More from pictures from the wilds of Uppingham

If you are an avid reader you might recall that a report of the strange and unlikely goings on in and around the famous ancient townlet of Uppingham was published on this venerable site last week.  But since then I have received more photographic evidence.  My sincere apologies for the late publication of this evidence.  It was held up by a Home Office enquiry, of which I am prohibited from saying anything more.

Pictures here from Gina Hall and Jonathan Bridgland.  Mindless turnips by Sir Hardly Anyone.

Now I am tempted to say that these jolly folks in this first image are two members of the Anyone-Blenkinsopwith clan or which I (your honourable writer) am proud to be a member, but although I can speak for the one behind (who has all the standing of the aristocracy that has run our country from the House of Lords for so many valiant eons) I am not sure of the forward creature. But still one out of two is far from bad, and indeed par for the course as they say in the workshop. 

The next picture herewith has people walking in single file, of which the least said the better.  But one can get a wonderful feeling of the upper Uppingham upness as the surrounding upscape is known (or as Tony tells me it is known, but I am not sure I can trust a word the young whipper snapper says.)

However, it does give a feel of the lay of the land, as they say in tourist books written by people who have never been there in the first place.

But now coming to the third picture I am baffled, bemused and bewildered (which I feel could be turned into a popular song and I must ask around to see if this can be done).

What is it that lies ahead?  My eyes cannot distinguish: is it perchance a horse or three, or do mine eyes deceive me (as did that man who told me he’d fix my accounts and see to it that those nasty creatures from the Inland Revenue bothered me no more.)

So it was with relief that I pressed forth, not to say fifth and found a church.   For this is an area resplendent in churches, and I suppose if we didn’t have any the gravestones would look a little forlorn and lost.  But I do find ancient gravestones quite overwhelming, imagining a hardy knot of mourners saying farewell to a loved some 300 years ago, and now perhaps no one who remembers the family at all.

Perhaps a little less moving in the account of historical things are tractors, and herewith I must forsooth be asking, why have I got a picture of a tractor?  What am I supposed to say here?  That it is a lovely shade of blue with red wheels that go around and around?  Is that what you want?  I mean honestly, I don’t mind writing these inspiring and detailed commentaries but what am I supposed to say?

And so it was with some relief that we may return to sheep.  Jolly chaps with a monosyllabic language and singular form of food.  How simple life must be!  No choosing where the walk should go.  No need to do a recce the day before.  No need to write up a commentary a week or two later.

Ah, such a life I could adjust to.  To roam freely, meandering with just a long and interesting life to look forward to.



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