For most of the year, Appleby is a sleepy little English market-town in eastern Cumbria, not that far from the Scottish border. Surrounded by green fields spotted with sheep, Appleby is dominated by a castle that overlooks a gently sloping high street flanked by small shops. It has lots of benches with old men on them, smoking pipes and mumbling about who has just died and what the weather was like in 1953.
Then June arrives. And with it, pandemonium.
First, one or two horse-drawn buggies arrive, clattering fast over the cobbles, weaving through the slowly moving traffic, driven by men in flat caps flicking long, thin whips. Then more buggies arrive, along with ornately painted Gypsy caravans drawn by cart-horses with solemn faces and huge hairy hooves.