The "Olympic standard" mud at the farm on the M62 proves too much for some well used waterproofs

I discovered this week my waterproofs weren’t very waterproof.

The wet conditions mean restricted turnout for Jill's ponies.
The wet conditions mean restricted turnout for Jill's ponies.

Admittedly, they’ve been given some stick over the years and are never really taken off at lambing time.

The relentless sheets of rain that seem to batter us endlessly have certainly tested their ability to shield me from the elements.

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It seems we will be washed away into the valley bottom soon if we don’t have a respite from the deluge. The ponies are feeling the frustration of limited turnout, with even the usually stony and dry land at my mum’s becoming overwhelmed with rain.

It came as no surprise that I found myself sat in a muddy gateway last week, briefly contemplating my life choices and my love of ponies, it became apparent my waterproofs had come to the end of their days.

The cold and wet seeped through, my derriere suddenly feeling decidedly sodden.

As I hauled myself up out of the gateway, I cursed my wellies for failing me, although the mud I was now covered in was not your ordinary type.

It was Olympic standard mud. If medals were being handed out for oozability and as I discovered slipability, then this stuff was gold medal quality.

After a day in the stable, my young colt had decided enough was enough and sensing my unsteady gait in the slime, he took advantage and set off.

With grim determination I’d gripped the rope and slewed behind him, criss-crossing his tracks, surprisingly well considering I’ve never jet skied.

It didn’t last long. My balance went, he accelerated and I came to an abrupt, albeit soft, squelchy landing. A liberal splattering of mud to my face as he kicked his heels and he was gone, trailing his rope.

I’d watched him tear round, tail up over his back, snorting like a Welsh dragon before he’d finally let me free him of his headcollar.

On this occasion, the whole sorry saga had gone unnoticed and I was saved from any embarrassment.

It’s not the first time I’ve come to grief in a boggy gateway or steep unforgiving hillside and I expect it won’t be the last.

Sheep are usually the main perpetrators and there is always an audience and plenty of raucous laughter at my expense!

Our week took a turn for the worse when Paul was involved in a crash. Thankfully, no-one was hurt but his pride and the pick-up were seriously dented.

The monumental task of unloading Paul’s work vehicle into Casey’s all had to be done at the side of the road.

Unfortunately, the pick-up looked well and truly beyond repair as it was winched on to the back of the recovery wagon.

Plans for the day went entirely out of the window as Paul was left without a vehicle to tow his trailer. Frustration and annoyance with himself was apparent, as was the increasing workload which leaves him exhausted with worry.

Thankfully, most things can be repaired or replaced and as everyone walked away on this occasion unscathed, we counted our blessings.