R*n 496: Silverdale

Having dumped Google at the Silverdale Hotel, or whatever it is called, local folk directed me towards the A site, where I found Dripper and a gate barring the way. By the time I discovered that I had arrived via the back door, my boots were already on and so the car was staying put.

What had at first seemed like a poor turnout for a Sunday, developed into a very good one, once I had found my way inside. I was also faced with the inviting prospect of a dry run for a change, which meant a simpler task in cleaning my boots ready to go in the Pattaya bag.

The run itself was up and down, rural and coastal, parks, national parks, highways and by-ways. The extremely large fish hook signs made me think that Morticia had borne Lurch and his habit of running through them in mind. Lurch himself seemed happy with the suggestion that he had experienced the intimate workings of Darth Vader. The worrying part was that DV had no recollection of the event.

Twisted appeared to have ditched her FRB habits and was today acting as a general guide for the visitors she had brought along, pointing out various interesting or not aspects of fauna and flora and bushes.

Dormouse was in character again as normal, determined to survive no matter how much sunshine we were lucky enough to see. Maybe we should put a warning in the local press to alert children to his whereabouts. An unexpected encounter might result in permanent psychological trauma.

At one of the final checks, Speed Bump and I thought we had the game sewn up, only to lose flour and to finally discover that I had completely missed the trail veering obtusely off to the left. She showed very little hesitation at all in planting the blame firmly on my shoulders.

As for the beer stop, I have now discovered McVities double chocolate biscuits. I suggest they are made a compulsory purchase for hares. The circle didn't happen, as Morticia decided the weather was "Mis" and we all retired to the Woodlands Hotel for sandwiches. This must have been quite upsetting for Sir Tom Tom, the hash epicurean, who sniffs at the risk of getting gravy splashed on his suede brogues.

On on, NMC