‘It’s OK, he’ll be fine,’ says Granville, his hand still clasping the head keeper’s shoulder. ‘He’s in A&E now, and he’s fine. I just spoke to Serena. It’s really not your fault. It couldn’t be helped. No, no, it’s mine.’ And then Granville gives a sweeping glance, which takes in the valley tumbling down to the Lar, the woods, the landscaped gardens, the rough woodland, all his thousand acres, until his gaze rises to Hamble Hill, where it rests a few moments before returning to the convoy of Land Rovers and other off-roaders strewn untidily over his scrunchy gravel (so many jeeps and off-roaders, it could have been the Green Zone of Baghdad), waiting to bear his guests away from this almost entirely successful social and sporting event. ‘This is a teaching moment,’ he says, ‘a sign.’ Then he murmurs, ‘It will never happen again.’

As we leave, something nice happens (as well as Cath presenting us with two brace of plucked pheasant in shrink-wrap, already covered in streaky bacon, which should do several meals). The baron comes up to me, and bows. Then he takes my hand and, despite its being enclosed in my Thinsulate parcel, he bends swiftly to kiss it and then, as he’s returning to the upright position, he freezes and says, holding my gaze, ‘Madame, I hope we do not meet again, for if we do, I cannot promise to behave as well as I have today.’

I went all gooey, of course.

I don’t care if that’s what he says to all the girls. It’s what all the girls want to hear.

Rose

I’m in the squelchy cleft of the Lar valley that encloses the collective, eco-village, commune, call it what you will, of Spodden’s Hatch.

As I tracked my way through the trees to Jesse Marlon’s house earlier, the residents were going about their business. They moved around slowly outside, glum-wellied, as if the mud were treacle. None of them ever seems in a hurry.

Between the woods and the water, I thought to myself. They nodded as I went by, and we said, ‘Morning,’ to each other as I passed the roundhouse and The List. There’s also an extra new notice asking all residents to attend the additional meeting that night, to discuss whether or not the eco-village should break its no internal combustion rule in order to buy a device to turn the coppice into woodchips for a biomass boiler, a discussion that so far only the decision to invade and occupy Iraq has matched in terms of fiery passion and bull-headed position-taking.

Anyway, The List never changes much. Or hasn’t since I’ve been around, which is only a few weeks.

The List