Aware of my limitations as a faux city-slicker, I gamely visited the countryside yesterday in a pair of daisy-print clogs. I wanted to be as one with the earth. At the local show, they started to rub, but it seemed churlish to complain when gasping Morris Dancers were turning as hot and shiny as the ancient farm machinery on display. The dog show was a canine out-of-body display. Mutts staggered around like drunks, rosettes askew. People were stripping off. It's all tattoos and midriff bulge in the outback. Back at the millhouse, we left the kids to cool down and our hostess, my mother, and I climbed into the punt with a picnic. The punt pole was broken. My old ma, 75 and extremely game, stood at one end, rowing us upriver. She was nearly decapitated when we went under the bridge. Four youths with a swimming labrador, watched in amazement. "I'm a learner driver with two instructors," she shouted at them. We returned for a delicious dinner. Then the kids had a go at boating. Within ten minutes the three of them were trapped in water lillies. An hour later, they'd moved six feet. Our hostess had to tow them in by canoe. In all the excitement, I couldn't mention my feet. After all, we were being young and free! This morning, I could not wear shoes... "You look like you've been crucified," my eldest said, inspecting the damage. What was it Thomas Jefforson said? Ah yes. The price of freedom is vigilance. Next time I'll wear flip flops...