up fast. Eventually she relents and allows us to sit in the corner of the 'terrace', a large covered patio with flappy translucent walls. Pie and lasagne are selected, one of these with the house speciality of herby diced potatoes. I'm reliably informed, by eavesdropping on a nearby father and son, that a pint of Adnams here is much cheaper than it was in Woodbridge this lunchtime. Thus far the most exciting event has been a bumble bee nosing round the cut flowers on the table. Then the bikers arrive.
A dozen black-clad Harley-Davidson riders take a seat at the adjacent table and order beers. Their jackets are smothered with badges and patches, the largest proclaiming several to be members of the Fenlanders Suffolk Chapter. Not all of the bikers have beards. Some of them are female. Pretty much all of them have tattoos. Two of them have brought dogs. At least one has ridden in from Jaywick, or as he likes to call it 'South Clacton'. Collectively they debate who ordered the Hobgoblin and whether or not to order the mixed grill. It turns out today is the first day of the Harley-Davidson East of England Rally which is being held at a nearby football club, hence the large number of HOGs searching for food in the local area. The group is lively but friendly. The bumble bee does not return.
Friday: We go to the village country park
I say country park, but in this part of the world that means a couple of fields tarted up by a local entrepreneur to give campers and caravanners somewhere non-coastal to visit. The park has two lakes, neither of which existed ten years ago but which now boast ducks, dragonflies and a handful of fish. It has fewer trees than you'd hope a country park would have, but trees take more than ten years to grow. It has an increasing number of chalets and toilet blocks, each new wave paid for by last season's profits. And it has a cafe with a captive audience, now additionally somewhere locals can head for a coffee, a cheese scone or a curry (Wednesday evenings only). I order a hot chocolate with marshmallows and try not to share it with a succession of wasps.
The most astonishing sight, just above the treeline, is a freshly constructed phone mast. There's been zero signal round here ever since I bought a mobile phone in 1998, so every time I came to visit my parents was like entering communicative radio silence. Many's the time I've stayed over and not received a text message until after I left, which is still the case 25 years later, and it still makes online banking bloody difficult. According to the village Facebook page the mast was switched on for testing recently but only for a few hours, so the excitable posts soon dried up, but it'll be properly transformative when this is finally no longer a digital desert.
Saturday: We go to the village air show
I say air show, but in this part of the world that means some bloody impressive planes turn up. Hurricanes, a Lancaster bomber, two De Havillands and a Flying Fortress are all on the longlist, and that's not even the best of them. We stand in the garden and watch the RAF Falcons leaking smoke as they skydive in geometric formation above the trees, then three Spitfires approaching silently from the east. Elsewhere the village is abuzz for the arrival of the Red Arrows, who aren't merely going to fly over but will dawdle and do stunning aerobatics above the fields for 20 minutes. It should be fantastic (so long as you're not still queueing in the jam across the green when they arrive).
The lawn behind the village hall is the place to be, mainly because it's £67 cheaper than being in the compound at the airfield. A cry goes up from the picnickers when the eight jets first appear belching colour, then proceed to whoosh and loop and split and roll and swoop and barrel and spin within meticulous parameters. Their focus is the runway in front of the paying punters, but as the planes repeatedly splay out to remanoeuvre we're treated to several spectacular flypasts. In this cloudy sky the blue smoke shows up clearer than the white, but that's a minor niggle. If you're only used to seeing the Red Arrows over Buckingham Palace, their expertise here is on another level.
Some villagers are staying all afternoon, which is at least another three hours, while others start to pack up as soon as the last smoke fades away above the tree line. Everyone agrees it was amazing, a proper one-off, and if they're lucky they might even have some unblurry photos or Insta videos as evidence. By the time the Typhoon arrives we're home with a cup of tea and its roar penetrates the double glazing, and if you saw anything so amazing from your back garden yesterday I'd be amazed.
Sunday: We go to the village car boot sale
I say car boot sale, but in this part of the world that means... I don't know yet, I'm off shortly to find out.
