It was market day in the village of Duckton, a quaint place about fifteen miles from Harrogate. Filled with expensive Elizabethan houses and a market square with a statue of some bloke who had done something three hundred years ago. The bank was next to the post office, and a chemist shop sat next to the newsagents. The local shop was full of spotty teenagers looking at fizzy drinks and packets of crips. The market sold local produce, mostly from the farms and the local butcher, there was a stall that sold carved wood items and another sold woollen clothing. It wasn’t much, but it was an excuse for the village to come together and possibly entice others from the other nearby villages and towns to join in.
The warmth of the midday sun had faded, and the wind had picked up, but this didn’t
