There is a caution to be heeded about mud however. Many years ago, when I was still an undergrad, I used to cut across an open field to shorten my route to the university by about half a mile. Well, one especially soggy spring, that field swallowed one of my lovely white wellies, and wouldn’t give it back. I limped home (the weather still quite cool) and missed my class that day. Thank heaven that we didn’t need notes to explain our absence. Can you imagine telling a grizzled old professor of Old English that a field ate your wellie; it wouldn’t have impressed him one iota.
The next day I bought a new pair of wellies. They were navy blue because there wasn’t a large selection left. However, from then until I could wear shoes that year, I avoided that field. I wasn’t completely stupid.
These days that field is a housing development with tree-lined streets. When I drive through it from the other side of town, I often wonder if the men who built the houses ever found my white wellie, or if it’s still buried beneath the street somewhere.