Today, there was a corner of a foreign wood which was for ever Spain. It is the feast of St Ignatius of Loyola, and the Professor decreed a romeria. A shrine of St Ignatius was created at the far end of the wood — a santino of the saint in question, surrounded by elaborate light effects courtesy of the Real World Consultant. Meanwhile our Arts Consultant, who is the RWC’s partner, caused plates of as-Spanish-as-possible tapas, which is to say, boquerones, different kinds of tapenade, olives, stuffed pimentos, chorizo and, erm, slightly French, artiginal sausage. Ceremonially, this orgy included a bottle of the house wine – as Constant Readers may remember, we made wine last year. This is the first moment that it was broached — it was ceremonially opened, and turned out to be a dry-as-a-bone slightly sparkling rosé; not what you’d call subtle, but not stuff you’d clean spoons with either. Perfectly drinkable. We grouped ourselves about the shrine of Ignatius, and had our sort of Spanish picnic, and it was very nice. Miss Best Friend was in seventh heaven — she is in any case, extremely Catholic, but the notion of a form of Catholic cultic activity which involved sausages was one which she had, as a Lancastrian, not previously encountered. I need hardly say that she was all for it.