Every stop I make, I make a new friend....

Its traveller season and for the second time in as many months, the byways and fields near my house are festooned with travellers and their caravans.

Please don’t confuse this with the romantic notion of travellers in beautiful hand-painted Romany style caravans, an old cart and lazy horse nearby, mischievous grubby faced children poking from behind the protective legs of their father who is nonchalantly smoking on a pipe: the gentle singing from mother tending the livestock and the heavy nose of burning wood hanging in the air.

No. I’m talking about the vandals who pull up in their huge caravans, rip down the wooden fence to illegally gain access the private property, let their pack of hounds run loose across the fields and immediately begin bagging up and dumping their waste that they have accumulated since the last fly-tipping session in amongst the trees and hedgerows: their children throwing sticks at passing cars and greeting you with a vulgar f*** off!” as you drive past, whilst proud father stands by, topless, swigging from a can of special brew.

The local council and police seem apathetic to their actions. The view seems to be to turn a blind eye and they will move on eventually because, what with all the form filling and red tape to get through, you may as well sit back and do nothing, it will be just as quick.

Now don’t think me a boorish bigot. I have no qualms with travellers who don’t resort to vandalism to gain access to a field: keep their livestock and pets under control, and (most importantly) clear up after themselves. For goodness sake, there is a rubbish dump less that 1 mile away!

I don’t begrudge anyone from choosing an alternative lifestyle. Who am I to say what way people should live? But the thing that irks me is, in a few weeks they will disappear into the night and all that will be left is a churned up field, a broken fence and hedgerows garlanded with fetid, bursting bags of rubbish. Cue the dutiful council, who appear almost as soon as they have left, to quickly remove the rubbish, fix the fences and remove any signs they were ever there. The bitter pill is not that these slovenly dossers choose an enviable lifestyle with little responsibility for which I secretly yearn, it is that mine and your council tax bills pay for this annual mess to be routinely cleaned up.

Gawn Fishin (Fly fishing in Shropshire)

A few weeks ago I finally acheived the unthinkable - I actually caught a trout. Whats even better is that JR Hartley completely blanked! Chuntering all the way home that it was the worst day fishing he had ever had, I mused to myself how it had been my best day ever.

I shall not bore you with the details, suffice it to say I should have bagged up twice over if it were not for those canny trout slipping the hook.

Wifey and I scoffed the blighter that night. As I savoured each mouthful I imaginged Father in Law at the dining table, being presented with nothing more palatable than what was to be the stuffing (mushrooms) on toast. You just have to laugh

Nice Spoons! (why middle age sucks)

Sometimes I notice little indicators that my direction in life is changing - some for better; some for worse.

Im not talking those huge decisions that reverberate through the rest of your life: Lets have a baby! Lets have a career change! I quit! No, Im talking about those insidious small changes that slowly creep up on you until one day you suddenly notice you have turned into an old duffer.

To wit; last weekend I noticed one such indicator that further confirms my decent from exhuberant youth to pitiful middle age. The highlight of my weekend was purchasing a matching set of large cooking utensils. As soon as I got home, I excitedly washed them and hung them up.

Ive never been in the position to splash out on something so wantonly extravagant and self indulgent. As I stared at them, glinting on their hooks resplendent, I was suddenly aware that I had slipped another toehold from the wall of youth.

They do look good though ay?