A Walk to the Pub
It was the third day of our adventure, and at last the trip organisers were in a benevolent mood. After two days of long uphill slogs we would be permitted to point our walking boots in the direction of the village for lunch at the pub as a reward for our services to hiking in hot weather. Not the nearest village – apparently that would be too easy – but the one after that, the one with the canalside views from the rear garden. The very thought of it would make the ninety minute walk in either direction that bit more agreeable we were told. Still, the thought of squeezing Brenda, our campervan along the narrow tube of bracken festooned lane to get there was enough to convince us to go on foot in any case. Walk we would, and we’d be going down the slope for a change instead. Obviously this would entail some climbing later on, but that was just detail – besides which if things went well we’d be weaving our way back idly along imaginary hairpins at a very leisurely pace. The liquid refreshments on offer would ensure that.
Having done this trek once before, Dave led the way across the first few fields, over a stile and past a herd of grazing bullocks that stopped munching just long enough to examine us and wonder what curious species would be at large in this heat. Another field later it became apparent that Dave hadn’t remembered the exact route as we arrived at a gate he didn’t recognise. We’re used to this though, so it was no great shock to find ourselves turning through one hundred and eighty degrees at some point along the way. At almost exactly the same moment he decided he’d lost his sunglasses too. “No worry,” we agreed. “It’s unlikely anyone else much will come this way – we’ll find them on the way back.” As long as Dave stuck to tap water for the afternoon and ignored the craft beer menu, we were sure everything would be fine. Progress continued towards the pub, along the aforementioned mile long straight narrow lane. We had to squeeze ourselves into the verge for the odd passing car, but thankfully no combine harvester arrived to make things really interesting. The very thought of reversing Brenda halfway back along that lane with the enormous advancing teeth of flailing farm machinery in hot pursuit still makes me go pale.
On the way back, Ali and I deliberately slowed to a crawl, and not just because of the two large gin and tonics that had made the visit to the pub especially agreeable. Meanwhile Dave had left it to us to look for the missing sunglasses, having decided to join our sister and take the mountain route back to camp. We’d shuddered at the memory of the vicious toe burning V shaped valley we’d sunk into a couple of days earlier at the end of the ridge walk, and the almost equally hideous ascent to the bothy on the other side from the stream at the bottom. We’d leave it another day before any further attempts to deplete our remaining oxygen stores and take the more gentle option – at least more gentle once we’d arrived at the other end of that lane without encountering any oncoming juggernauts anyway.
On the way down we’d lengthened our stride almost into a run as to arrive in time for our reservation, just about registering the beautiful woodland scenery around us, but now we wanted to retrace our steps in a more leisurely manner and enjoy what we’d barely witnessed earlier. We stopped at a bench in the churchyard beneath the trees to listen to the mid afternoon silence of the modern day sleepy commuter village. We rested at the water’s edge to gaze at the dark ripples and the rocks on the riverbed. With abstract delusions I photographed the reflections of bright lime green branches on the surface – it always seems such an enchanting idea until I look at the results once the gin has worn off and wonder what on earth I was thinking about. And then we stood here in the quiet glade, which I shot in landscape format and then portrait. The former image I would have shared with you, but the gin was still at work and the fuzzy results tell a story in themselves. The composition had promise, even if it looked like I was standing on a trampoline while I was taking it. It does at least appear that I’d steadied myself sufficiently to take the portrait image.
All the way back we scoured the fields for the missing sunglasses, but had given up by the time we reached the farm. Dave and Becky emerged from the mountainside grinning at the panoramic views they’d seen before being pursued down the sheerest of slopes by a swarm of excited horseflies. I remembered those horseflies from a couple of days earlier on the ridge walk and was glad I’d passed up on the opportunity to reacquaint myself with them. The glasses were where he’d left them on the table in the bothy. But we’re used to this of course. In normal circumstances you'd throw a stern look at the person who's been wasting your time and causing you to look in vain for things that were never lost in the first place, but when it's Dave you just accept it, nod your head in recognition of something familiar and put the kettle on.
