Extract from Sunday, 5th June, 1983:
The first warm sunny day without rain (so far). We walked up the Fodderlots to St Guthlac's Cross.
It is George's Silver Wedding soon, but he is not celebrating it. "Then you must buy your wife something," said M 2.
"Like what?" asked George. "A lawn mower?"
"No," replied M 2, "Something romantic."
"Like an old lawn mower," I suggested.
Extract from Sunday, 19th June, 1983:
A fine, sunny morning. Went to Croyland out of consideration for my hay fever. Even on the Fodderlots there was some long grass and I became a trifle febrile.
This morning's walk was chosen after a detailed sneezability survey. Result - not bad, certainly better for JB than last week
Minnie had to use her brother's (her feline brother's) lead this morning, which I discovered she had no difficulty in escaping from.
Extract from Sunday, 3rd July, 1983:
A delightful walk. Proceeded up Peg Lane by Duddington Cemetery (Dead End). We turned R at the top of the hill along a path never before walked by the Canines present & past. This took us thru the woods & past the caravan site to rejoin the known route at Fineshades. We proceeded eastward . . . . at the end of the woods the trail petered out. Pathfinder Harris was consulted . . . and we emerged via a small handgate into a cornfield just above the village of Duddington. We were surprised by the large number of pyramidal orchids.
Harris was plagued by horseflies.
Harris' report is very good ~ 9
1/2 out of 10. The only thing he missed was the brilliant initial concept of the walk. Modesty forbids me to mention the name of the genius responsible.Extract from Sunday, 7th August, 1983:
On the return journey violent arguments ensued over the roads to take, and Harris insisted on his choice. We eventually arrived at Y e Olde White Harte to enjoy the excellent beer.
There was no heat in the arguments - they were very logical discussions proving LH to be correct as usual.
Extract from Sunday, 21st August, 1983:
In Easton-on-the-hill a dog barked at us. George went back to have a look. It was a short-haired dachshund. "Look, Minnie!" he cried. "A boy-friend for you!"
Minnie took one look and turned her head away, her lip curled in a sneer. "Look at his haircut," she whispered to me. "He must be a punk rocker!"
Extract from Sunday, 18th September, 1983:
Am now drinking G.B's home made ale and enjoying his barbecue.
Our President 'J' is with us.
I shall now persuade 'J' to contribute:
With George asleep, sausage-full, beer still in his jar, there are thoughts of drowning him in the home brew. However, it would damage the garden chair more than George himself. Harris is sporting a smart badge declaring that he is a fully-paid-up member of the Canine Universal Training Society, and a bright "Manchester United Red" pullover. He has had his fill of sausages, spare ribs and hamburgers from the barbecue.
