A typical Exmoor weekend

Heck what a weekend. It started off with the Riphay Scuffle. This is a particularly Exmoor affair – totally mystifying to most but a seminal part of the summer. We walked up over the hills (if you park at the Scuffle you run the risk of never seeing your car again – in one piece). It’s peaceful and beautiful – idyllic Somerset countryside.  Then you hear it: the growling and groaning of engines in pain. Next  comes the smell – of burning diesel. Finally you crest the hill and the full madness becomes clear – 4x4s charging around a sort of circuit, plunging through rivers, churning through mud, dodging trees, shunting one another, being towed out by tractors. It’s Mad Max Armageddon – total insanity.

Adrian hates it. I am mesmerised by it and James, of course, loves it. Every year is supposedly the last but every August it lurches back. Every year we roll our eyes and say this will be the year that someone gets seriously hurt or killed. Why? Because several hundred souped-up bangers being driven by bevvied youngsters is kind of a natural recipe for disaster.

I’m torn. Part of me loves the anarchy – that in this world where health and safety strangleholds all fun and freedom, there is a place for total foolhardy recklessness. But as a mother I wince.

And this year we nearly came a cropper. As we were sipping our drinks on the hillside, a 4x4 came careering through, caught the wire and stake fencing and whipped it out behind it. The fencing snaked across the field and slapped a guy sitting on the floor near us right around the throat. He was shocked but okay but someone further down wasn’t so lucky – and was taken to hospital in the air ambulance.

That evening we had kitchen supper with friends up in the hills. The boys played volleyball in the fading light and then slunk off to watch Family Guy while we adults chewed the fat and had a good laugh. I found myself talking to an ex paratrooper turned head hunter (possibly literally) who had walked solo across Iceland. I expressed awe and he shook his head firmly. ‘Anyone could do it with the right training and commonsense.’ The image of me marching with my tent across ice fields made me snort into my curry. Yup, right.

As we left the night sky was just littered with stars while a platoon of dogs wound themselves around us, a silent wolf pack guiding us to the car.

Surprisingly and blissfully I wasn’t too badly hungover the next day which was fortunate as it was Hound Racing. Another uniquely Exmoor occurrence and a particular favourite. There are various hound races – from the big lollopy staghounds to the small sparky beagles. But our focus was the dog show. Unfortunately we missed the puppy class but James entered the SP for the terrier class (well, he is half-terrier) and for the child handler class. They didn’t win either but got a lurid orange rosette anyhow. James wasn’t impressed. ‘It doesn’t count ‘cos everyone got one,’ he said, disgruntled. See, prizes for everyone doesn’t quite cut it after a certain age.

‘Never mind,’ said I, laughing my head off at the sight of a very small little girl being towed across the ring by a very large retriever. ‘Another week, another dog show. It’s the terrier show next week.'

‘Hmm, maybe we should take Asbo,’ said Adrian.  We laughed weakly but hey....you know what – I think we just might.

Don't you love this picture - the SP's tail and ears wagging so fast they've turned into a blur....