More gentle country talk from outdoors chromicler Alfred Todger. This week Muckthwaite plays host to the world's hardest adventure race.
Muckthwaite, Friday 11 August, 2006
Trouble on't moor, leastways there were at the weekend. I was out
for a wander on Saturday afternoon, checking the traps and chatting
with the Muckles when all of a sudden some mincing creature in tight
ballet tights emerged from behind Groaning Stones, then another, and
another...
Covered in stickers they were, like little kids, strange foreign
names, bright yellow vests but worst of all were the tights - they
were all on display, if you get my meaning. It were quite disgusting.
'Now then!' I shouted, stopping one of them in his tracks. 'What's
all this then with fancy dress and all on the moors.'
He looked at me, all swarthy and foreign like in a sort of
disgusted way. 'Eet is,' said the fella, 'the Raid Balloises, the
world's hardest adventure race.'
And with that he minced off like the faggot he obviously were.
Now, I don't hold with these modern clothes, it's not right. I were
just grateful Agnes weren't there to see such a thing. Would have
right excited her I reckon.
Well, you can't just stand by, so when next group of prancing
twits appeared, I waved me arms and pointed towards Muckthwaite Pot -
'They went that way!' I shouted.
Soon there were a steady stream of 'em heading into pot entrance.
Aye I thought, there's an adventure for yer. When last one were gone,
I rolled boulder back across entrance and went home for tea.
Peace had returned to moor and this beautiful place were its
normal lovely self once again.
Alfred Todger
