23 On display

This is the time of year when locals, like peacocks, put on a display and make a joyful noise. The village is a catwalk for girls in diaphanous dresses: girls for whom earth-motherhood is still years - and half a dozen dress sizes - away. Guys drive around in off-road vehicles with raised suspensions and big knobbly tyres. Where do they park? Anywhere they damn well like. Maybe on top of your poxy four-door family saloon if they feel like it. They crank up the bass on their new in-car stereo system to hear what it sounds like. As anyone living within five miles of Whimsey is painfully aware, it sounds like a man armed with a leg of lamb trying to break out of an IKEA wardrobe.

For a few hours the village green is transformed into an impromptu display of classic motor-bikes. And, a few yards away, lounging on the benches outside the Farrier’s Arms, is an impromptu display of classic motor-bikers. Yes, lock up your daughters, the Hell’s Angels are here. These guys may try to look fierce, but they’re not looking for a fight any more. It’s too risky; some of their blood groups have been discontinued. Instead of laying waste to Whimsey, these grizzled old greybeards are happy just to avoid getting stuck in a low chair.

Clad in leather, their helmets shining in the afternoon sunshine, they look like black beetles. They loll around, squinting into the sun, and talk about... well, bikes mostly. Good British bikes that sound like an artillery barrage, and drip oil all over the road. None of your Japanese rubbish. To hear some of the locals talk - in hushed whispers - you’d think we’d been invaded by aliens. Respectable parents shield their childrens' eyes as they walk past - which only serves to give the bikers an unwarranted air of mystery and menace. Their reputation goes before them, but they’re not as young as they were. There’s no pressing need to lock up your daughters; maybe just keep granny indoors.