Wall to wall sunshine at the Greyhound, for the firm's summer party

The Greyhound at Charcott isn’t the nearest pub to where I work, although it is the second closest. It’s a 10–15-minute stroll away, with a choice of two routes, one of which means keeping one’s wits about oneself due to the way drivers treat a country lane, as a racetrack. That road is known as Camp Hill, and I imagine here that the name refers to a former gypsy encampment, rather than the former…