To the next village to water, the pond of green slime here being exhausted.
Dozing in the grass in the afternoon whilst my charges browsed, I suddenly became aware of the blazing mass of a strafed balloon in mid air and the parachutes of its crew and those of next one gaily descending from the empyrean.
Watching a “windsucker” horse – an extraordinary equine vice. He takes the picquet rope in his teeth, gives a tug and a grunt and so swallows some air. It appears to be incurable. An animal so disposed is never in good condition. A wild Scot treats us to lengthy recitals on his national wind instrument – an inflated bladder squeezed under the arm, having long funnels projecting there from in all directions, emitting a variety of warring harmonics. Each evening, wet or fine, his weird incantations waken the echoes of longsuffering France.
Walk March 
Lincoln has indulged in some ebullient language this time. Don’t mind admitting I had to look up “empyrean”.
Could he not have helped us with a few more clues about that inflated sheepskin?
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