My part of the world, Mudfordshire, has long been considered particularly pastoral. Hastily constructed from tweed, self-importance and indeterminate pieces of steam-powered Victorian engineering, the county council clearly subscribes to this view since, over the last few years, it has been doing its damndest to insidiously introduce ever-lower speed limits which ensure we savour every detail of this green and pleasant land.

Part of their nefarious scheme is no doubt informed by statistics gleaned from some Government wonk’s work that shows lanes for local people are far more dangerous than other roads, and recently Brake, who are so anti-any-speed I’m surprised they ever manage to travel anywhere themselves, claimed that overtaking and speeding in the countryside are rife, and probably even more so than poaching or dogging.

But we don’t need ever-lower, blanket 50mph speed limits, which is what we’re getting. Because during the winter, when not under three feet of snow and/or water, these roads are entirely populated by 40 year-old Land Rovers utterly incapable of such velocities, horse boxes inching round corners to ensure that the precious Sanyo Music Centre III doesn’t dent a fetlock, and small, dealer network-starved Rovers travelling at a speed ruthlessly governed by the chrome numerals on the back (Yes, I know. But before you mention it, all the 75s round here have the 7 missing).

And in the summer months, this stodgy shoal is replaced by a creeping fungus of Honda CR-Vs towing caravans with oxymoronic names such as Laser, Avante and (my personal favourite) Swift Challenger Sport, giant combine harvesters vainly searching for a dry crop to ingest and, of course, members of the Morgan Owners Club who never travel anywhere in a hurry for fear of their toupees or, indeed, entire chunks of car, tearing loose.

The only exceptions to this rule are white van man, the bikers and me. I should quantify; that’s the 50% of white van man who works for himself and for whom time is money. The PAYE half spends his days limping between Greggs bakery outlets in the certain knowledge that it is better to travel than to arrive because the latter risks actual work.

Spring heralds the arrival of Yamahonduki Fireball XL5 1000-armed bikers, who particularly relish kneeing into submission the tricky double apex bend, off which there are two access lanes to my village, at more than double the – for once sensibly posted – 50mph limit. But where are the police? On a Sunday morning, a mobile camera or two would do the trick for these nutters, but perhaps it’s their day off.

So what you have is an explosive mix of sluggardly buffoons and lightspeed lunatics, and in the middle, people like you and probably me, obeying the limits in urban areas and, everywhere else, simply trying to enjoy the speeds appropriate to both the conditions and the machine we’re driving. No wonder people try and overtake and end up in a mess, or worse, and much of it is down to these disparities in speed.