…I am not running the London Marathon.
Although a week of walking through beautiful Herefordshire has made me fit enough perhaps to walk it. Dad goes at quite a pace – faster than when I was short, I’m sure. Not sure if he’s even up to running it, but he could probably cycle it in a decent time, I think.
Why isn’t Herefordshire on the map? Even the Mappa Mundi added it as an afterthought, and yet it is the most English county I’ve been to, and utterly inspiring. There should be an Arts College there and an ancient university.
And, in the week we were there, I discovered that sheep have Character. What an amazing animal they are. Drive a truck of food in to their field and once word is out they gallop in lines to it. Only to follow the truck at speed as it tries to leave the field. Mad. I met one sheep, to be known only as Number 9, who reminded me of a Parent With Attitude. Not like Parents’ Evenings; more evocative of when I worked in prison and mums would come in. Even Number 9’s twin lambs looked like they were hiding hoodies, ASBOs and a tattoo or two.
Mum told me that she and dad were once on a farm where the lambs were taken from the ewes, overnight. The noise was awful. There are two lessons to be learnt from this: time your visits when you stay on a sheep farm, and watch where you put the kids.
I think we built up our stamina and fitness, and we had a lovely time away. However, I know better than to risk putting myself through Flora’s polyunsaturated Rather Long Run. Even for the Society for Delinquent Lambs.
jam and giraffes 