A birthday, a new career, bouncing bulls and a steep hill

Last week I was 43. Not really a landmark brithday, but it does mark a turning point in my life, as two days before my birthday I was offered a job as Teaching Assistant at Vale of Catmose College, a secondary school in Oakham. This is the first step in my career change to become an ICT teacher, which will involve up to three years of study and a significant mental shift away from marketing.

Anyway, enough of boring work stuff, last week I tackled a rather challenging walk. On paper the walk looked easy enough - day one being eight miles of gentle Leicestershire countryside culminating in a reputable village pub where Phil would meet me and take me home.

Annie and I abandoned the car in the middle of nowhere as usual and set out up a bridleway (part of the Mid Shires Way) which passed a farm. Right next to the path was a small paddock, flimsily fenced with electric tape, containing two very large bulls. The bulls seemed inordinately happy to see us, and encouraged by Annie's frantic barks bucked, plunged and charged at the fence, which they fortunately appeared to respect, stopping a few feet from Annie and I who hugged the far fence with trepidation. The bridleway then entered a field inhabited by a gang of feisty bullocks, the hoodies of the cattle world. The bullocks came galloping towards us, but fortunately like most hoodies they stopped dead when I turned round and waved my arms at them growling "git 'way wi' ya, yer buggers" in my best farmer accent. This was somewhat embarrassing as the real farmer and his son were the other side of the fence, no doubt wondering why some mad woman was walking through their field waving her arms about and swearing in a gruff voice. Perhaps they thought I was possessed like a character from the Excorcist. Whatever, rather suffer humiliation than goring.

Once past the bullocks we found ourselves on top of one of the highest hills in the area, looking at marvellous views across Leicestershire and beyond. This was when the thunder and rain started. I had two choices - turn round and go back to my car or continue for the last six or seven miles. The thought of running the gauntlet with the bulls again and humiliation of facing the farmers and perhaps having to explain what I'd been doing decided me and we carried on. The rain worsened, the thunder rolled and I speeded up very time I reached a hilltop, wondering what it felt like to be struck by lightening and not wanting to find out.

At one point I found myself completely lost in a field which I wandered around for a while before spotting a footpath out. A gamekeeper came buzzing up on what looked like a golf buggy and asked if I was OK - he had spotted me walking aimlessly around the field in the thunderstorm and presumably thought I was a client of care in the community who had shaken off her carer. I suspect there was a gamekeeper and a couple of farmers having a good laugh over their pints that evening.

The rest of the walk was relatively uneventful, despite the thunder and rain which persisted for the whole 2.5 hours of the walk. Annie I squelched into the pub, the Carrington Arms in Ashby Folville, for a much needed glass of wine, completely sodden. Fortunately there was a football match on a large screen at one end of the bar, so no-one noticed me dripping all over the floor apart from a group of four well dressed people on the next table who left very quickly. We must have looked rather an odd couple: Me in jeans, walking boots and a grubby jacket completely soaked through, hair dripping and holding a filthy wet dog on a horse's lead rein, and Phil just come from work in a suit and tie and with his laptop.

The next day Phil and I decided to complete the walk together. The mix of eight miles after a week break and being thoroughly soaked meant that my muscles were more tired than usual, but we only needed to walk about five more miles so I gritted my teeth. What I hadn't bargained for was quite how steep the hill leading to Burrough Hill Fort actually is. And we had to climb it not once, but twice. Finally, exhausted, we repaired to the Fox and Hounds in Knossington for a delicious birthday meal and the usual admiration and adoration of Annie by customers and staff alike.

Since then the weather has been decidedly iffy, so our next big walk is waiting for the sun to shine.

Spring has sprung in Rutland

At last Spring has arrived and there have been a number of nature signs to herald the event. Annie has discovered new flying things to chase - butterflies aren't quite as good as birds but better than jump jets. The body count has seen a sharp increase, with a mouse a night average. We had a strange bisected rabbit incident a few days ago; when we woke up there was a baby rabbit foot in the bedroom doorway, so I got up and disposed of it. Phil then got up about half an hour later and found a whole leg in exactly the same place which he took away. Then I got up again a little while after that to find another foot and lump of fur in exactly the same place. We have no idea who the culprit was, or even if there was a culprit (Phil suspects a hole in the space time continuum just above the bedroom door, allowing bits of rabbit to fall through from a different dimension) but I suspect Pebble, if only because she is number one hunter and was hanging about near the door whan I found the last piece. Last Friday I saw my first swallow, and have seen a few more since, and this week I managed to catch my first summer cold.

Having a cold has put the brakes on Walking for Welland this week, but I have been busy exploring the region prior to my infliction. I have now clocked up two more rides around South Kesteven (that's what South Lincolnshire calls itself for some reason; maybe it doesn't want to be associated with the rest of Lincolnshire which is, admittedly, rather fenny) which is a beautiful area abutting and very similar to Rutland. The walks have taken in two Forestry Commission woods, Morkery Wood and Temple Wood, which are both open for riders to explore at will. They also necessitated visiting a couple of charming pubs, the most notable being the Griffin at Irnham run by Chris and Liz, a beatiful old stone inn with large garden and grass area at the back in the picture box stone village of Irnham. Phil and I both had gammon, which arrived as thick slabs of juicy meat - absolutely delicious- followed by divine homemade puddings from the bread and butter/treacle tart school rather than the baked coffee bean with vanilla froth genre. For some reason a baby bunny decided to take up residence under my car; I think it left before I did though I didn't check and it wouldn't have made much of a bump.

As for the walking, although mostly uneventful I did come across one potentially interesting challenge for riders; a quarry. This seems fairly innocuous until you realise it's very much a working quarry and the bridleway crosses right through the middle, past the signs in the picture. I called the lady from the quarry company who was very friendly and helpful, and she assured me that the blasting was done under ground, wasn't all that loud and "was just like a small earthquake". Hmmm. So a bombproof horse recommended for that ride then.