AS we all know, Owd Tom is a cunning old rogue. What we didn't know is that he is a world-class thespian. If they gave Oscars for court appearances, he would be up there on the stage in Hollywood, welly boots and all.

As I reported a month or so ago, the pen-pushers at the Countryside Agency have been ordered to draw up maps for the so-called Right to Roam legislation, as dictated to the Government by the class-war Lefties who took over the Ramblers' Association some years ago.

And they had put a public footpath straight up the path to the front door of Hard Rock Farmhouse, through the rose garden which had been planted 40 years ago by Tom's late wife.

Although there is already a footpath along the track which passes by the side of the house, but behind a hedge, townie ramblers like to trudge through country's folk's gardens (including the Queen's at her privately-owned Sandringham estate, despite the horrific security problems that will cause).

Now Hard Rock Farm is not the prettiest of sights since the old lady died, but Tom has maintained that rose garden to perfection. And as a man who went off to fight the Nazis for four years as a lad, he wasn't happy to have today's extremists tramping through his late wife's memorial.

So, with much grumbling and moaning, he went to see his solicitor in Mar'ton and, as a result, went to the appeals tribunal to protest the map. And what a show he put on.

He pulled out his old Duke of Wellington's beret, donned his medals, and even put on his old army boots shined to glassy perfection.

When his case was called in the old council chamber in Mar'ton (a hangover from the days when it had its very own council) he stood to attention and marched to the witness chair with so much stamping and banging that bits of plaster came floating down from the dangerous looking ceiling.

He refused a seat and stood in the At Ease position (hands behind back, chest out, chin in) as his solicitor tried to bring tears to the eyes of the tribunal - while subtly putting in the boot about the stupidity of having two public footpaths running parallel less than 10 yards apart.

By lucky chance, a shaft of sunlight coming though the high stained glass windows struck Tom's burnished medals full on and then reflected them back into the chairman's face.

We in the back of the hall could see their reflections dancing in the lenses of his specs.

When the mouthpiece came to the bit about the garden being a shrine to a much lamented, late Dales lady, Tom pulled a brilliant white (must have been bought for the occasion) hanky from his pocket and noisily blew his nose.

So even though it was risking a right rocket from Wandsworth (the London parish where the Ramblers' Association has it headquarters and where no-one in a right mind would want to roam) the tribunal has changed the map.

The rose garden will remain untrodden by boots other than those of the late lady's family and close friends. And a good thing too.

Shame that hundreds more country folk in Yorkshire will lose their cases, and their privacy, plus thousands of acres of grazing land. What the ramblers don't understand, you see, is that grass is a crop for livestock. Now, they will have the right to churn it into primieval bog every time we have a wet summer.

Still, you can't win 'em all. The fact that Owd Tom came the old soldier and won is a tiny blow for rural freedom. But will there ever be lasting peace in the war against Whitehall?

o The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.