BACK in the woods, my nightmare was made complete by the approach of two complete and utter morons in full army combat gear, air rifles cocked and ready to go, scanning the treetops for any signs of wildlife they could heroically pick off and brighten up their feeble useless lives.
I had this fantasy of grabbing their guns off them, giving them a two-second start, and then, whooping and hollering like a madman, chasing them off into one of the muddy fields, peppering their sad sorry backsides with pellets until they fell face d
own in the slime, blubbering and begging for mercy.
One can but dream...
Back near the church I saw to my right a fabulous sprawl of top-of-the-range rich folk's houses - tennis courts, giant arched windows, massive sprawling 20-bedroom extensions, the lot.
Two million quidders, probably - the only drawback being you have to live in Carlton.
These grand edifices made Grundi Mansion seem like an end terrace - and yet they all looked cold, quiet, deserted and totally soul-less.
Perfectly in keeping with the freaky weekend jaunt I'd just been on.
Back in the Bentley, with the heater on and an Isley Brothers CD going full tilt, I felt my shot-to-ribbons composure slowly coming back.
However I didn't return to my normal cheerful cantankerous self until I'd carved a quick route home via the back roads to Hodsock and the blessed A1, and, cleaned and showered and nicely full from a Tesco's Finest Chicken Korma and a glass of chilled lager, fell asleep in front of the Chelsea-Arsenal Mickey Mouse Cup Final.
Wallingwells? Wailing hell, more like! (And why isn't bloodworm allowed, then? What is bloodworm, anyway?)
Have YOU walked the Wallingwells hell walk? Or suffered worse than this on YOUR supposedly gentle day out? Click here and email me YOUR horror stories... I might even feature them here and in the Worksop Guardian, who knows, eh?