TMFFTTM 3

It was another of those things that my father failed to tell me about as a boy, like checking your underpants for chilli seeds. I had decided to go for a walk south of London and had plumped for the Mole Gap Trail, all six miles of it, stretching between the North Downs from Leatherhead to Dorking, with an extra side excursion up Boxhill - for the view. The path follows the River Mole, which is a sort of turgid grey but slips by quite quickly on its way to join the Thames at Hampton Court. it looks unpleasantly greasy, like the top of a stockpot, and seems to have the consistency of vodka straight from the freezer (most of you will know what I mean by this) this illusion is probably brought about by the collection of tyres, rubble and engine blocks, not to mention the more normal detritus of tree branches, that lurk half invisible below the surface, or completely invisible under the sign that says "Unsafe to Swim". However, once the town is left, things cheer up a bit, beech woods come down to the stream edge on occasions, and the pastures are full of violets. I continued pausing only to crop a few ramsoms (wild garlic) and then to delve into my bag of emergency mint crumbles just in case I met a damsel requiring CPR or some other sort of close contact.
Finally I arrived at Westhumble, and set off to look for the stepping stones across the river, after passing the Stepping Stones pub which was packed to the rafters with Sunday Lunchers. I eventually found said stones seemingly several miles from the pub, and even then only after I'd crossed the river by footbridge. I crossed back over the stones, caught up with myself, and then creaked my way up Box Hill, 193 metres of it. Lo and Behold! A National Trust cafe! I paused for a coffee and a brownie - both average, before staring at a map on the wall to commit my descent to memory: along there, double back there, right there, across the footbridge by the sewage works and into town. Voila!
I descended, just before the footbridge I became aware of a cow, lying down in just the way that cows don't. It was flat out, upper legs dangling, front hoof occasionally moving, I approached, hoping to see a sleeping cow roll onto its belly and struggle to its feet, with the slightly shocked, slightly reproachful look that cows adopt when you disturb them (raising that weight of flesh can't be easy as some of you will tell me I should know). It opened an eye, rolled it, and groaned, groaned like a man with a cold, a near death groan, the groan that only the moribund can empathise with, the sort of groan where you cross your fingers hoping for a following inhalation.
I decided to stop at the Police Station in town and let them know. However, the bridge, so neatly marked on the map, so visible from the top of the hill, so handy for the town, was closed and had been for years, I accessed my photographic memory, cursed and started back up the hill, all the way up the hill, to tell the warden, resplendent in his Land Rover at the top. Thus it was that a National T rust volunteer was suddenly faced with a wild-eyed, sweat-dripping, red-faced individual, redolent with garlic, mint and coffee, speaking excitedly, though sporadically, about ill cows, and whose farm was whose. Eventually sense was made and 'phone calls started, and I limped back down the hill the way I had come up in the first place and started home.
Moral. When you have line of sight of your route, and a pair of binoculars, check for any ailing farm animals before you get to the bottom of the hill.