Mud….I hate b*****d mud! I swear that the tribes that inhabited the southern bit of Essex in ancient times probably had fifty different words for mud like Eskimos have for snow.
Hanging on the edge of the great clay scab that London floats on we only have to sniff a little moisture in the atmosphere for our fields to start turning into living history displays depicting the trenches of the first world war.
Essex inhabitants are straight and tall…they have to be or they drown in ‘Chingford chocolate sauce!’ Our horses get mud fever and thrush…and are probably fast evolving either enormous feet so they can slide around their fields like pond skater insects or a combination of sieves and gills so that they can return to the ooze that their lung fish ancestors emerged from!
I’ve lost count of the times I lost a wellie boot to the black hole like pull of our paddock entrance mire. Picking out feet requires either a pressure washer or a trowel and the extracted goo can be quite successfully worked on a potter’s wheel.
I want to move somewhere where mud is only a faint memory….somewhere warm and dry….PLEASE!