Would it be fair to say that the fate of the English village is intimately tied up with the future of the village fete? The quality of the baked goods, the ingenuity, or the refreshingly total lack of it, displayed in the stalls and games, and the excellence of the jams and pickles constitute a true index of village vitality. There are killjoys who claim the modern village is full of commuters, second homers and dispossessed locals. There is more than a grain of truth there, in some cases. But at the fete such disharmonies are momentarily forgotten. The artistic and literary heritage is vast: Richmal Crompton’s William impersonated the fortune teller at a fete, PG Wodehouse’s Ukridge was expelled from school for sneaking out to attend a fete, and, in Midsomer Murders, people get killed at any fete attended by any Inspector Barnaby. Meanwhile in Ambridge they have fetes until – how to put this? – until the cows come home.