To the right, at last, and there was mossy old St. George's parish church, as stout and impressive as a feudal manor or Norman conqueror's keep, with its low stone walls marking the bounds, now topped by new iron fencing. The expansive graveyard was further bound with iron fencing, too, though the oldest headstones were still lime-green with moss, and tilted any-which-way, as if braced "a-cock-bill" in eternal mourning.

St. George's had marked the eastern boundary of the village the last time Lewrie had been home-Christ, my last time here was back in '97? Lewrie realised with a start-but it seemed that that had changed, too, for, hard by the church's fenced boundary there was a lane running north, then a row of two- and three-storey brick and slate-roofed, bow-windowed shops that hadn't been there before, either.

"Milliner's… a tailor's… a tea shop?" Lewrie muttered half under his breath. "And what's this?" There had been four row-houses just east of the Olde Ploughman public house, but someone had re-done the fronts, closing off half the entrances, and turned two of them to double doors, all to allow entry to a dry goods! "A dry goods?"

Before, anyone wishing to do serious shopping would have had to coach, ride, or hike to Petersfield, the closest substantial town, or go all-in and stay over at Southampton, Portsmouth, or Guildford, but now…! Why, in the dry goods store's windows Lewrie could espy ready-made clothing, china sets, and-

"This th' public house ye told us of, sor?" Desmond asked as the coach drew level with the Olde Ploughman. It had been touched up with whitewash recently, sported a new, swaying signboard over the entrance, and new shutters.

"Aye, Desmond," Lewrie told him. "The side yard's a grand place in warm weather, tables outside and… coachee! Draw up here, I say!" Lewrie cried, thumping his walking-stick on the coach roof. "As long as we're here, we'll try their ale, the coachee and waggoner, too."