Extract from Sunday, 30th May, 1982:

We drove to Castor and parked at the old station, then walked up the Nene Way to Wansford station where we inspected the engines. (They still haven't put up my name as Honorary Bridge Engineer. Still, it's early days yet ~ I've only been doing it for five years!)

Then we walked up the river to Sutton. Here we were in a quandary, since the Walk Leaders (Harris and George) did not know which way to go. After some indecision we went back the way we had come. When we got to the weir we crossed it and went to Water Newton, where we did some exercises and wandered round the village aimlessly for some time. We then returned to the lock and watched a boatload of holidaymakers preparing to descend, and sat on the backwater for some time, as we were much too early.

We arrived at Y ^e Olde White Harte spot on twelve.

Harris was being picked up by his daughters, and had no time for a drink. But as they were not there he agreed to have a pint with me. They turned up as soon as I'd bought it, so he did a 'Jack Robinson'.

Now, the question is: yes, we arrived at the stroke of twelve, but having dithered and filled in time for a third of the total. I am criticised for splendid walks which occupy every second but sometimes overrun by a few minutes. It is the old syndrome of the man who always overestimates and is praised for "saving money" when his job finishes short of his estimate, while the man who estimates accurately sometimes runs slightly over and is damned!

I pursued my theme about dogs growing to be like their owners: Max is well behaved when out with George's wife, but bites people when with George. "Not true!" cried George, "And if you keep going on about it, I'll bite you!"

Harris points out that he suggested Brown's Mill for the walk, but George insisted on Castor backwater, inspected the rolling stock and passed the time of day with some of his erstwhile minions, recalling his father's connection with the roilway. Not content with this he insisted on visiting the cottage where his mother was born (one of fourteen) and where his grandfather used to work in the mill and walk to the nearest pub at Ailsworth. He became very generous when he was "in his cups" - a trait George has not inherited. Betimes he did not return in the evening, but slept in the meadow by the backwater, having lost his way home.