Rambling on about litter up on the South Downs
Iheaded to the downs the other day. It was beautiful and I felt the satisfaction and carefree spirit of a man who knows he’s about to wear a fleece in public and not feel any shame. Normally these walking days pass without incident but this one, I’m ashamed to say, involved me getting into a bit of a spat. I say spat, more a slight exchange of words, though spat sounds more exciting so I’ll stick with that. I was with my friend, a friend I go walking with not because we have a good relationship – if truth be told I’ve never been keen on him; he and his wife have a collection of tea towels depicting English seaside resorts, need I say more? – but because he can read a map. I have no idea what all the squiggly lines mean and tend to wander whichever way feels most likely to be correct (though this isn’t something, as I’ve discovered in the past, looked on kindly by the emergency servies).
While my mate is an excellent navigator, he is incredibly annoying for instead of simply telling me which is the right way to go, he feels the need to share every detail.
So, for example, as we are approaching a fork I will say ‘is it left or right?’ All I require is a simple one-word answer but instead he’ll say the dreaded words, ‘would you like to see where we are on the map?’ My instinct is to say ‘no, I couldn’t care less’, but of course I have to reply, with fixed smile and an extremely heavy heart, ‘okay then’.
He will then spend the next six minutes pointing at lines on the map so faint it would take a NASA telescope to see them.
‘So, you can clearly see that we’re just here. If we were to go right, do you see what would happen? We’d end up on the top of Butser Hill. Then we’d be in trouble wouldn’t we? So we turn left here and then head east.’
By now I’ve glazed over and I have to fight hard to resist the urge to scream ‘have mercy, no more’. Anyway, we were having a very pleasant walk and I was in particularly high spirits for I was wearing new boots. Some people get excited by a holiday abroad, some a meal in a fancy hotel – me, I get my kicks from new boots. Mrs C is a lucky woman.
On stumbling across a nice vantage point, we ate our lunch when a group of six older men lumbered into view and stopped by us. They were wearing matching jackets with the same logo, so were either members of a rambling club or had been incredibly unfortunate when selecting their outfits in the morning.
They all had beards and were having an animated conversation. After a couple of minutes my friend and I stood up and began to walk off when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘you are taking that with you, aren’t you?’
I turned to see him pointing at a crisp packet that must have fallen out of my rucksack.
‘Oh sorry about that,’ I said, ‘yes, of course I am.’
In a very pompous tone, he then said, ‘good because I would’ve reported you for that’.
I examined him closely to see if this was a joke. It wasn’t. ‘Well clearly I didn’t deliberately leave it there, it must have fallen from my rucksack,’ I said, narked.‘
‘That’s what they all say’, he said.
Now I admit I slightly lost my rag at this point and said sternly, ‘listen, it was obviously not deliberate and what’s more I really don’t care for your obnoxious patronising tone.’
Everyone fell silent and then, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed to have caused a scene on a beautiful hillside, I stuffed the crisp packet in my rucksack in quite dramatic fashion and flounced off without looking back.
■ Cheryl Gibbs is away.
I turned to see him pointing at a crisp packet that must have fallen out of my rucksack