One of the advantages of living in the countryside is the ability to do things like have a decent Halloween bonfire and party without the neighbours getting uppity or the fire brigade descending on you from helicopters. A disadvantage of course is that such isolation tends to induce a feeling of euphoria (aided and abetted by liberal dosages of the usual strong drink, which shall be nameless but begins with w and ends in y (5 letters)), loud music and the singing of rude songs into the early hours of the morning. I shall say nothing of the brilliant fancy dress outfits, the sky dancing round the embers, or the ceremonial staggering home procession, but needless to say a great evening was had by all and whichever ghosties might have been hanging around were well and truly chased away before the icy fist of winter clamps on our collective windpipes.

Halloween of course is not November 5th, beloved celebration of the unfortunate demise of the greatly missed Mr. G. Fawkes Esq, whose bungled plot to blow up the English Parliament and James 1 the First (who was also James the Sixth), set back English history by at least three centuries. If he had succeeded, we could have avoided the Civil War, the Restoration, and the whole of the miserable Stuart Kings, to say nothing of WilliumanMary, both Old & Young Pretenders, the stupid or mad Hanoverians, the American War of Independence and a whole lot more. Perhaps the next time someone finds a few innocent barrels of gunpowder under the Palace of Westminster, lets hope its someone with a bit more historical perspective than Lord Mounteagle.

Needless to say, having reached the usually legless stage at one of our parties, the heavens opened and we all had to flee indoors, clutching various items of essential equipment as we could salvage. Yours truly of course had to rescue the barrel of excellent home made beer, which although it stood in little danger of dilution, was certainly not going to be in the most convenient place at the bottom of a very large and soon to be deluged garden. Mission successful I collapsed into an armchair and had to be revived with liberal doses of the aforesaid magic liquour (5 letters, w _ _ _ _ y).

The reason for today's sadness is that I learned of the death of one of the oldest village inhabitants, a gentleman of 93, whose devotion to the libertarian pursuit of independent manufacturing practices of the aforesaid golden liquid resulted in at least three spells of incarceration at Majesty's pleasure. The battle between the Excise and those courageous and dedicated bootleggers of the past has long been won by the mean minded and spiritually challenged forces of abstinence and punitive taxation. In a country that prides itself on individual freedom, not to be able to prepare ones own alcoholic beverage without persecution is a disgrace. Even the Swiss are allowed to make their own schnapps for medicinal purposes, although its their cattle who are supposed to drink it, but not in Britain, ruled as we are by institutional do-gooders and meddlers, clueless social engineers and woolly minded liberals.

So, on the day when tens of thousands of country folk vowed to carry on hunting foxes in the traditional way, in spite of the Governments cowardly intention to appease the townies with a Bill to ban hunting, share a dram with me and toast our ancient and now sadly demised bootlegger.

Politicians who embark on a programme of restricting individual liberty and freedom in the name of political correctness, or anything else, may find that they have bitten off more then they can chew.

We can always find replacement politicians, but traditions are much more difficult. And for those who think foxes are cute, try telling that to the chickens in our neighbours garden who each evening struggle to roost in the tree overhanging their shed or risk slaughter, or the farmer who has just dealt with a badly wounded and pregnant ewe.