When Wendy and I were traversing the Arun valley and its delightful array of B roads last week, she remarked, as we pondered the Green Cross Code for railway lines, that being with me was not unlike being in Final Destination.
For anyone who isn’t a fan of sketchy films featuring US high schoolers and the perils of not getting on the correct flight, the basic premise is that you shouldn’t fight too much if your number is up. And if you do feel the need to fight, make sure you don’t then start going on rollercoasters/playing with knives and fire.
So it’s not a terribly reassuring thing to be told. But despite the stubborn cows, deep-flowing rivers and duelling motorcyclists, I don’t think that you could count anything as near-death. Even though some of the train track crossings were on blind corners, it wasn’t as though our reaching the other side was then followed immediately by the whooshing of grotesquely overpriced cider heading to the coast.
So I wasn’t concerned when The Brain suggested a walk around Ashdown Forest. It’s the home of Winnie the Pooh after all. The worst that could happen was that we could have our moods lowered by a grumpy donkey. Or eat too much honey and get temporarily stuck down a rabbit hole.
But, just like those perky high schoolers on their tour of Europe, you can speak too soon. The wheels grind extremely slowly, but they grind extremely fine, as I believe it goes. So there we were, fresh from Piglet car park, when we come across an adder in our path. The only venomous snake in Britain you know. And despite growing up in the New Forest, I’ve never seen one before. Still, it didn’t leap into our faces spitting poison, so no harm, no foul. Then we saw a slow worm, but they’re not dangerous and are only mentioned here because I sometimes wonder if they couldn’t be the equivalent of a tequila worm for sloe gin.
Then I found a rope swing (see photo) which had all the classic death-trap markings, but failed to deliver me to a watery/armless grave. Then the route guide wanted to take us into a field which was surrounded by the kind of security last seen in Jurassic Park. So we went round it.
It was only when trying to get through the angry metal sibling of the normally obliging five-bar gate that the weight of it dropped onto the tip of my middle finger. I could see why it was so commonly used for swearing. Instant swelling, black nail, bruise on the back of the finger and destruction of manicure.
After it became apparent that I was going to live, and live without having to do a Ranulph Fiennes and amputate anything in a potting shed, I was able to get on with my life and think about whether a complete recovery might be effected with the aid of an ice cream. Until The Brain said she was amazed I hadn’t hurt myself more in training.
What could happen? I’m just walking about a lot?
She refused to elucidate.
You may be wondering why no photo of the offended digit. Like all good tabloid photographers, I’m not happy unless it’s truly horrifying and I’m hoping that will be tomorrow morning. I’m a bit of a puritan when it comes to Photoshop you see.
What have we learned:
Nothing about what terrible wounds I’m likely to suffer next
If you pick up a slow worm, his tail will drop off (I’m told - not allowed to actually do it)
Boot update:
Although directed to a likely bog to make them look more authentic, I didn’t. I must be growing fond of them...
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