The Buck Inn at Flixton sits between a tree-fringed pasture, and an enormous collection of military aircraft grounded on a Suffolk field. Having heard good things about the afternoon tea served there, I’ve ventured across the border from Norfolk with my parents and father-in-law: I forgot Father’s Day and said I’d make amends with cake.
First, however, I have decreed we are to visit the aviation museum just beyond the pub’s back door, believing firmly that all pleasures must be earned. It’s been threatening every kind of British summer weather and so, in a collection of raincoats and sunhats, we survey the planes dotted about with the melancholy look of beached seals (“Meteor!”, says my husband knowledgably, pointing at a plane that seemed to me as insubstantial as papier-mache).
