Perils of the Countryside - Part I

In the absence of any nearby dairy animal, it was time to take a bolt to the village and replenish the milk.  The drive wends its way across one cattle grid into a field where it joins the ‘old road’, over another cattle grid and then up the slope to the top field  and the gate, with the road grade on one side and a sandy bank full of ancient pine trees on the left.  Then it’s only to get out of the car, open the gate get back in and the main road is ready.

On approaching the second cattle grid, it dawned on me that the fetching white and chestnut mottled pattern was not a new form of mushroom, but all 20 steers laying across the road and generally munching in a rather annoying relaxed manner.  I looked at them;  they looked at me.   I revved the engine; they looked at me.  I wound down the window and shouted “Oy!”  They looked at me reproachfully and lumbered to their feet, sighing.  Sighing! I moved the car forward 1metre.  They moved off as if they had a bad case of arthritis aggravated by a hangover for about 3 metres and then they all stopped, turned and looked at me reproachfully.  Did they move to the side before the slopes start?  No, of course not, but continued stopping, sighing and looking for the remaining 50metres to the road, where there was a long, lugubrious moo to send me on my way.  It was worse than trying to get to an exhibit at the Science Museum through the children and their mothers/nannies/weekend fathers.

An Agricultural experience

Relationships being particularly important in the country, I thought that I’d go and cheer on my grandmother’s cousin’s son’s second wife (may have forgotten a twist in the lineage there so don’t quote me) and her step son at the large show in our nearest big town.   They breed Herefords and had a steer entered in one of the classes.  Having never been to an agricultural show before, I dressed with particular care.  The show was in a big town and in the international exhibition centre, so involved no outdoors experience, what would you wear?  The horsey lot had make-up and lippy, (which is sort of weird – sorry horsey lot in my audience), there was a maximum of 3 skirts allowed at a time in the halls (yes, this was obviously a rule), although one was a pink neckband, so didn’t really count and only logoed baseball caps were worn if at all.  I had black clumpy boots, purple wool Monsoon skirt, skirted wool coat and a black beret with eyes and Diva lippy.  The poor chaps on the tractor stands were diving for cover.

Everything one could possibly have on a farm was there.   I morphed into a forest owning entrepreneur and got all sorts of free gifts, whilst having no idea what I was talking about or what was being said to me.  All sorts of words that I had no idea existed!  My vocabulary would have been impressively improved if I could have remembered the words long enough to look them up.  Still, I didn’t sign anything, so that’s OK.  I didn’t need to buy lunch either as there were lots of food stalls in one of the halls, selling stuff that was made on farms, so grazed on apples, sausage and cheese and then fell madly in love with a JCB mini tractor thing, which is the technical term. 

I think that I’m right in saying that in the UK it can be difficult to tell if someone has money.  I have used this to my advantage in Bond Street many a time.  That’s so not the case here.  The moneyed look really, really different from the hoi polloi (checked shirt and tee) and the trailer trash (checked shirt and Croydon facelift).  Their hairstyles are of a certain type, the skin glow is different and they all wear blazers and moccasins.   Given that social equality is like a religion here, I find it interesting that the visual difference between the classes is so marked, whilst in a class riddled society like the UK, it’s more difficult to tell the difference.  

Anyway after that particular musing in the coffee shop, I got back to the show ring in time to see the King’s entries, which were two Simmental bulls.  They were MASSIVE.  I’ve never seen anything like it.  They each weighed 1.5 tonnes and had balls the size of footballs.  They would not have been able to mount anything without squashing it flat, if indeed, they could have raised their front legs that high. Pure sperm factories.

GB’s steer was 3^rd in the class.  Marvellous day.

The Saga Begins

It was with bright heart and strong loins girt that we packed the trailer and the van at the end of the month of summer, otherwise known as August, on Tues of the day.  This being the month of summer it was, of course, pelting it down.  Song was on our hearts as my warrior (that's Graham, chaps) and I, his lady, (me!!!) faced the M25 bravely and strong arms.  It was strength absolutely everywhere, which served us well when one of the trailer tires burst a bare mile from the turn off to Harwich. We leapt from our steed, girt with reflective yellow stuff and took off the wheel.  Well, Graham did, I just made encouraging noises from the side, which he couldn't hear, cos it isn't half noisy!
Anyway, it was then that Loki (look it up, it is a saga - durrhh) caused the mayhem for which he is justly famed.  The spare tire was in metric, the old trailer was imperial. Alas, and alack, a signal to the AA was sent and the chariot appeared in only 15min. 
I have to say they were very impressive.  Apparently the M25 is the most dangerous place in the UK, with a broken down car being hit within 60 minutes of stopping.  I didn't really like to ask if that the median or mean time and whether it clustered at night or bad weather, so my "gosh, I'm so impressed" noises were enough.
Missed the ferry, but no problems in rebooking for the Thursday.  One of the theories of the cause of the bursting tire was that it was too heavy, so I put at least 20 of my books in the bins at Thurrock Services.  I spent the next 2 days in therapy, whilst repacking the van.

At least the rest of the trip was completely uneventful.  Although it could be argued that a completely flat North Sea was an event in itself.  Denmark had temperatures of 29 degrees and was beautiful as was the bridge between Denmark and Sweden. 

We arrive at our new life 10pm on the Friday with heavy hearts and fewer books than expected.