I don't know what I was expecting, I had never been to a Duck Race before, but this being the countryside, I had imagined there would be actual, live ducks, somehow persuaded or bribed to run from one end of a course to another, with the winner being the first duck across the line, with hilarious results.
Elements of this were right, there were ducks that had to make it across the line, and there was betting. But one crucial difference leapt out when we arrived. The ducks were of the bright yellow plastic variety and came tumbling out of black bin bags into the stream. Each duck had a number on its bottom and locals were invited to back a duck in hope of successfully pairing with the winning quacker. Proceeds- as ever- were going to the church hall roof.
We followed our rubber beauties down the stream, helping them along with a little boot when the stream was shallow. Little brother insisted on being at the heart of the action and walking in the very cold and very wet stream for the length of the course. At the end when the winner was declared, we finally persuaded Little brother out of the stream and had to pour most of it back from his wellies.
Darling boy and little brother did themselves proud at the tea afterwards and ate their own body weight in scones, jam and cream. Pretty impressive since they both weigh around 2 stone each. It was a lovely, and weird afternoon. More please!
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