Farming Breeds: Colin – the rambler
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet Colin – the rambler, a waterproof map case over one shoulder and a rucksack on the other…
A nice ramble’s just what Colin needs after a busy week as under-manager (bathroom department) in a small branch of a DIY store.
Joining the Rambling Club was the best thing he ever did. He’s met dozens of like-minded people – people with a long gait, a short beard and a detailed knowledge of bird species.
For the first time, too, he found he wasn’t alone in his clothes taste. Far from it. Bobble hats, tank-tops and coats with badges sown into the arms abound.
Now, Colin spends most weekends with the rambling group. They descend on the countryside mob-handed. Well, as mob-handed as it’s possible for people to be whose motto is: “I don’t want to cause a fuss”.
Joining the Rambling Club was the best thing he ever did. He’s met dozens of like-minded people – people with a long gait, a short beard and a detailed knowledge of bird species.
Colin is tall, thin and walks fast and purposefully, like he’s continually trying to get away from something. Which is surprising because it’s usually toward something he’s trying to get – typically the end of a circular route and his nice warm car. Colin likes to get home by tea time.
His watchword is “safety”. “A few sensible precautions” is how he describes the contents of his rucksack, a present from his mother last Christmas. In it are maps, a compass, binoculars, matches in a waterproof box, water, chocolate, a torch, a spare torch, batteries and spare batteries. The boot of his car contains a spare rucksack with identical contents.
But Colin’s mother still worries when he’s out late. “I’m 41 years old,” he tells her.
Occasionally, he’ll stay out overnight in his “deluxe” tent. He gets up early and cooks beans on a little stove outside. He talks to other campers. They bond. “I’m in the bathroom game,” he tells them. “A market well worth tapping,” he chuckles. It’s a joke Colin’s cracked at least once a week for the last 14 years. He first heard it on an under-managers’ course.
When he stays in farmhouses, he nods knowingly when told about the state of the agricultural industry. He sympathises – but it’s still no reason for landowners to be rude to ramblers. “What difference can a little narrow path make, after all,” he says chortling. Colin does a lot of chortling.
When he’s away rambling for the weekend, Colin goes to the local pub on Saturday evening. “We’ve earned this,” he says to his fellow walkers as they tuck into their lasagne. They plan the next day’s routes. They compare tank-tops. They chortle. Colin washes dinner down with a pint of beer – or “ale” as he calls it. Sometimes he even has two.
He feels depressed as he drives home along the motorway at 69mph. He’d like a new job. Something more outdoors-based. But he can’t afford to do anything rash. And he hasn’t entirely given up on finding a girlfriend, so there could be a wedding to pay for one day. Besides, another 18 years and the manager (bathroom department) might retire and Colin reckons that job’s got his name on it.
So he buries these thoughts and goes to the store on Monday, boring his colleagues with tales of the weekend. One is about a vicious animal. “The beast charged at me,” he says. “It was like a thing possessed.”
The beast Colin is talking about is a six-week old Jersey calf.
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