Once we were back, Bonn Bugle was banging on obsessively about the “old crow” who managed a farm where she as hare had added a late arrow in flour.  [See addendum!]   Goodness knows what the arrow meant – we could find no further flour after following it – but the lady in question obliterated it; hence Bonn Bugle’s indignation. We turned back and just went on with the trail as originally set (was the arrow an attempt to reduce its length?) and were back before 12.30, so the trail was not unusually long anyway. Mostly it followed the eastern boundary fence of the Bisley Ranges, though the shooting we could hear came from our side of the fence. At one stage we came upon what seemed to be a month-old check next to an access through that fence, and Le Pro actually ventured through, though the solution was elsewhere.

  The first check was very near the start; during my customary prowl before 11 a.m. I had in fact located the On In, which meant it was a potential solution to that check, though the real solution – like most of the others – was ahead. The Walkers’ trail began even earlier; Clever Trevor took it, but somehow got separated from the other walkers (about half of the rather small attendance to this trail), and later found himself with us, the main pack, the other half of the 24 or so who had come.
Atalanta and Kelinchi both arrived late, as is their wont, but had caught us up by 11.30; we also had Miss Bean and Stevie Blunder, so were not short of athletes. The hare warned us of “a little mud” – in fact after a wet winter the area was absolutely sodden, and most of the paths selected for our entertainment were pure squelch.

Belcher had adopted a policy of just splashing through streams; RHUM and I observed him disappear up to mid-thigh on one occasion. (We found a more cautious crossing). I have to admit that the weather, expected to be cloudy, was sunny throughout our trail, and the scenery west of Pirbright very attractive; there were good compensations for the ubiquitous shiggy.

  Our Uncle Gerry was the RA, and spent much of his time trying to keep Master Bates out of the Circle; I have as always forgotten his sinners, except that I was one, trying to open someone else’s boot to find my tankard.

  My wife and some friends are trying to revive a reading group lost to Covid; they wish to depart from the model of discussing one book each had read in the last month, but are uncertain how to do so. My suggestion, naturally disregarded, was to talk about the books they no longer read, such as poetry and plays. Ask yourself: when did you last read either? For many, the answer will be at school. My impression is that most people read only fiction, and recent fiction at that; what was the last novel you read written before you were born? But in fact sales of non-fiction almost equal those of fiction – though of course buying a book does not mean reading it.

Much non-fiction is down-to-earth: travel guides, DIY, sports annuals, are not known for the deathless quality of their prose. Self-help sells very well in Africa. I can think of only three autobiographies I could recommend, those of

Cardinal Newman, Trotsky, and Bertrand Russell; the very great majority of politicians’ memoirs are merely self-serving.

Biographies are usually a better bet, especially if unauthorised; if Cromwell said “Warts and all”, he was in a small minority.

  On On, FRB

Addendum
Message / “explanation” from the GM: … a hash with mud up to thighs (on some), a cross farm lady rubbing out markings on the public footpath going through her farm and actually using her own flour to put arrows past her farm; a pissed off horse lady who said we should inform the residents when we are going to be on common land and some local residents who did not like our singing (in the wooded area – not by houses).  So all in all a great day at the office!