My plan to take a different path through the woods in the hope it would be shorter and drier turned out, like many of my plans, to be flawed.
It was just as wet.
It wasn't shorter, in fact, after meandering it rejoined the long bit of the original path.
It involved tiptoeing across a rotten tree trunk over a boggy marsh with the inevitable resultant wet feet.
At which point I said, 'Blow it. I shall resign myself to wet feet.' Oh yes I have holes in my boots. Yes, the same boots I said the same thing about last year and quite possibly the year before. But this year I shall definitely buy some new ones. I expect.
Then all I had to do was avoid the falling and hanging-on-by-a-twig branches. Which raises the inevitable question: if a tree falls on my head in the wood will anyone hear me scream?
I survived to tell the tale and of George humping another dog on the beach. Noteworthy because he got both the right sex and the right end. There is hope for him yet.