THE right to vote has been enjoyed by the electorate for generations. A simple card, a simple paper, a simple cross - a democratic right exercised, although perhaps not employed, by about 30 million people across the country.

Strange then, that the vote of one man and his wife should cause so much attention. But cause attention it does.

A normally quiet North Yorkshire village, just to one side of the Great North Road, is the scene of a mass invasion by the world's Press.

National newspaper men and women jockey for position with news agency and freelance colleagues. Photographers pitch their long lenses in a pavement battle with television cameras and huge furry microphones. And the pack shuffles around together as if attached by some invisible umbilical cord.

Besuited party agents jostle and usher the corps hither and thither, finally positioning the Press in the gutter behind a royal blue rope and handily-placed roadworks barriers. Only the local media ignore the directions - because this is home territory and we'll stand where we like.

Mobile phones play a concert of annoying tunes as the media take instructions from their respective mission controls. And the sun can't quite decide whether it should be shining on the circus proceedings.

Meanwhile, the locals look on in disbelief that such a fuss should be made outside their stone-built community hall, in Catterick Village, which is normally the scene for parish meetings, badminton and play groups.

"It's all a bit daft," one elderly woman chunters. "I think I'll come back and vote when you have all gone."

"It's a pity you all haven't got something better to do," complains another local, in his best Yorkshire accent.

"What better thing is there than democracy?" retorts Conservative county council candidate and Leeming hotelier Carl Les. True, but you can understand the local view.

"We've just come down to watch all the fun and games," says Catterick Village resident Esther Richardson.

"It's nice to see something like this in the village, which is normally so quiet. But he's late," she complains.

Her friend, Fiona Ward, says: "He has been very supportive to our community. He even came to the school fete last year."

So who is he and why the fuss? Well, Catterick Village is just three miles from the country residence - Brough Hall - of Conservative Party and Opposition leader William Hague. And the Booth Memorial Hall happens to be the Richmond MP's polling station.

Thirty minutes later than expected, he arrives with wife Ffion, both in their party colours of blue, Mrs Hague daring to show the tabloid men a tantalising glimpse of leg.

All smiles, as they have been throughout the campaign, they greet a line of villagers and the scene takes on the atmosphere of a wedding, the bride and groom greeting their guests.

Then it's a nod, a smile and a "good morning" to the Press, who have followed him for 20,000 miles around the country. There's the obligatory child to fuss around, but she turns away, refusing to play the political game. Then it's into the hall, pausing only to say to Mr Les: "Morning Carl, I have come to vote for you."

Once inside he greets the polling station staff, who move him to a different desk. A joke for every occasion, he quips: "We've even brought our polling cards in case you didn't know who we were."

Staff tell him the station has been busy and Mr Hague answers: "Good, good."

The good humour continues outside when a Army tank from nearby Catterick Garrison roars past and a party activist jokes: "That's how we get people to vote for us round here."

Minutes pass, and Mr and Mrs Hague finally appear on the hall steps for the family picture. Cameras roll, shutters snap and flashes flash.

"Mr Hague, over here," shouts one snapper.

"Willy, Willy, Willy," shouts another cameraman, who is starkly ignored for his troubles.

"It's been very good indeed, I'm very optimistic," Mr Hague says. "It's been a very good campaign and we've enjoyed it hugely.

"It's been busy, but I feel fine at the end of the day. I think we will now just await the result. Yes, we are planning to take a holiday - in the summer, in August," he says pointedly.

And all the time his minder, Seb Coe, looks on, the permanent frown of a political advisor across his visage.

And then it is all over. The Hagues depart for home, to drum up more support over the phone.

The Press corps slinks off, probably never to return to this quiet corner of North Yorkshire, with only one straggler from Sky TV, whose newsdesk had failed to give him enough notice of the job, arriving late to ask: "Have the Hagues been yet?"

The roadworks once again become the most exciting thing to happen in the village.

And the questions on my lips remain: just what was all the fuss about?

And who was William Charge Booth, whose name adorns the memorial hall?

Read more about the Election here.