The Stilton walk, with added stilton, in pictures, and, not pure chance

Photos by Simon Bradford, Anne Osborne, and Katy Brown.  “Explanations” By Tony Attwood

Thus it was that we stopped part way around part way through the Stilton walk to partake of the stilton, and jolly delicious it was, all agreed.

And also immensely thoughtful of Simon to bring it along complete with accessories so that we could all partake and participate.

Guards were of course posted front and back to ensure that no walkers who were not associated with our ensemble sneaked in trying to get a peek at what we were up to. But in truth, we saw few intruders and those that did dare show their faces were quickly encouraged to leave with a fierce clap of  the hands or a shout of, “Who goes there?”

Generally speaking, answer came there none and we were left in peace.

And so comparisons were made between this cheese and that, and then to some degree the other and there was much munching of the biscuit along with the cheese, and many a comment that “we should do this more often.”

But herein lies a problem, because what is the registered cheese of, for example, Splash Lane?

I did try to find out by going into my local cheesery to ask for half a pound of Manton, or a sliver of Horse and Jockey, in preparation for next week, but the looks were of a level of blankness that I have rarely perceived in my rambles with this esteemed community.

Indeed Lutton (which popped up as a start and finish point) also seems to be without a national fromage dedicated to its vicinity, which is disappointing to say the least.

I mean to say how can a locality not have a cheese named after it – or preferably not named after it.  For it seems that stilton cheese has nothing to do with Stilton about 12 miles north of fair Huntingdon, which by one of those strange twists of fate happens to be in  Huntingdonshire (not so much a county, but more a state of mind) now reduced being a mere district of Cambridgeshire of which it has been said.

But as you can perceive the feast of the cheese went on and on, and photographs were taken a-plenty until such time as the Leader shouted “Enough” and everyone took their places in order to venture forth, or if not, and failing that, venture fifth – a position I normally like, being not too near the front nor too near the rear, to coin a phrase.

But even now the malarkey (which I believe is the technical term for the eating of cheese en masse in rural surroundings while others take pictures) was not over as there was more milk, salt, a “good bacteria” and rennet – as I am faithfully told all cheese is made from.

And yes all those who joined in rather liked the affair and wished it might perhaps happen more often on numerous occasions.

But eventually, as all good things must, this jolly occasion came to an end and the walking resumed.  And, dear reader, you will now be asking of yourself, and indeed of anyone who happens to be passing by, if indeed anyone is, what else was there upon this walk beyond all this munching of the Stilton?

Well I have to tell you there was much, for in the earliest of stages we passed by a letter box of some note and perhaps even notoriety.

For here indeed was a letter box with decorations – to wit a hat.

Is this formally approved by the Royal Mail, of whom it has been said, I hear you cry, and sadly I cannot cry back because I know not, but there it was, a letter box with a hat – perhaps all ready for St Valentine’s day when people are said to send each other cards of affection but unsigned and hatless.

There was however none of this malarky upon our walk, so we passed by on the other side of the road pretending as one not to notice what the locals got up to as we marched forth, noting instead that the final collection of the day was yesterday, and commenting that such is life and if only it were not then it would not be, at least not within the letter box.

But yes, of course, there was walking and in this picture you can see the walking being walked as we proceeded up knowing that in due course we would be entitled to proceed down as well.

There were trees upon the line of the horizon and then there were times when there was just a field to be marched across for such is how the way goes.

It was in truth an utterly glorious walk in fine, brisk, winter sunshine and a very lively ensemble with whom one could converse on a number of subjects, some of which had nothing at all to do with cheese.

Three of us (a small percentage of the ensemble) concluded the outing with a restorative liquid refreshment and a coffee in one of the fine public houses which at that moment contained very few members of the public other than ourselves, and thus our day out was complete.

Did I mention the cheese?  Well yes, I believe I did, but jolly though that was, for me as ever it was the conversation with friends whom I would never have got to know had it not been for Peterborough Ramblers, and for its existence and the friendships it brings I really am truly grateful.   I know the day will finally come when someone will emerge in the ensemble with both the skill of remembering all that we passed by on a walk, and of describing that in words, but until then I regret to say that my reminiscences which largely consist of cheese are what you have to go on.

If you would like to write a report on a walk, and thus bring a sense of rationality back to this website, please do send your contribution to but until you do that, it is my ramblings (as it were) that you are going to have to put up with.  It is therefore, as I am sure you will immediately admit, entirely your own fault.

And look I’ve reached the end just as we walk off into the distance.   It’s clever stuff you know, and not just a matter of pure chance.

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