‘We’re Bags and always will be,’ Petra reassured them. ‘Bad Arse Gallopers.’

Exchanging smiles, they rose and fell happily in their saddles with togetherness and horsiness. It felt bewitchingly spring-like, the Gulf Stream blowing them along with unseasonal warmth, sunlight piercing the chugging clouds in a thousand places like a laser show.

Trotting alongside the Green, they were briefly distracted by the sight of the sexy new husband from Well Cottage out jogging, but their smiles froze at the sight of a Cossack moustache of Christmas growth.

‘He looks like a 118 man,’ Petra said disappointedly.

The Bags were great authorities on male facial hair.

Bridge’s new-found sexual enthusiasm was already waning in the wake of Aleš’s stubborn refusal to shave his, a subject on which vet Gill was more than sympathetic as they compared hirsute husbands, dodging more dog walkers and runners.

Gill’s short, cycling-mad husband Paul was a long-term fan of face fur. ‘I can’t stand the way he scratches at it, like a nail brush. The sound sets my teeth on edge.’

‘But at least Paul’s is aerodynamically stubbly,’ Bridge pointed out, waving a car past with a thank-you salute. ‘It’s a dusting. Aleš’s Balbo’s like a living creature.’

‘What is a Balbo?’

‘Robert Downey Junior,’ said Petra, trotting alongside.

‘Don’t you start that old celeb thing again,’ Bridge warned. ‘I have to sleep with this man.’

‘Johnny Depp.’ Petra stuck out her tongue.

‘Still not doing it.’

‘Now I’m rather fond of a Shakespearean beard,’ Gill said as they dropped back to a walk and funnelled from the Plum Run into Church Lane, the lychgate end double-parked with white vans and a scaffolding lorry, men in hard hats standing in the graveyard looking up at the tower.

‘Aleš grooms that fecking thing on his face like a pet. It has its own personality. I’ve forgotten what his chin looks like, but I know sticky ribs weren’t off the menu, and it felt better between the thighs.’

‘I love a man with a beard down there,’ Petra giggled. ‘It’s retro Joy of Sex.’

‘Not if he likes you to be shaved smooth as a baby’s arse, trust me. That’s like setting a Schnauzer on an oven-ready chicken.’ Bridge shifted uncomfortably in the saddle.

‘Really, ladies!’ Gill’s eyes bulged. ‘Someone might hear. This is the village conservation area.’

‘So sorry – Labrador with a guinea fowl,’ Bridge corrected in a hoity-toity voice, and Petra started snorting with laughter.

Hushing them, Gill stole an anxious look at the ornate greenhouse recently constructed in the garden of The Old Alms Houses. It was steamed up, a figure silhouetted inside.

‘What are you all gossiping about?’ Mo had caught up breathlessly on the cob.

‘Heritage glasshouses,’ Petra said kindly. ‘Kit Donne’s a convert since Ronnie replaced his – look.’

‘Lovely cold frames.’ Mo admired it. ‘And those finials are ever so classy.’

‘Think the Bardswold Bolter pops in to see his seeds sprout?’ Bridge gave Petra a leading look.

‘She’ll be far too busy with her Horsemaker,’ she sighed.