A poem which evokes rainy childhood days, days when there was much more fun to be had outside than in. I’m not so bothered about being outside now (except in summer), but since we’d driven nearly 150 miles to spend the weekend in north Devon, we thought it would be, well, nice to be able to enjoy the countryside without the car windows getting in the way.
Having decided to eschew the delights of the motorway, we set out across Somerset, crossing it almost entirely from Bath in the North-East corner, beyond Minehead and into Exmoor and out the other side — almost all on the A39.
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