Even during the lockdown, my village pub was the heart of the community. Banned by law from opening its doors, it sold fish and chips through a hatch. When the rules on meeting outdoors were relaxed a little, it organized markets in its beer garden where villagers could buy homemade cakes and jams and, above all, talk to one another.

Now it stands derelict, one of 80 each month to call “last orders” for the last time. It was part of the history of these Hampshire chalk downs. In 1944, it was the scene of a shoot-out between American GIs and their military police: Two privates were killed along with the landlady, hit by an unlucky ricochet as she cleared the glasses. All that is gone now, lost in time like tears in rain.