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 grass-track airfield that occupied the flatland between the B 2027 and Camp Hill. Known both before and during the Second World War, as Penshurst Airfield, this rather primitive facility closed a year after the cessation of hostilities, and today its use alternates between arable purposes and sheep grazing. With the Greyhound a short stroll away from my workplace, and close to the route of my regular lunchtime walks, it’s surprising that I don’t pop in that regularly. Tempting though it is, the reason I don’t often call in, is simply because I find it hard to stay awake, during the afternoon…