Crawling back to fitness hurts….not sure quite how I slid to the back of this queue; too many breakfasts, not enough miles. But now the summer beckons….and the latter part at altitude in the Sierra, with a heavy pack.
Steps (sic) must be taken.
Decanted late afternoon into a simmering Byrness. Long time this manxome foe….40 years since I was first here on the Pennine Way….
….of which
I’ll not see anyone at all for the next 8 miles of high moorland wandering. Rare perfection here, faint breezes, reasonably dry underfoot, and nobody. Nothing remarkable apart from that great connect, when motion, environs, and mood are in harmony.
There’s not much to do apart from walk, admire the fine evening light, stroll, stravaig (well, not much of that on the Pennine Way).
The couple of planned miles turn to five, the five to eight.
The only ‘tough’ thing as ever is water; despite, or perhaps because of being a vast water-holding morass, little runs on the surface….that which does is a lovely shade…
I feel impelled to kick-on to the refuge at Lamb Hill; a strange drive. There might be people (there are not). I know there is flat ground, a seat if I want it. Perhaps the fitness fragility seeks solace in the familiar.
Eat late as the day slips away; still and clear, warm even.
What a change; last weekend’s pitch on Windy Gyle was chill. This morning the dew lies heavy but the day is already warm (enough) at 6am.
The light is wonderful.
Coffee and baklava likewise.
Early morning mists roil and fall.
A person.
A tough one; out for a 14 miler with a Bergan bigger than me. A paratrooper from one of the local camps gives pause to reflect on the wringing of hands over a few grams…..
It’s hot but there are the flags of the path to lie on whilst reflecting on one’s waistline and stodginess of uphill progress.
The Cheviot summit is an unlikely spot to catch a few minutes of radiation.
…and down into the cauldron of heat; really, it’s quite something for Northumberland.
A pitch after 16 miles which will take the sun until it slips away; water nearby…
…a tolerable (good even) repast.
Breakfast reprise.
A little light sheep taunting always makes a chap feel good. A 5am wakeup means I am moving by 6am….in a T shirt walking into the still low sun; my world in silhouette.
Wooler; the end of this line.
The start of another one – the promised bus does not run on a Sunday…..flick out a lazy pseudopodium…
Half an hour and 35 miles later I’m in Morpeth….with this….
