So there we were, wandering, somewhat aimlessly around the paths and country lanes of Worcestershire. This being the second week of doing this walking thing, I thought it might perhaps have been easier.
Not to any great degree, you understand. Just a tad. A mere smidgen, if you please.
But no. The Gods of Buggeration were out in force yesterday and they were doing their level best to frustrate our efforts. We walked along dried-up bridle paths, their surfaces churned-up by horses making the going decidedly slow. There was the odd niggle, legs-wise. And worse of all, our directions had clearly been written by someone who had employed the tactic of Making It Up In The Pub Afterwards.
For starters, there was a degree of interpretation required when following them. At times they'd be accurate, then they'd lapse into worrying inexactitude. "You have reached a country park," they said. "It's up to you to decide which way to go for a while."
Oh. Thanks for that. Could you at least have included the phone number for a taxi company?
We walked through the hamlet of Ebcocks Green. Here is a picture of Mike and me in front of the sign, in case you wanted proof:
We are grown adults with responsible jobs.
And as we approached our destination, the really rather lovely village of Feckenham, we had more reason to doubt the unknown author of our directions. We'd been going for four hours in total. "There is," we said in unison, "no way that was only seven sodding miles."
Never has a pint (Brakspear's Oxford Gold, if you're interested) been so gleefully anticipated, and so quickly drained.
I have got to get so much better at this in the coming months.