Food glorious food

I walked round to the milking parlour to see if Michael was still with his cows. Milking finished, Radio 1 still playing, perhaps to keep the cows calm, huddled in the holding yard, rather than to increase their milk yield.
In the adjoining commandeered farm building Sid Rawle and his diggers had established a field kitchen, and were feeding a throng. Having gratefully filled my body with hot grub (thank you Sid), I set off with a spring in my step, no mud or hunger to hold me back.

I found Arabella and suggested we go for a walk in the fields away from the developing chaos, in the farmhouse area.
Vans, cars, trucks, Hells Angels, freaks of all shapes and sizes, silk kaftans, sheep skin coats and bright speckled wellie boots from Biba.
We walked in a big arc, amazed at the diversity of the encampments, some with very smokey fires from trying to burn green wood stripped from the trees in the hedgerows.

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