If you live in the countryside, then a Boxing Day walk is pretty much obligatory, especially after the gastronomic excess of Christmas Day. We slipped the hounds into their winter coats, and set off for Eydon Hall, which has a public footpath running though its grounds.
It was a strange kind of day, thick with that mist that hangs on skin and hair. Undaunted by mud, sheep poo and that feeling of being enveloped in a damp veil, we strode on, with Posetta Baddog valiantly keeping up in the rear, although this is never a good idea, as she has a habit of just downing tools and staring at our retreating backs if she feels the going is too hard.
The village green, with its original stocks. (Next time my sister eats all the Quality Street that’s where she’s going.)
This is a blasted oak,
Poor Billy’s tiny Whippety brain really cannot cope with stiles and kissing gates.
This one, on the the other hand, just slithers underneath them. Guess who got to dunk her in the Bristol sink in the laundry room on our return?