Walk to school week

This week is officially 'Walk to school week' at Rosa's school. Great. I love the idea.

I didn't love it so much in London when it was a twice-daily event that involved dragging two reluctant children the length of three streets, up a flight of concrete steps, through an estate and across a busy road - especially when one child wasn't even attending the school, didn't see why he should be dragged there too, refused to be strapped in a buggy anymore and ended up being carried against his will. And that's all before it started raining.

But now that we've landed ourselves in a rural idyll that requires a car journey to school I look back fondly on our more environmentally-friendly days of city living and yes the ironies continue to confound me.

Solution (at least the temporary one so that I can get a sticker from Rosa's class teacher): to cycle. It's too far and dangerous and hilly for Rosa to ride her own bike so I've dusted off my kid's bike seat (a nifty one that goes at the front), found our IKEA family high visibility jackets and volunteered to be a two-wheeled taxi service. (Crucially, Malcolm is working from home, so I can leave Joe with him - phew.)

Rosa and I set off with high spirits, plenty of time and total ignorance of the outside temperature. The wind is howling through the valley, the sun has yet to break through the clouds and poor Rosa is a shivering windbreak, her frozen fists clenched around the handlebars.

Through sheer determination, we make it with time to spare and receive a faint round of applause from the mums in the playground. No sticker mind you. And I still have to cycle home to relieve Malcolm of child number two.

The forecast is better for tomorrow. Perhaps we'll try it again. Might even take a picnic breakfast this time...

Not so rural

Much of my blog has been about the rural side of rural life, since that's what's so different and refreshing and challenging to a Londoner. What I haven't really mentioned is the community and infrastructure and 'urban' possibilities. So, to set the record straight, here's a snapshot of the other side of rural life as we know it.

The local village has its own library. OK, so it's only open on Tuesday and Friday afternoons but, once you remember that, there's a decent supply of books on tap. It also has its own Brownies and Rainbows groups that my daughter is loving (they held newborn lambs last week and made snail runs the week before). The village's first wool festival - Yarnival - took place last month, and the Jubilee Parade, Scarecrow Competition and Agricultural Show are all yet to come.

Parking for the school run is a nightmare. Many people drive and the school's on a steep, narrow lane, so you either get there early or late or look for alternatives...

The pub car park is one alternative, although the pub has recently re-opened so it's really for customers only. The upside is that there's now a place to go for coffee before pick-up and it has a roaring log fire. Needing to go for coffee in order to justify the parking space is perhaps taking it a bit too far though.

There are a couple of great parks a short drive away, although driving through the countryside to reach a park feels counter-intuitive, when I'm used to parks being the green lungs of the city. They do provide the best opportunity for little kids to ride their bikes though, since pavements are infrequent and uneven.

The local town has three theatres. How this is sustainable I'm not quite sure but Paul Daniels and the Moscow Ballet have been here in the last year, and the Pendle Production of The Sound of Music brought tears to my eyes (for all the right reasons).

The local Sainsbury's is the most pleasant supermarket experience I've had in a long time. Spacious, well-stocked, uncrowded - hopefully this doesn't mean it's struggling and going to close soon.

Job opportunities may not be so wide-ranging, but there are many people taking the initiative to combine what they enjoy/are good at with family life, e.g. a freelance photographer, a lady who runs her own dance school (and has a pink 4x4 to match), husband and wife teams running a hairdresser's, a car showroom, a windows and conservatories business...

Perhaps you'll think I'm stating the obvious, but these things weren't obvious to me before we moved, and they all contribute to the perennial city versus countryside conundrum.

Geocaching and mole bashing

We've just discovered geocaching: using GPS and a few cryptic clues to uncover treasure boxes hidden all over the place. Surely this is the ultimate walk incentive.

Today we decide to break the kids in gently with a couple of drive-bys. Our day is already pretty random, watching a children's theatre show in a working auction market. The kids love it and the parents are in awe of anyone who can sustain such a camped up performance. At 11.30am. Sober.

The short-cut home takes us over the moor. We park by a cattle grid and hold high the sacred iphone as it counts down the number of metres to our destination. Frantic searching reveals a plastic tube in the hollow of a tree trunk. We open our 'treasure' to reveal a scroll of names, a little plastic jewel and a fridge magnet. We solemnly add our names to the list and try to explain to the kids that it's the adventure and discovery that counts, not the actual treasure at the end.

Back at the farm we discover a different form of treasure hunting. Dozens of dead moles are laid out on wire netting. I inquire what they're going to be used for. Having discovered that people locally still abandon black kittens because they might be associated with witchcraft, I am very open minded.

