Mr Lavender at the match

Frequently our British summers are capricious and it is as likely or not I'll pack a jumper or two to take with me to a cricket match. Not the other week - Sunday last was a bursting-out-all-over-heat-filled blue & green scorcher, almost perfection and at one of the nicest grounds I have had the pleasure to visit, Sandford St Martin.

Mr Lavender came too. He enjoys a bit of cricket, so long as the sun is out and there is a nice tea.

Despite the gorgeous surroundings, Mr Lavender, Andy's mother and myself decided to do a little exploring; too tempting a road to resist and there was a glorious poppy field on the dege of the ground.

The village itself is not directly in our patch - Sandford St Martin is a plush little place on the other side of Chipping Norton.

Prosperous looking even by Cotswold standards. We are in serious commuter belt here, handy for the cities of Oxford and London, making house prices *interesting* despite the quaint rural appearance.

Mr Lavender had a thigh high view from my combats pocket.

At last though the sun got too hot for me; Andy's mum is a lizard and can soak it up all day - I am made of frailer stuff. We were back just in time for tea and Andy smuggled a plate out for us. It was the best tea I've had in many a year, if not THE best. All home made and the softest, moistest, plumpest Victoria sponge imaginable, like a mother's welcoming lap, just begging to be dived into.

Somewhat over-full, we read the latest Jeanne D'Arc Living (which matched Mr Lavender's colours) and watched what turned into a very tight and exciting match.

But despite the best efforts of young Sam, Andy's top weapon, things did not go in our favour. Poor Sam was 99 not out and missed his century.

We lost, but it was a good, sporting match - jolly nice team and all that. And a tea to die for. Hopefully a fixture to be repeated.

Something to celebrate!

At last I can sleep properly again! The last few nights have been spent fitfully listening to the radio in the dark, while England thrash Australia in the final Test Match. Our television reception is so bad (and we don't have Sky) that we only get to see a few minutes of highlights on the BBC news, so the radio is our only way to follow the games. Last night England not only retained the Ashes for a third time, but did it away from home, against an often hostile Australian Press and home crowd and, more importantly, accomplished it with sweet skill and unity of team spirit.

Last summer, near Oxford

The film clip comes from inside the loyal England supporter's camp, the Barmy Army, with Billy Cooper, the trumpeter playing - appropriately - the Last Post - as the last wicket falls to general mayhem and riotous chanting. It's the first time in 24 years that we have won the Ashes on Australian home turf, so perhaps a little jubilation is not uncalled for.

Away match at Swinbrook

For my American friends, who have misty images of English teas, church bells ringing in the distance and gentle clapping to the soft thunk of leather on willow - that is village cricket; this is war! Well done England!

(Hello and welcome to my lovely new followers - normal craft and country blogging resumes next week).