Sunday, 22 August 2010

We have come a long way, learned loads, met some great people, and some not so great. The prize winner in the latter category is the guy who decided that because Obama can't  finish crossing a bridge before the lights change, that Obama should go back and drove straight at him to make his point clear. I have always made it clear that if you want to hit my pony, you damn well drive through me first, but the guy bottled out after hitting me in the leg. It wasn't very hard, and didn't hurt much, but I must say, it isn't much fun having people think they have to right to drive vehicles into you.
The roads suck. The road into Glastonbury, the A361 from Taunton does clear up one religious controversy, how Joseph of Arimithea got to Glastonbury. I can assure you, if he had a donkey, he didn't come from the Taunton, because you can't. It is the most lethal road, and for an alternative city, Glastonbury really needs a road that allows alternative transport to the internal combustion engine.
But for every murderous motorist, we met kind and civilised people, but back to the drivers, Boy racers, bikers, bus drivers, Jewson's delivery drivers, white van man, almost all nice, charming and considerate. Modern saloon cars, watch out. The sort of person who hands out Asbos to delinquents, can't be trusted behind the wheel. Queen Mary apparently had Calais engraved on her heart when she died. I will have an 09 or 10 plate branded on my backside by the motorist who finally gets me.
We have climbed hills, and I know what Obama feels as he now doesn't climb unless I am pulling. I still haven't worked out quite how I fell for this particular ploy, but we plod along, Old Mac hoofboots and pink Crocs, Obama biting Tiki on the bum and looking daggers at me, while I swear monotonously at him and the road, with occasional variety as I curse motorists who won't give Obama an inch.
But we met Jashoda, Louis and Gemma as we were leaving Glastonbury, who offered us grazing right up on the top of Glastonbury, overlooking Wells  The camp site was perfect once we fenced Obama and Tiki out, so Tiki came and crashed out next to Lee and then spent the night chasing each other around. That's when you curse all the hills you have hauled away to help Obama, and he then spends the night thundering around at high speed, while you are desperate for enough sleep to get the limbs in something resembling working order.
Lee and I were going to do some serious traveller's cooking, but we have come to the conclusion that an interest in fine food is a sign that you haven't enough to do in your life. Nice ham, yes, nice bread yes,  Stick one in other. Eat. That's it. And Obama and Tiki are showing less interest in wayside plants. They graze happily when we stop for a break, and we saw both Obama and Tiki eating loads of  Damsons, OK but a bit sour, and carefully spitting out the pits. They will strip the seeds of maize heads with the same care, so why we have to feed carrots cut lengthways to stop them choking, beggars belief. Watch the way the eat, the way they go for blackberries, or smear the spines on thistles with ahoof before eating the heart out of the rosette.
These animals are no fools, and I have never met a pony or horse as vicious as the respectable motorists who cruise the road system looking for their prey, the common horseman. And even God isn't on our side. We came into Wells just as a wedding carriage was leaving. Obama and Tiki hadn't seen another horsedrawn vehicle in months, and the clatter of the shod pair, and the driver's shouts, upset Obama and Tiki a little so we stopped in St Cuthberts churchyard to let them chill out. Within a couple of minutes a churchwarden arrived to put a bollard in place to seal us into the churchyard.
When I pointed this out she said we would have to get out immediately,we had only been able to get in because the wedding carriage needed access, and we should leave as the Church didn't want people like us.
Now Lee and I aren't the most sartorially elegant pair, but Obama and Tiki are dead smart. But then the Church likes horsemen with whips and bits and blinkers and force. Why would the church want to have anything to do with kindness, or gentle treatment of animals, or indeed people. So knowing we would be welcome, we went to Wells Cathedral. Have a look at the pics.

To see some of my marginally more organised rants, try these links. If all else fails, try hitting them with whips. It works with horses, doesn't it?

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