Ours was mud country, down below Dundry on our inaugural walk for Mister James on 3rd January. Despite the arresting air, the unpleasant pea-souper and less than agreeable walking conditions underfoot, we struck out across the fields in good spirits; determined to relish what we were to do, and stick to it, and make the best of it! We talked a good deal as we walked, our four legged companion Brock bounding lustily forth in a misguided attempt to flush any hardy winter creatures that might be present.
Continuing our perambulations, it wasn't long before we encountered our first considerable obstruction. Up until this point, Miss Sarah and I had been making ground with slapping dexterity; the drowned land beneath our boots being our primary adversary and one that we were heartily managing to surmount.
It was following the successful negotiation of a particularly poached field that required each of us to hop a fence and pick our way cautiously along the hedgerow avoiding the marks of dispassionate brambles, that I spied the obstacles we would face on our next leg of the journey. My blood ran cold within me for before us were at least seven burly horses of exceedingly dark complexion, each sporting countenances expressive of extreme malignity and standing doggedly in our path as if to block our passage spitefully and with frightful intent.
Dear me, I was not best pleased. This was a most disagreeable situation and I knew not what to make of it. But I felt a gentle pressure on my hand and Miss Sarah, sweet and compassionate soul that she is, led me forward, her very presence serving to reassure me that we could accomplish this; that it was a fine opportunity to confront the terrors that had hitherto hounded me through the countryside.
Uneasy, we made our way across a little river and together negotiated a particularly disagreeable slope that led into the pastures where my nemesis lay. At one point, Miss Sarah became trapped by the immovable mud and in that passing moment I was able to repay some of her earlier kindness by lending a supportive hand. I had been afraid until then, but as I we laboured forward together I felt able to adopt a haggard look of bravery. “Stay close to the edge of the field”, Miss Sarah whispered and with these words she released me. Terrified, I am sorry to say that I immediately abandoned that gentle and benevolent soul to her fate, racing forth with no thought but to save my own skin and be rid of the thumping in my wretched heart.
Moments later, and without the great beasts having so much as nosed in our direction, we emerged approximately five hundred metres below ‘The Peart’; a less than impressive hilly mound that was however deserving of that name owing to the small protuberance erupting from its summit. Congratulating ourselves on surviving, we strode forth along the community, and dubiously named ‘forest’ path, in pursuit of our finish at Hanging Hill Wood; a peaceful little valley through which runs Colliter’s Brook and where Brock, unperturbed throughout this entire venture, then spent a good portion of time gambolling freely with the bough of a tree in his jaws!
Here's our route: http://gb.mapometer.com/walking/route_2654947.html
