I believe I am correct in surmising that this is the first time in history that a dog has done a blog. If this be so, I invite my readers to raise a glass with me to mark the occasion.

On the journey down to Beckington, our starting point, the rain fair lashed down - raining cats and humans as we say. However, upon arrival the precipitation ceased and patches of azure appeared betwixt the fluffy cloudlets that filled the heavens. (Stay with me). Apart from my owner, whom I shall refer to as Dad, there were two others, both morris dancers, Paul and Tony. As none of the humans had sufficient charisma or derring-do to lead the walk I took up pole position and we sallied forth - time 0945 hours.

Having sojourned for nigh on 20 minutes I felt an urgent need to make a contribution in the only way I can. Said offering extended my benefaction to Paul's charitable foundation by a further sovereign and thus raising my total to £18 0 shillings and nuppence. I invited all 3 humans to join me in a sniff but they ignored my offer. Humans amaze me! They have no manners whatsoever!

Pressing on we emerged from a wood to encounter a local Hodge (as Hardy would have styled him) with a deranged looking sheepdog in tow. I was so intimidated by said mutt that I fair nearly added a further sum to Paul's foundation but the danger passed and as the Hodge muttered something totally incomprehensible we strode on up the hill to the charming village of Buckland Dinham. I then experienced the most embarrassing moment of the whole walk when two of our number who shall remain Paul and Tony began morris dancing in front of the church and singing some ridiculous nonsense about how they were going to do something they referred to as "a-rovin'" Quite unnecessary! I hurried on pretending I had nothing to do with them.

At midday precisely the precipitation recommenced. As luck would have it we were sheltered for the next twenty minutes by a wood. However, upon emerging from the wood we encountered the full fury of nature's righteous anger. Dad stopped to don his water proof over trousers. HIS water proof trousers you notice - so selfish! At this point, cold, very wet and fed up (like that reporter chap outside the Old Bailey on "It'll Be Alright on the Night") I simply refused to go a step further and burst into tears. Dad (the soft b*****d) immediately picked me up and carried me for the next half mile. What a mug!

The descent into Nunney was through a wood athwart a babbling brook. All the way down we were preceded by a dog who was unleashed and free to roam in and out of the stream. He appeared to be having a fine time. I on the other hand, remained leashed and firmly under Dad's fascist junta. Honestly it's as if Hitler never died in that bunker at all!

So there you have it. Beckington to Nunney. This is Roly Kerslake guest reporter for this May's Rambler Magazine in darkest Somerset. And now back to the studio for tomorrow's weather with the Great Dane.