Going to Church

It's a bright Sunday morning and we're full of good intentions. We will not drive anywhere today. Instead we'll go for a walk across the fields to our local church. In time for the morning church service. Which starts at 9.15am. Already our mission is temporally challenged.

The next challenge is getting a three year old who is inadequately dressed in shorts and t-shirt (it's the rugby world cup so he wants to look like a rugby player) across a field of high, wet, sheep-poo-strewn grass. Ride on Daddy's shoulders: problem solved (if you ignore the sheep poo rubbing from boot onto Daddy's jumper).

And the third challenge is finding the footpaths. Yes, I do need to turn the map round until it's facing the way I'm going but no, that doesn't mean I can't read maps. How was I to know that the path went through someone's front gate and out the other side of the their garden? No matter. We go the long way round and realise we're almost half way and already 10 minutes late. Cue five year old's sense of humour failure and outpouring of why the countryside is rubbish.

Find something - anything - that will distract her. Horses. Sweet horses. Let's go and feed the horses. One black and two bays walk over obligingly and give Rosa a consoling nuzzle.

Sod church, let's make this our destination. It's a stunning, verdant valley, with moors looming to the right, rolling pastures to the left and a pretty stone village nestling in between. So we sing a few hymns to the wind and say the Lord's Prayer, followed by the children's rendition of "All pigs are beautiful". Job done. We find the short-cut home and celebrate with hot chocolate and toast.