Alas – the mule story is not as cute as people must think!

I’m feeling guilty. The votes are in, and the mule won. Alas, as much fun as I had with the my borrowed mule, it isn’t quite the animal asset I suspect you imagine.

This is the mule I borrowed for the weekend from a neighbour>

It’s a little workhorse of a farm vehicle, and the only 4-wheel drive to hand, essential to get equipment to the cottage, and carpets, quilts, etc back down for cleaning. It has a top speed of 12mph, and ambles along, very like a mule, utterly unfazed by mud of inclines, at about 5.

The route is from base camp (my sister’s rented house) is circuitous – and starts on a very nasty bend on a main road popular with speeding bikers – it’s only for 100 yards, but that’s quite some distance at 5 mph, and it’s a hair-raising few moments. At least it’s only two left turns, one onto the road, one off into a neighbouring field - but of course that’s two right turns into the path of oncoming traffic on a sharp bend on the way back. (Readers outside the UK and Australia should reverse those turns, of course. Left, Right. We drive different here.

I’ve counted them out and I’ve counted them back in again. Gates. There are 7 gates between the road and the cottage, all of them vital to stock-keeping, all of them surrounded by mud, all of them requiring that I stop, put the mule in neutral (or switch off – quieter, saves diesel), jump into the mud, open the gate, start the mule, chug through, switch off, jump down, close gate, jump up – etc, etc. And two of those are double gates. It’s not a chore. You just get used to the idea that walking would be faster, and relax. The mule is for heavy transport – not for speed or ease or keeping you dry.

So the route (with 7 gates) is through a neighbour’s field, then onto a grassed over disused railway embankment that cuts through the steep oak wood, which falls away dramatically to river on the right. Pheasants and rabbits run along side the mule, not particularly spooked. They don’t like it, but at least no one is shooting at them.

Then, half a mile along, a sharp turn to the left, and what feels like a 1 – 1 (it’s not, but it feels like it), pull up the side of the hill, under the eyes of nonchalant rams, skirting the remains of the Romano British village, and through the trees finally to the cottage.

And the day begins. Usually with coffee before the work starts.

The mule is on temporary loan, and more often than not I have to walk. I will have thighs of adamant by the Spring!

I’m sorry this wasn’t a fascinating account of a Woman and her Donkey, and I will make up for any disappointment with some history in the next update.