Day 42 Part 2 - Flatmeat

(continued from Part One)

There was a good crowd at the Camp House pub on the river south of Grimley. I sat with a deliciously bitter pint of yellow Batham's Best. The voice behind me sounded exactly like that of Joe Grundy from "The Archers", which is set in this part of the world.

I left the river at this point and worked my way through lanes to the A443, a busy and fast road not very suitable for pedestrians. I dangled my hi-vis orange pennant and watched the drivers as the rounded bend towards me. I'm almost certain that I can see their eyes widen in surprise as they see me and twitch their steering wheels away from me.

Less lucky, or less visible creatured, get hit all the time and I've become a bit of an expert on the decomposition of roadkill. Badgers, for example, have fur so thick that they hang around for ages. I guess scavengers find them a little difficult to munch. I've learned that when they turn pitch-black, the smell is as its most revolting. So pungent, it lingers in an invisible putrid pool around the carcass, sometimes for longer than I hold my breath.

Foxes, on the other hand, seem to decay much more quickly, almost as fast as the common assortment of pheasant, pigeon and blackbird that I see every day.

I saw a TV programme a while ago in which a man described how to cook this 'flatmeat'. I have to say that nothing I've seen or smelled in the last 430 miles could tempt me.

The B4194 was less busy than the A road. But it had more sharp bends and almost no verges. It passed through several narrow sandstone cuttings, which rendered me flat against the rock when a vehicle hurtled by.

(continues in Part Three)