A Walk to the Pub
It was the third day of our adventure, and at last the trip organisers were in a benevolent mood. After two days of long uphill slogs we would be permitted to point our walking boots in the direction of the village for lunch at the pub as a reward for our services to hiking in hot weather. Not the nearest village – apparently that would be too easy – but the one after that, the one with the canalside views from the rear garden. The very thought of it would make the ninety minute walk in either direction that bit more agreeable we were told. Still, the thought of squeezing Brenda, our campervan along the narrow tube of bracken festooned lane to get there was enough to convince us to go on foot in any case. Walk we would, and we’d be going down the slope for a change instead. Obviously this would entail some climbing later on, but that was just detail – besides which if things went well we’d be weaving our way back idly along imaginary hairpins at a very leisurely pace. The liquid refreshments on offer would ensure that.
Having done this trek once before, Dave led the way across the first few fields, over a stile and past a herd of grazing bullocks that stopped munching just long enough to examine us and wonder what curious species would be at large in this heat. Another field later it became apparent that Dave hadn’t remembered the exact route as we arrived at a gate he didn’t recognise. We’re used to this though, so it was no great shock to find ourselves turning through one hundred and eighty degrees at some point along the way. At almost exactly the same moment he decided he’d lost his sunglasses too. “No worry,” we agreed. “It’s unlikely anyone else much will come this way – we’ll find them on the way back.” As long as Dave stuck to tap water for the afternoon and ignored the craft beer menu, we were sure everything would be fine. Progress continued towards the pub, along the aforementioned mile long straight narrow lane. We had to squeeze ourselves into the verge for the odd passing car, but thankfully no combine harvester arrived to make things really interesting. The very thought of reversing Brenda halfway back along that lane with the enormous advancing teeth of flailing farm machinery in hot pursuit still makes me go pale.
On the way back, Ali and I deliberately slowed to a crawl, and not just because of the two large gin and tonics that had made the visit to the pub especially agreeable. Meanwhile Dave had left it to us to look for the missing sunglasses, having decided to join our sister and take the mountain route back to camp. We’d shuddered at the memory of the vicious toe burning V shaped valley we’d sunk into a couple of days earlier at the end of the ridge walk, and the almost equally hideous ascent to the bothy on the other side from the stream at the bottom. We’d leave it another day before any further attempts to deplete our remaining oxygen stores and take the more gentle option – at least more gentle once we’d arrived at the other end of that lane without encountering any oncoming juggernauts anyway.
On the way down we’d lengthened our stride almost into a run as to arrive in time for our reservation, just about registering the beautiful woodland scenery around us, but now we wanted to retrace our steps in a more leisurely manner and enjoy what we’d barely witnessed earlier. We stopped at a bench in the churchyard beneath the trees to listen to the mid afternoon silence of the modern day sleepy commuter village. We rested at the water’s edge to gaze at the dark ripples and the rocks on the riverbed. With abstract delusions I photographed the reflections of bright lime green branches on the surface – it always seems such an enchanting idea until I look at the results once the gin has worn off and wonder what on earth I was thinking about. And then we stood here in the quiet glade, which I shot in landscape format and then portrait. The former image I would have shared with you, but the gin was still at work and the fuzzy results tell a story in themselves. The composition had promise, even if it looked like I was standing on a trampoline while I was taking it. It does at least appear that I’d steadied myself sufficiently to take the portrait image.
All the way back we scoured the fields for the missing sunglasses, but had given up by the time we reached the farm. Dave and Becky emerged from the mountainside grinning at the panoramic views they’d seen before being pursued down the sheerest of slopes by a swarm of excited horseflies. I remembered those horseflies from a couple of days earlier on the ridge walk and was glad I’d passed up on the opportunity to reacquaint myself with them. The glasses were where he’d left them on the table in the bothy. But we’re used to this of course. In normal circumstances you'd throw a stern look at the person who's been wasting your time and causing you to look in vain for things that were never lost in the first place, but when it's Dave you just accept it, nod your head in recognition of something familiar and put the kettle on.