I Understand.

I understand why some genuine Englishmen go misty-eyed and all pathological, like, over the mere mention of England.
Around sundown yesterday I found myself in rural Oxfordshire close to the brewery village of Hook Norton.
This was the 'Black Boy', an ancient inn buried off the main road with ample parking in landscaped bays and a few good beers inside.
As my friend and I sat outside in the low light near the churchyard, the loudest noise was the songbirds and the air barely moved, a magical forerunner of those Summer nights to come.

I felt as peaceful as a monk and as safe as a Spitfire pilot back on the ground.

The beer was Adnams, from Kent.