Idlebones

Enfield Rifles

I was in the Moyvalley House hotel and Golf club, near Enfield, tucked
away down a country lane with no signposts, especially designed to get
me lost. After one hour of driving around muddy backlanes, cursing
loudly at the voice on the Sat Nav as it kept telling me to “Turn
around whenever possible” I finally gave in and stopped to ask a
farmer. He looked at me as if I was threatening to run naked through
his cornfield.

“S’cuse me. Do you know where Moyvalley House is please?”

One arched eyebrow and an alarming white grin.

“Sure why would I want to go t’ that place, huh?!” he said grumpily

“Em, no. No, I’m looking for it. It’s around here somewhere
apparently” I said, a little confused.

He rocked back on his heels and flicked my comment away with a jerk of his head

“Feckin Rich Baxtards up there, swinging feckin’ clubs like theres
nuthin’ better to do!

Baxtards!”

“Up there where?, that way??” I said, desperate to get at least some
information out of this lunatic before I have to wind up the window.

He started waving his fist in the general direction of a large gate
further up the laneway, spittle flying from his lips as he
gesticulated wildly, ranting incoherently. I took that as a hint to
the hotels’ location and took off, leaving him trailing in my back
window, still waving his fist in the air.

Jesus, the natives are restless around Enfield!