Under a whisper-soft, powdery blue sky in pale yellow sunshine Janey and I stroll through the lively, noisy markets on our way to the Colchester Pub in the heart of the village. With the coming of autumn some of the beautiful old trees that abound begin their annual colour display, as slowly their leaves turn to golden, then red and crisp brown before softly falling, to finally stand bare through winter waiting for new life in spring.

To one side on the edge of the Green, a troupe of entertainers in bright coloured clothing tell their story with music and verse as a crowd laugh and cheer, enjoying the song. We stop to listen awhile, and when I smile at Janey we burst into laughter at their outrageous tale of adventure and magic, farfetched and comical, but really quite funny - the gift of a story. Among the giggles and games of the village children and a few shouted words from folk in the crowd, Janey grasps my arm and pulls me away as we struggle to contain our mirth. We continue on, threading our way through the cobbled main street past the row of shops and cottages, some with a pretty garden in front, to reach the pub.

Inside the smell of old wood and brewed ale mixes and hangs in the air as familiar greetings with our publican are exchanged and, as I introduce Janey, he pours two frothy ales into generous sized mugs. Refusing to take the offered coins for this first round of drinks, he smiles at my thanks and shoo's us away to sit at one of the worn wooden tables left unoccupied by patrons. Talk and laughter ebbs and flows among the gathered company and some, already hungry, order meals to be bought to their tables. I lift the mug to my lips, drink, and find that the golden brown ale tastes refreshingly good.