Why do I do it? Why do I buy books of guided walks when they always get me lost?
This walk featured a village famous for its water buffalo herd. I hoped to stumble across this (not literally, though these are apparently the gentler, oriental, ikebana-arranging variety, not the larger African ‘Big-5’ type than hangs out with lions and rhinos) en route.
The first herd I came upon was a mixed one: designer sheep, alpacas, ducks and, I kid you not, emus. I was clearly in silly farming territory, just the place to breed bonsai water buffalo. The Book then sent me through a barbed wire fence (‘Here you will find a stile’), down several wrong turns and into a farmyard. Here I found a notice saying the farm was closed for ‘Saturday Sabbath’ but that, otherwise, hikers and cyclists were welcome to come and look around – the equivalent, to most Warwickshire farmers, of inviting paedophiles to tour a primary school. Alongside, shaggy
highland cattle were enjoying their Sabbatical before a magnificent red brick windmill. Perfect.
And the village, when I finally found it, was glorious – tumbling down the steep hillside in a confusion of gable ends, jutting bays and terraces. At its base, as instructed by The Book, I set off down a cart track.
The next bit was my fault. ‘You come to a gate’ The Book said. I came to a nice gate, on the left, and went through it. ‘You come to another gate’ it continued. I came to a stile, but decided that counted. Next came a pool ‘where cup and saucer lilies can be seen’ said The Book, forgetting it was January. Then I found another, then another, then some anglers and a great many brambles and was clearly in the wrong place entirely
The village loomed reassuringly above me throughout, and I now found myself, Alice-like, heading inexorably back towards it. Resigned, I started again the cart track.
This time I found the correct gate. And the second gate. And another pool. And was utterly lost: the countryside had clearly undergone some sort of tectonic shift since the author of The Book last visited.
I abandoned The Book and relied on instinct, stumbling through field after field of cattled-churned mud, wading through brooks and straddling fences. I must have trespassed through every field in the area, without coming across a single water-buffalo herd. Though by
then I was well past caring.
Eventually, plunging through a hedge, I reached a lane – civilisation at last. There, parked by a solitary house, was a white van with ‘-ton Buffalo Herd’ painted on its side.
I hadn’t seen the Buffalo, but I know now where their road crew hangs out.
Back home, exhausted, I replaced The Book on its shelf. We’d had our differences, but we’d had fun. Next time, I’ll try a different walk. I never do learn.
This walk featured a village famous for its water buffalo herd. I hoped to stumble across this (not literally, though these are apparently the gentler, oriental, ikebana-arranging variety, not the larger African ‘Big-5’ type than hangs out with lions and rhinos) en route.
The first herd I came upon was a mixed one: designer sheep, alpacas, ducks and, I kid you not, emus. I was clearly in silly farming territory, just the place to breed bonsai water buffalo. The Book then sent me through a barbed wire fence (‘Here you will find a stile’), down several wrong turns and into a farmyard. Here I found a notice saying the farm was closed for ‘Saturday Sabbath’ but that, otherwise, hikers and cyclists were welcome to come and look around – the equivalent, to most Warwickshire farmers, of inviting paedophiles to tour a primary school. Alongside, shaggy
highland cattle were enjoying their Sabbatical before a magnificent red brick windmill. Perfect.And the village, when I finally found it, was glorious – tumbling down the steep hillside in a confusion of gable ends, jutting bays and terraces. At its base, as instructed by The Book, I set off down a cart track.
The next bit was my fault. ‘You come to a gate’ The Book said. I came to a nice gate, on the left, and went through it. ‘You come to another gate’ it continued. I came to a stile, but decided that counted. Next came a pool ‘where cup and saucer lilies can be seen’ said The Book, forgetting it was January. Then I found another, then another, then some anglers and a great many brambles and was clearly in the wrong place entirely
The village loomed reassuringly above me throughout, and I now found myself, Alice-like, heading inexorably back towards it. Resigned, I started again the cart track.
This time I found the correct gate. And the second gate. And another pool. And was utterly lost: the countryside had clearly undergone some sort of tectonic shift since the author of The Book last visited.
I abandoned The Book and relied on instinct, stumbling through field after field of cattled-churned mud, wading through brooks and straddling fences. I must have trespassed through every field in the area, without coming across a single water-buffalo herd. Though by
then I was well past caring.Eventually, plunging through a hedge, I reached a lane – civilisation at last. There, parked by a solitary house, was a white van with ‘-ton Buffalo Herd’ painted on its side.
I hadn’t seen the Buffalo, but I know now where their road crew hangs out.
Back home, exhausted, I replaced The Book on its shelf. We’d had our differences, but we’d had fun. Next time, I’ll try a different walk. I never do learn.
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