It was a clear yet moonless night in early May. Four people, Bernard, Betty, Thaddeus and Shadowfinger looked at each other nervously before exiting their car and making their way across the carpark of the Greyhound Inn in Marsh Gibbon, Buckinghamshire. A heavy scent of manure hung in the air. The day had started in London with coffee and a discussion of where to go on that pleasantly warm pre-summer’s day. Lincolnshire was mooted but rejected because of its far-flung location and some doubts as to whether it actually exists. Monkeys were high on the agenda, as were ancient ruins. Eventually a comprimise solution was reached, The Malvern Hills, a range of hills projecting between the Severn and Wye River Valleys in Western England. Liz (or Betty as she has been styled for her questing moniker) who had grown up in the area, remembered that Malvern played host to not only an ancient Iron age fort called British Camp, but also an animal sanctuary containing amongst other things, monkeys. The journey to Malvern was uneventful. Driving through the countyside, sun shining, soaking up the attractive scenery of the Cotswolds the quartet felt relaxed and at peace with the world. However this well-being was to be rudely interuppted when, arriving in the Malvern area, it became clear that the monkeys had been relocated along with the rest of the animals in the scantuary. Somewhat non-plussed Andy (styled Bernard) suggested climbing the hill to the fort. The car was parked and through a dense blanket of bluebell covered woodland an assault on the summit was made. Despite the pleasant exertion and sympathetic surroundings, the walk to the hilltop was uneventful and devoid of monkeys. لعبة كونكر The fort proved equally monkeyless although it did provide panoramic views over Herefordshire as far as Wales and East over Worcestershire and the Cotswolds. Having had a good look around Tom (styled Thaddeus, first amongst the monkey lovers) felt the the urge for some refreshments, so a suitable hostelry was found. Thus refeshed it was felt some food was in order, so an impromptu picnic was set up in the picturesque surroundings of a disused quarry. At this point several of the group felt that further inspiration was required and so prompted by Betty it was decided to make for one of the natural springs that the area was renowned for. A steep climb followed to St. Anne’s Well, where the quartet drank of the spring and aided by the echo in the spring grotto, set up a chant which reverberated throughout the valley. With the day drawing to a close Nick (styled ShadowFinger) pointed out that the possiblities of the Malvern area had been exhausted and that a start to the long journey back to London might be in order. He also suggested that any sites of interest on the way back could be investigated. Somewhat deflated the others agreed and the car was turned around. Suddenly Thaddeus who had opened the map to plot a route home exclaimed that he had found a site that needed further investigation. He revealed that it was the village of Marsh Gibbon in Buckinghamshire. It didn’t exactly lie on the way back but everyone agreed that given the lack of monkeys in the day so far it was necessary to give it a try. An air of tension began to build in the car as first the Cotswolds were re-traversed and the quartet hastened across Oxfordshire. Dusk was turing into nightfall when suddenly Betty who was driving shrieked and a large bang was felt underneath the car. It was a rabbit, now dead who had hurled itself from the ditch. Clearly disturbing forces were trying to prevent Marsh Gibbon from being reached. What was it that lay in wait there? كيف تلعب روليت Why had the innocuous trip to the country turned into an evening charge to the small Buckinghamshire village? Arriving in Marsh Gibbon it became clear that there wasn’t very much there. Any information to be uncovered would most likely to come from The Greyhound Inn, a very old looking building which seemed to comprise most of Marsh Gibbon. The group taking their courage in hand entered through the back door, into a low-celinged, wood-beamed tudor style room. Inquistive locals turned around to see who these interlopers might be. Feeling slightly uneasy a suitable corner was found to occupy. Betty bought beverages and returned from the bar with an information sheet about the Inn. It revealed that for several centuries it has played host to the Marsh Gibbon OakApple society who held their annual celebrations at the end of May. OakApple day apparently being reminisent of the defeat of Charles II at the Battle of Worchester and his subsequent escape from the roundheads by hiding in an Oak Tree. A plan of action was becoming increasingly clear. Still not satisfied Betty asked one of the locals how the village had gotten its name. “Ask him,” replied the wizened regular, pointing to his bewhiskered companion, “he’s a Gibbon”. Stunned by this turn of events, ShadowFinger went to the bar to obtain further beverages and struck up a conversation with another local, who also turned out to be a Gibbon, descended from a Norman family who were part of William the Conquerer’s army. Further conversation ensued at which point drained by the day’s doings the quartet made their way back to London, resolving to attend the OakApple celebrations later that month…… ما هو فريق كريستيانو رونالدو