It's been there since 1968, but somehow I've never before managed to visit the Winchcombe Railway Museum. You wouldn't think there could be much to it from its entrance amid a terrace of cottages, but in fact it extends as far as the playing fields, and along the backs of three or four neighbouring houses. And every square inch is crammed with railway memorabilia: incredible. My photograph, taken this morning, shows our grandsons considering my request for a third class ticket to Stoke-on-Trent.
This afternoon, I was badgered, as usual, into digging for worms. Laurie (4), spotting a rather weedy specimen, conjectured: "I think he's saying Don't feed me to the chickens, I'm only little."
Seeking to making some practical use of my young assistants, I dug in the potato patch: it's a good crop this year (after all the rain we've had), so there was considerable excitement when the yellow gold was unearthed, particularly larger bits. "Imagine," said William, 6, "that there's a potato so big it could squash all the others, so they wouldn't play with it."