I awoke on Saturday morning to a bright, sunny day, with a wintery blue sky. The perfect day, I decided, to go out for a drive, and maybe do some walking. I washed, dressed, and fixed some breakfast, then sat down with my OS map. A nature reserve called Earl’s Hill a few miles South-West of me seemed like a good spot.
I threw a few things in the car (jumper, wooly hat, book, map), put the roof down, and set off. Almost immediately the clouds started rolling in, which wasn’t a good sign. After driving around Bayston Hill several times, and hitting nothing but dead ends, I decided I wasn’t going to find the small lane shown on my map, and headed out onto the A5 for a more circuitous, but better defined route.
I eventually found the road I wanted, which turned out to be good fun. It was quite twisty, but still straight enough to get up some good speed. Suddenly, I found myself in Pulverbatch, and figured I should probably check the map. I had been enjoying myself so much that I had overshot by a few miles, and was just about to head off the bottom of the map.
As I turned around and headed back, it started to hail, but most of it was missing my head, so I continued until Oaks, where I parked up. As I was putting the roof up, the hail stopped, so I grabbed my bag and headed out on what I assumed was the footpath I needed. Twenty minutes later, the hail come down again, and in quite a serious manner. I hid behind a tree for shelter from the icy blast, and pondered whether to go back and hide in the car, or continue bravely onward. As I pondered, I had a pee.
After deciding to continue, and walking into a blast of icy pin pricks for several minutes, the weather improved, along with my mood. I strolled along quite happily, admiring the scenery and enjoying the tranquility, until my foot landed in mud up to my boot top. The next hundred yards or so were spent trying to find dry land, or rocks to hop onto, and trying to wrench my feet out of mud without losing my boots.
After crossing a busy brook (via a conveniently located wooden bridge), I staggered up a deceptively steep hill, and stood at the top, gasping for breath, admiring the view. Off to my right was a barn, which seemed to be derelict, so I headed for that. Two walls of the barn were gone completely, leaving the inside partially exposed to the surrounding hillside. Some kind soul had installed a table/bench, so I took a seat, pulled out my Bill Bryson, and enjoyed a chapter. While I was reading, it started to rain.
Once the rain stopped, I ventured out of the barn, and decided it was time to head back to the car. I leapt down the hill, back over the bridge, and through the mud. Suddenly I arrived at a fork in the path. A fork I didn’t remember at all. I stood there for some minutes, pondering the situation, and trying to spot a recognisable landmark. Finally I headed down the right hand fork. After struggling through more mud, it soon became clear that this was the wrong way. As I turned around to head back, it started to snow.
By the time I got back to the car, I was in the middle of a veritable blizzard. I was covered in snow, as was the car. After a vague attempt to clear the snow from my windows, I got in and headed home. Five minutes down the road the snow stopped and the sun came out, so I had the roof down for the rest of the journey.