A Country Life: Life in the margins

My thanks to an occasional correspondent, Sharron Hendy, who wittily observes that this column about life in the Welsh Marches has mutated from almost a full page to a couple of full-length columns at the side of the page. "I do hope," she writes, "that this doesn't mean you have been marginalised."

But if that is what has happened, then it is not inappropriate; life in the Marches might also be characterised as life in the margins. For one thing, we don't seem to be quite plugged in properly to the National Grid. With every stormy day comes a flickering of the lights and sometimes a full-on power cut, which has turned me into a neurotic wreck up here in my garret, pressing the "save" button on my computer keyword after practically every word.

Still, there is lots to be said for life in the margins. For example, a couple of Fridays ago I took my two older children to Ludlow Assembly Rooms to see Master & Commander: The Far Side Of The World. Had we been living in a city we would have seen it already, in any one of dozens of cinemas. As it was, along with everyone else round here, we had to wait for it to come to the Assembly Rooms, a marvellous establishment of almost comical versatility, hosting films, plays, concerts, exhibitions, meetings, lectures, auctions, yoga classes, and goodness knows what else. I don't do yoga myself, but my wife Jane does, and reports that it is strangely uplifting to "churn the mill" - a strenuous move that involves sitting with one's legs as wide apart as possible and stretching clasped fingers towards one's feet - not too many yards from where, while watching a film the evening before, one stuffed down an entire family-pack of Revels.

Anyway, the point is that the Assembly Rooms at the showing of Master and Commander were packed with people we knew, which made for a particularly vibrant occasion.

As for Ludlow's other vibrant occasion of recent weeks, it would be remiss of me not to mention the Women's Institute meeting at which I was guest speaker. It was vibrant for me, anyway, if possibly not for the lady whose head lolled somnabulantly once or twice.

I was invited months ago to address the Ludlow WI, and despite Canute-like efforts on my part to slow down the passage of time, the faintly nerve-racking prospect finally came to pass. I started by saying how pleased I was not to see Helen Mirren and Julie Walters in the back row, a reference to the film Calendar Girls, which pokes fun at tedious talks given to the WI about such topics as the history of the Milk Marketing Board. They laughed politely, although it occurred to me that every speaker to the WI since the release of Calendar Girls has probably cracked the same dismal joke, and that they might in fact prefer to listen to a history of the Milk Marketing Board than to any more references to Helen Mirren and Julie Walters.

Still, with hardly any exceptions they were a warm and attentive audience, and hugely generous when it came to the matter of my fee. I had waived any monetary payment and asked for a cake instead, a request which they took with deadly seriousness, presenting me with not one cake but seven.

I consequently drove home with a butter madeira cake, a spicy apple cake, a pineapple and cherry cake, a Dundee cake, a lemon cake, an almond cake and a Bara Brith, a Welsh bread made with mixed fruit, hoping that Ludlow WI might like another talk in three years when my cake tin is finally empty, wondering whether I should give my agent 15 per cent, and reflecting on how much I enjoy life in the margins.

A mist opportunity

In the King's Head the other day I heard a man at the bar telling the following story. If it's an old urban or more accurately a rural myth, I apologise. It seems worth recounting anyway.

Apparently, this guy's mate was driving between Bromyard and Leominster recently when he was stopped by a policeman. The policeman told him that he had been driving at nearly 60mph in a 50mph zone. The speeding driver protested that it wasn't that much over the speed limit, and he had been in complete control.

"But what," said the policeman, who had a condescending air about him, "if Mr Fog had suddenly come down?"

The man sighed heavily, and decided to meet childishness with childishness. "Then I would have put on Mr and Mrs Headlight and applied Mr Brake."

There was a brief silence. Then the policeman said: "Let me express myself more clearly. What if mist or fog had suddenly come down?"

Gone to the dogs

A few days ago I took our golden retriever, Milo, for his afternoon walk through the fields. He has a disgusting habit of rolling in cowpats, but the smell doesn't usually linger. This time, however, the stink of whatever he rolled in has stayed for ages. We have been told that it is probably fox poo, a particularly noxious substance. Whatever, I think it has rubbed off on me. Yesterday in Leominster I noticed one or two people edging away from me just like they do from Tommy Cooper, after he falls into the back of a bin wagon in that old comedy classic, The Plank. If I'm not here next week then you'll know I've been attacked by 50 baying foxhounds.