The way I see it in my head is the wagon has got one of its wheels stuck in a puddle. A deep puddle- a pre-macadam puddle- a Jane Austen era puddle. And the farm hands have come out of the fields in their smocks and they push and they push and the driver whips up the carthorse and one bloody big heave and we're on our way again. Trundle, trundle, trundle....
Constable might have painted this- or Stubbs.
But the road isn't going to get any less bloody awful.