Turns out the mole catcher has been. He sets traps in the fields then comes back to collect his victims. It's a lucrative business - £5 a mole. In this case, the actual treasure is crucial. The mole catcher must produce the goods as proof... and then leave them with the landowner to ensure he doesn't charge for the same mole twice.

The elusive chocolate chick

This freakishly good weather has even graced the Lancashire hills. With friends due round for lunch and a stroll, we're set up for a perfect Sunday. They bring wine for us and three chocolate chicks for the kids, which I quickly designate as walk incentives.

The initial steep farm track isn't the problem, it's the long gentle incline across the sheep field where the kids tend to go on strike. While we're admiring the views across the valley, they're already slumping behind. Chasing shadows is our friend's genius invention and gets us two thirds of the way. My idea to pretend a trough is a pirate ship has entertainment value, but also hampers progress.

It's time to talk chocolate chicks. They can only be found on high moorland and I'm giving my daughter the job of hiding them for the younger boys. Well that makes her scamper ahead in no time.

My son needs a different incentive. Romans. Hundreds of them. Up ahead. He glugs down his magic potion (I'm not allowed any because I fell into it when I was a baby) and we brandish out broken twig swords. Charge, bosh, biff, nearly up the hill.

The moors stretch out under a clear blue sky, but we have no time to stand and stare. Rosa's hidden the chicks and the hunt is on. Joe finds the first two in record time - one for him and one for his mate.

Now there's only one left and it remains stubbornly elusive. Four adults and three children search low and lower in the thick moorland grass. Try as she might, Rosa hasn't a clue where she hid the bright yellow foil-coated chick. She's understandably (and quite amusingly) pissed off.

Our walk incentive has seriously backfired. Now it's a lesson in sharing. Two between three. Sticky chocolate faces and fingers. A mini sugar high. Quick - let's get home before it wears off.

Things I like about Spring

Putting the washing out on the line. It never seems to dry but there's something about clean sheets billowing in the wind. Or maybe it's just the novelty of no rain.

Ducks in the garden. They waddle by, as if they own the place. To be fair, they've probably been in residence longer than we have, even if they are second-homers.

LAMBS. I actually feel quite privileged to be their neighbours and watch their infancy up close. At first it's obvious whose lamb is whose. The newborns nuzzle and stay close to mum. Then they begin to stretch their invisible umbilical cord only to be tugged back by a maternal bleat. "Baa baa" is far from accurate. It's more like a "Blerrghhh". Then mum begins to relax and suddenly six lambs are all frolicking together, while the mums just eat grass. I know the feeling (sort of).

It's lighter later. We even took Chicken Boat Mark 2 out for an

evening sail.

Curlews. Or rather being vaguely aware of different birds arriving en masse and deludedly deducing that this must be the centre of the universe.

Fresh eggs from the landlady. I think this has something to do with Spring, but perhaps more to do with her buying new chickens because the others weren't laying.

The chicken boat

After roast chicken for Sunday lunch, Malcolm suggests a paper boat race down the stream. Creative, aesthetically pleasing, an excuse to get the kids out of the house... and ultimately a soggy flop.

It's the rapids' fault. One whoosh of water over the bows and an origami masterpiece is doomed. Even the long sticks we are allocated for legitimate boat assistance can't refloat a sodden, dissolving lump of wood pulp.

Almost reluctantly Malcolm reveals the reserve contender in his race armada. The roast chicken's plastic packaging. It has depth, it has a bow and a stern and, crucially, it's waterproof. Meanders? No problem. Rapids? Pretty good. Plunge pools? Nothing a flip with a stick can't solve. Tunnels? Best not to risk them.

The aborted race has now turned into operation Get Chicken Boat Down Stream, with purpose and determination. The kids would gaily carry on until we reach the sea, but luckily we reach a barrier at the end of the sheep field instead, and the chicken boat is retrieved for another idle Sunday.

Spring?

The first lambs have appeared in the field by our house!

Admittedly, they were born a few months ago care of artificially-inseminated ewes and have been sheltering from sub-zero temperatures in the poly-tunnel barn across the farmyard. But they're our first sign of spring and the relief is palpable.

It's been quite a long winter.

Ok, so it's been nothing compared to last year, as the locals keep reminding me, but last year we were in a snug newly-built terrace in a pollution-heated city. This year I'm listening concurrently to rain ricocheting off the windows and news of "droughts in the South East of..." - double take - yes the newsreader really did say "England".

Then today the temperature creeps into double figures. We venture into the conservatory without needing five layers and the rain (temporarily) isn't battering on the plastic roof and we remember why we fell in love with this house in the first place.