28th June 2013

Harborough lays claim to a brewery just outside the picturesque village of East Langton. They produce a range of beers that, I must confess, have yet to impress me or any of my friends. Still, when the Harborough Chamber of Commerce sent an invitation for a BBQ and brewery tour, I rounded up the two Jims and Paul. Sarah kindly chauffeured us there and collected us several hours later, an act of generosity that deserves a medal, or at least a bottle of something drinkable.

For once, the weather played ball and I could venture out in shorts and a T-shirt without risking frostbite. We arrived early (keen as mustard) and sampled a few of the brews before the “official” guests appeared. The brewery itself is tucked away in a barn on a farm, and we soon found ourselves sharing the atmosphere with a herd of inquisitive cattle peering over the fence. They seemed hopeful someone might lob them a pint of milk stout. Sadly for them, it was strictly a BYOB (Bring Your Own Bucket).

The tour began with what can only be described as a one-man epic saga, the brewer’s life story, the history of the brewery, and possibly the Magna Carta thrown in for good measure. By the time it finished, I’m pretty sure a new batch of beer had fermented. Finally, we reached the main event: the sampling. While our opinions of the ales remained politely unchanged, the BBQ was so generous we went back for seconds, then thirds, all while dissecting the Lions’ Tour with the seriousness of pundits in a pub.

Back home, I’ve discovered an exciting new “feature” in the garage: a hole in the roof. One quote to fix it nearly sent me into orbit, but according to Jeremy the builder, it was entirely reasonable. Another roofer has since promised me a second opinion. There was a time I’d have done the job myself, armed with a DIY book and blind optimism. Nowadays, I’m more of a “supervisor with coffee in hand.”

Jamie is still hosting his friend Walker, though the latter has found a place of his own, and Jamie’s been helping decorate it. Walker’s mother even took Jamie out for a meal as a thank-you, proof that, occasionally, good deeds do get rewarded.

Last Saturday saw a minor drama when Jamie dashed to London to collect his mate Hobbsy (Michael Hobbs) from Ascot. Hobbsy had left his bank cards behind while having his car engine “re-mapped” at a specialist garage. One frantic phone call later, I found myself transferring funds to rescue the situation. (Some things never change.) The following day, Jamie and I replaced a sensor on his exhaust system, just like old times. I used to do all my own car repairs out of necessity; now I do them out of nostalgia, with a sore back thrown in as a bonus.

Jamie and Harley have been enjoying a few meals out, and Sue and I had a flying visit from them last night. Brief but lovely.

Meanwhile, Nan has been busier than a social secretary. She entertained old friends from Thurcroft at the Waterfront Restaurant before bringing them to Willow Bank for coffee. The next day, she was out dining with Charlotte and Ellis at Wildwood, followed by lunch at the Royalist with Isabel. Today she’s whisked Sue and me out for lunch, too. If this keeps up, she’ll need her own loyalty card for every restaurant in town. When not eating out, she’s been glued to Wimbledon on the telly or roped Sue into reorganising her cupboards, a Sisyphean task if ever there was one.

Elsewhere, the Rothwells have booked a 12-day all-inclusive in Tunisia (sun, sand, and probably too much buffet). Suraj has changed his car yet again, this time a BMW. I genuinely can’t remember the last time he kept the same vehicle for a whole year.

Peter and I have been lending a hand at Charlotte’s allotment to finish off the chicken run. It’s nearly ready for its new clucking tenants, though between us and the chickens, I’m not sure who’ll be more cooped up.

Sarah, meanwhile, has been running the Rugby Club while Gary, the bar steward, is on holiday, hiring staff, sorting functions, banking cash, and locking up. She even squeezed in a friend’s wedding in Sheffield before jetting off with Chloe to Krakow to begin her European adventure. Rain or shine, Sarah travels like a woman on a mission.

Back on the home front, Sue and I have been in the garden tidying up. I reset and pointed some slabs around the pool, though my mower chose that moment to give up the ghost. While heaving it out of the car boot, I managed to “rick” my back. I’m still not sure where the phrase comes from, but it feels entirely accurate. These days, I’m hobbling about in a back support, moving as slowly as the British summer. Thankfully, the lawns are trimmed, the allotment paths are tidy, and I’m on the mend.

Sarah’s Holiday Snaps: