He'd heard about it on a messy webpage, a location whose very name oozed infamy, notoriety as THE place to get seriously muddy. Conversation in related threads from people who'd been spoke of a sea of thick clay mud, starting at ankle deep but for those who dared, much, much deeper. But it was also tidal, and with memories of the Morecambe Bay tragedy still the subject of beer time jokes, this only added to the sense of mystery, excitement, and spine - tingling danger.

The place was known only by the name of the nearest village... To say village was stretching it, just a haphazard collection of dwellings scattered around this lonely, flat landscape. Google Earth revealed few clues; only a long, artificially straight drainage channel could be seen bearing the same name as the village, but no real indication of the mass of silent thick ooze which awaited the brave wallower. Of the few placemarks on the hazy satellite imagery, the nearest was worryingly a wildlife centre, where birdwatchers would hide out to spot rare species. How would you not get spotted, when all around might be people with camo clothing and binoculars, comfortably snuggled in their hideout amongst long grass?

The place, and tales of it, took on an almost mythical feel. Did it even exist? Was the name a secret codeword used only by those in the know, to disguise it's real location? What kind of person would dare sink in thick, heavy, clinging clay when within hours the tide would unstoppably rise above their heads?

Eventually, a forum user, Joe, dropped a message his way. The placename was the right one, but 'you have to know where to go'. They chatted, question after question came up. The bird watchers weren't an issue. You plan your trip carefully around the tide. Eventually Joe's offer to meet seemed impossible to refuse.

It seemed like a whole lifetime away, the date they'd set. Matching two people's free time, with tides and time of day meant the date was a six week wait. He expected it to fall through, and pretty much forgot about it. Other things in life came up to take his attention.

Then, a few days before, his inbox flashed red. It was Joe. "Are you still up for it? 2 days time!" Suddenly all those thoughts came back. That comment on the page, how does someone even KNOW you could sink 8 feet deep, that's 2 feet more than even a tall person? What if you get stuck? Is this place even real?

It was a long drive. He'd carefully packed everthing on the list. Lots of drink. Energy snacks... Yes, THAT thickness and depth of mud is gonna be really tiring. A towel and change of clothes. A last minute message comes through about a road closure. "fuckit. I'm gonna be late" he cursed. His driving became even more erratic.

Waiting at the appointed place was a guy in a pickup. An older guy. The guy smiled. This seemed like insanity. He'd not even enquired as to who he was meeting and worse, not told anyone else where he was going. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck". Briefly, he considered a hasty manoeuvre around the guy who was now walking up to his car. "Calm. It's still a public space". Trembling finger on the button, his window slid down. "Hi, it's Joe." This was the right person, alright. "Bollocks" he thought. He paused, momentarily seized as to the next action. "Right", he thought. "change of plan. I'll just walk along the path with him, play it cool, get him to show me where it is, then make my excuses and fuck off. I can easily outrun him if need be. Then I can come back another time. That's the way!"

The walk down the path seemed like an eternity. It was probably only a mile but seemed like over an hour. Words were exchanged, awkward conversation made, but he had no recollection of what. Eventually, a five bar gate. They went through it. Joe left the path. But he was heading to the big watercourse. "This isn't where he said it was". Perhaps Joe sensed his hesitancy. "I'm just showing you where you can wash off, afterwards. You're going to get VERY muddy!"

Oh, OK, this made sense. Yes, he did mention it during the online chat. Of course. Yes. Joe led him back up the back from the river, and towards another metal five bar gate. He could smell the salty sea air... All around eye the calls of seabirds. A modern, bright sign leant at an improbable angle, bearing an array of coloured hazard warning signs. "Danger. Deep mud." "Keep out. Hazardous area" Then another, hand written by a local farmer on a tatty piece of ply, asking walkers to call his mobile if they saw cows stuck in the mud of the fields. Through some bushes, through some tall rushes. There was a route through them. Nobody would see you here, hidden away in six foot tall vegetation. Joe stopped at a small clearing in the rushes, a flattened area like a miniature crop circle. "And this is where I change...." It was still Spring, and we'd brought wetsuits. Their clingy stretchy rubbery warmth seemed perfect for such a pervy, muddy delight. One again, Joe sensed his hesitancy. "Do you want to see the mud first, before you change?" A quick nod followed.

Silently he followed Joe through another narrow little corridor in the rushes. Then suddenly, the plants opened out. Then he saw it. This was it. The muddy creek. Hammering heart inside a dry throat he surveyed the scene in front of him.

Oh. My. God.

To be continued.