Unbelievable

Blimey. To think what he's just walked through, and within minutes of the rain stopping the sun was it and it was all clear again.

Gorse Fox phoned the Silver Vixen to see how she had fared. She, however, was sheltered in the main hall at the showground and untroubled by the storm.

GF turned and dripped onwards... wet underpants are definately not conducive to an elegant gait, he concluded. Fortunately the wind was still blowing hard and he was quickly drying off.

He was heading for the next natural cutting in the hills, where the A449 cuts through from east to west at British Camp.

Arriving at British Camp, GF decided he was not presentable enough to venture into the pub. He looked like a mongrel that had been hoiked out of a canal.

Walking over to a booth by the road he was tempted by some fresh pasties that had just been brough from the oven. Shelling out his £2.50 he stood by the roadside and muched his way through one of the best looking and worst tasting pasties he's ever had. Glad of his trusty supply of sparkling water he washed away the taste, girded his damp loins and headed over the road to start the climb to the Herefordshre Beacon.