Every spring the hill village holds the Cheese Roll. A round cheese as big as a wagon wheel is rolled down the hill, and whoever catches it first wins it, and the Golden Spoon too. About four hundred people were waiting at the bottom. But this year the mayor slipped and let go before the whistle, and the cheese was off on its own.
It crashed through the market, where the chickens scattered and a pyramid of oranges fell. It rolled in through the front door of the bakery and out of the back. Then it bounced down the long steps to the harbor road, and four hundred people ran after it: the baker with flour on his face, the postman, three grandmothers and the mayor with his hat in his hand.
Ada was eight, too small to run with the grown-ups. The day before, she had said, "Cheese goes downhill, so it ends up at the lowest place. The lowest place in the village is the end of the pier." Now she sat there with her little red wagon.
The cheese rolled along the whole pier and thumped into the wagon, and stopped dead. When the villagers arrived, panting, they found Ada sitting on it. She won the Golden Spoon and cut the cheese into four hundred and one pieces: one for each villager and one for the mayor, to say sorry. The next year the race started from the pier.
