OK, so here was one rural hazard I wasn’t expecting. Getting out of the shower this morning I noticed a small dark speck on my hip. Closer inspection revealed the speck had legs, and its head buried firmly into my flesh. A tick. Gah. It didn’t seem to be enjoying what it had found, because it wasn’t getting any bigger (what, my carbon-monoxide-laden London blood not good enough for it?) - or perhaps the shower, despite being a standard rural issue dribble, had killed it off. Anyway, the other half and I managed to do all the wrong tick removal things (aparently vaseline isn’t the answer any more, although I did at least persuade him that a lighted cigarette was not a good idea) before getting rid of it with the pair of tweezers from a stray Swiss Army knife*. I’m hoping we’ve got it early enough that I shan’t go down with one of the nastier tick-borne diseases. I went two years in Africa without getting a single tick; I lasted exactly five days in Scotland…

But still, the sun is out, the weather is glorious, and we’ve just spent this bank holiday morning cycling to our local loch, passing just five cars on the way. On the way back, we overtook a horse, which raised an interesting etiquette problem. How best do two cyclists alert a horse rider that they’re coming up behind it? After some consideration, we decided against the air horn…

*All we need now is a horse with a stone in its hoof and its life will be complete