Extract from Sunday, 25th November, 1979:

A wet and miserable morning, and with the vestiges of a cold I did not set out in the best of humours. However, we were a full company once more, with George, Harris, Caspar & Viccy, and how could a man's soul not soar in the presence of such friends?

We drove to King's Cliffe and walked along the road to Blatherwycke. Then we took the main road past Fineshade Abbey and up to Top Farm. 'Pathfinder' Harris decided that there would be a path through the wood parallel to the roilway, and so there proved to be.

We retired to the dear White Harte at Ufford, where George entertained the bar with his boastful tales of imaginary deeds. Harris and I sat in agony, due to our natural modesty and humility.

Extract from Monday, 31st December, 1979:

Geordy Bill, Geordy Bill Minor & Harris left at 8:25 am for Moulton Marsh. The start was tardy, since Geordy Bill's beer of the night before had some scouring effects. The day was fine and sunny, but the roads were icy so we made our way gingerly.

This was indeed a sad day: for some time we had discussed a major walk for the last day of the year, and treacherous George has deserted us. However, it was a magnificent walk, taking about three and a half hours, and covering about fourteen miles.

The frost was cruel, and when we faced into the stiff breeze it was quite hard going; but the sun shone all the while and we enjoyed every minute.

En route to St Marks we passed a broken beer bottle and some toilet paper stuck in a hedge. "For me that symbolises the Fen!" quoth Harris. He is very fond of symbols: in his crafty way he spends most of his life symbollixing things up.

In St Marks we mistook our way once or twice but finally reached the true sea-wall and gazed out over The Wash. The most promising feature of the wash-scape was a large orange triangle, which Harris staunchly declared was not a target on the bombing range, because, as he pointed out with impeccable logic, "It is too near those trees and buildings."

We turned West along the sea-wall, noting that the orange 'end of a house' (which Harris had now designated it) had moved significantly in relation to the buildings behind it.

Being of an essentially generous and forgiving nature, I will not comment on Harris' lack of geometrical perception . . . . . .

The landlord of the Hare and Hounds was in fine form, with tales of his visits to pubs in North Norfolk. The best concerned the posh lady, who demanded of the landlord, "Where did Nelson sit, my man?" "On his arse!" was the reply.