Much as I'd like to write long poetic screeds about this holiday, the inconvenience of posting from lay-bys and field entrances has dampened my ardour for vivid reportage. And anyway, falling on your arse in what may well have been a cow pat doesn't lend itself to breathless prose. Just lots of muttered cursing.
So if you want words, may I direct you to Beloved Other Half's journal here? She does it so well.
Me, I'll stick to photos.
This pic (actually taken by Beloved Other Half despite everything said above) shows what we were up against when walking yesterday
The path runs around the outside of what looked like wild moorland but was actually – allegedly – a functional airfield
Farm buildings in the evening light mark the end of the walk – the car's parked nearby
Who are you looking at, mate?
Moorland ponies coped a lot better with the mud than we did – and were quite happy to stand still for photos
Sure as eggs
You'd never get away with leaving an honesty jar back home – we were happy to buy a carton and do the supermarkets out of some cash
No foolish waving of wands
My famous impersonation of Alan Rickman as Severus Snape…