Homeward bound, I stride downhill and turn onto the narrow, paved path that runs diagonally across a grassy, square field edged, road-side, with spreading, still-leafy oaks. A shortish man with curly, darkhair approaches from the other end. He’s carrying something. Eating something.
Politely, he steps aside to cede the way for me. As I get close he waves whatever he’s carrying and encourages, “Help yourself! Take a few!!.”
I see he’s holding a box of chips, no doubt from our local chippie, and freshly-cooked, as I discover after grabbing two.
I head home, grinning to myself at the unexpectedness of it all, munching away with much enjoyment and wishing I’d snaffled a couple more.