Living next to the A1, we often have friends dropping in for a pit stop as they pass north or south on their journey. We’re thrilled when people stop in, actively encouraging it in fact, and our friends know the door is always open.
I had a phone call from Freddie Braithwaite-Exley one afternoon in early May: “JT! How are you? I’m heading south and I’m an hour away. I’ve had a rotten journey, I don’t suppose I could have a bed for the night, could I?”
“No problem,” I replied, “there’s bolognaise in the slow cooker and the bed’s made up ready.” Freddie duly arrived an hour or so later, with a wide grin and a bottle of wine.
Often when friends do drop in, I know they have half an eye on the opportunity of a bit of sport. Whether it’s a
