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When the Wench Clenched.

The typical English summer arrived shortly after eight o’clock in the morning - a dribble here, and a plop there: the early signs of a deluge was more noticeable when the entire view turned chalky. By the time Nelson and I had breakfasted (Him: Pâté de la Cod Sheba et a soupçon of jus poisson, avec a side serving of biscuit de la mer; Me: Weetabix) the rain was hammering down.





There’s nothing more romantic than being alone in a log cabin atop a valley: rain cascading down the windows, a purring lap cat, a soul-stirring hot pot of coffee whilst watching documentaries about serial killers on Netflix.


But I would require some battery charging - possibly. Nearly blowing up the electrics the other day when I plugged in a travel toaster, and discovered the toaster travelled. It served as a good reminder that I don’t really understand electrical matters despite a GCSE in Physics. Still, I’ve got lighting and I’m certain my hair will stop standing on end soon. Anyway, everything else seems to be working just fine.


Ordinarily, my batteries are recharged via the van’s solar panels absorbing sunshine or daylight, preferably both. Alas, my squiffy parking under dense trees meant it might just be necessary for me and Nelson to go for a quick spin in the log cabin. A round trip to #Clench would do it.





And clench I did. The road had, at times, practically washed away and torrents of debris accumulated from the prolonged dry spell were being swept downhill along with large chunks of rubble too. I battled through it, waves of brown slush from the wheel arches smashed against the passenger windows. At the bottom of the hill, the van then plunged deep into a swell that had collected at its lowest point.


Up the next hillock we rumbled. Second gear was all I dared muster as we trundled along what used to be a single-track road. Not five minutes later, did we hit the next trough and we roared through a murky pool of several olympic-sizes, I gritted my teeth and my hands detected wheel slippage below. The last thing I needed to do now was skid the #ShitRon into a bank. The drive down to the hamlet of #Clench was an experience I wouldn’t forget in a hurry, because I then turned around and repeated the journey in reverse to reclaim the prime lounging space we’d not half an hour relinquished. Happy Days.


The next day, remarkably still alive, aptly I headed off in the direction of #Dummer and from there I travelled off to the wonder that is #GobleyHole. It was a wonder indeed because I wondered where it was for quite some time, and never found out. I’m going to presume it used to have star quality.








I’ll remember it for quite some time though, because I wasn’t far past it when I smashed my right wing mirror. Caution: when two white vans meet at speed, two wing mirrors kiss violently. Apparently, according to a garage, #TheShitRon will pass an MOT but the seven years’ bad luck isn’t welcome news. Still, with all this drama, I figured a visit to #StonerHill was might prove enlightening. Even the sign couldn’t be arsed.




And with that, I thought I’d finish my day admiring the glorious cleavage of #TittyHill.




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