Sundays are sacrosanct. Not for bus drivers they aren't.
There is nothing like the soggy smell of wet waterproofs. There was an April shower just prior to the Ramblers boarding the bus at a pre-designated meeting point somewhere along the Pennine Way. The bus windows steamed up. The floor was a muddy mess. Condensation rose from the tired group of people who flung themselves into the seats. They seemed to be smouldering.
We had a long wait, because of an indiscretion with a stone wall. The majority of the ramblers had chosen to jump over a stone wall rather than keep to the right of way. The farmer had been tending his sheep and had seen them. There followed a ten minute animated bollocking in the middle of the road of the organiser. The rest of the group sat with me on the bus, watching the green waterproofed farmer wave his arms, tick his fingers, turn all shades of red and hop from foot to the other, while the organiser stared at the tarmac like a naughty schoolboy who knew he had done wrong.
"I did offer to rebuild his wall," he said in a crestfallen voice, when he returned to the bus, "but he didn't believe me."
You can see why their is a knife edge of tolerance and understanding each other is not an easy road for the rambling and farming fraternities to tread.
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