Bungalow Lil’s first post

19th April, Good Friday 2014. Walking from Ellingstring. With a grandson dreaming of sex, my daughter, husband, a much hen pecked and amiable man, two revolting dogs, two horses and a battered horse trailer we started on our penitential Good Friday walk.   The trailer just about had two, or is that four, tyres, all alarmingly squishy, the range rover pulling it was not much better,   Fleur kept up an alarming banter, “The tyres are flat, are the tyres flat? Did you check the tyres, I smell burning, are the brakes working?   We lurched along with a horse periodically attempting to kick down the back ramp.   Was ever thus, we arrived, bloody miles from home in a village forgotten by the rest of the world, Ellingstring.   The smell of burning vanished, the tyres still held in what ever air they had, the brakes screeched, a good sign, they must be working,   My grandson paused thinking about sex long enough to un-box the horses only to find a vital piece of tack was broken, binder twine to the rescue and we were off.   Richard and grandson riding, dogs and Fleur and I on our feet.   In a scruffy cottage we bumped into the local artisan, if making fur hats at extortionate prices for Russian ladies, it was latter day artisanship, the horses pranced, the dogs spied a chicken, the artisan waved an Ascot piece of flummery and on we went.   We next spied Joyce who spoke the most beautiful Yorkshire accent I’ve heard for a long time.   We discussed the lambing season, the local hunt, grandchildren, and on we rode. The fields were soft, green with shoots sprouting in all the hedgerows,   Blackthorn spread a white veil over the hedges and the bluebells were on the cusp in the woods.   I followed Richard who leapt down steep slopes and cut corners, my steep slope days are fast disappearing.   Less than a hundred yards of beastly holiday traffic, and then another bridle path.   Lambs tottered, ewes bleated, the horses arched their aristocratic necks and the dogs were put on their leashes.   The ground sloped away, a boggy patch with a bubbling stream ran by us and at the next farm we swapped horses.   Unfortunately we swapped by a barn full of pigs, my horses doesn’t like pigs.   It’s easy, just put your foot in the stirrup and swing into the saddle.   I lifted my leg as far as I could, shame, oh shame, it wasn’t high enough, I needed a helping hand.   Once on board, it was fine, I was a little apprehensive about the pigs, dogs, other horse, Fleur who I suspected of announcing toes up and heels down at any moment, but no, all was peace and quiet as we rode quietly along, each like Jasper, in our own thoughts.   Getting off was a doddle, I slithered down down till I hit the ground.   It is certainly a very practical way of taking ones elderly mother for a walk. As for the religious significance, Fleur did mention when could she start drinking again, Jasper and I concluded Jesus was safely tucked up in his tomb so her penance was over, Richard wasn’t so sure, and was horrified by our fundamental ignorance of holy week where we muddled Jesus’ trip to the dessert, riding a donkey and Gethsemane in one hazy singsong “There is a green hill far away, without a city wall.”   However, the walk was lovely, achingly beautiful in fact.   The sheer joy of walking through the spring landscape, the pleasure of being part of a family and the wonder of it all. 18th April 2014. Lil’s first blog

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