Yesterday morning, very early, I went to the huge car boot sale at Ashley Heath, the first time I’d been for about three years. It was a glorious drive over the heathland in the early morning sun. That journey always makes me feel very Hardy-ish; I imagine the road white and dusty instead of Tarmac and one of his lone travellers trudging along it. On the way there I saw cattle browsing on the verges and on the way back a group of darling little foals. Miles I tramped round that huge field without finding anything, not being in need of a new lavatory, a surf board, or any of the myriad wares on sale. I couldn’t help remembering wonderful finds I’d had there in the past and told myself that anyway, it was a nice healthy country walk in the sun. It was really warm! Then, in the very last row of all I spotted these and asked the price. I expected to be told ‘pound each’ (which I would have paid), but no: ‘£1.50 for the four?’ ‘Yes please!’ Worth going then, and the book I most wanted, the Ruth Adam, still has its bookmark. I had the best of the day, too, because later it clouded over and wasn’t so nice.