Saturday, June 19, 2010

14.3 kms: Bath-Weston-Prospect Stile-(vicinity) Lower Hamswell.

I’m fairly impressed by that effort. Keep in mind I took the train to Bath today, faffed around in there, and only started walking at three pm. I am currently waiting for my inflatable mattress to inflate and watching the sun go down from a field nervously close to the path (I keep having to quiet down when people walk past—only a hedge separates them and my frantic, chilly typing), overlooking the valley of Lower Hamswell.
Up was the trend of the start of the walk; getting us out of Bath’s valley. From there the path went fairly evenly with some ups and downs. We skirted Bath’s millionaire’s row (remember that’s in pounds and it sounds even more impressive—absolutely stunningly cute houses). I stopped in a pub in Weston, which seems just an outskirt of Bath, for a lemonade and bathroom break. Some very intelligent and pleasant people made jokes about the state of my beaver. It’s a beaver people! It’s Wesley. It’s a damn comfy pillow. But it is not a vagina. For a similar crowd in the future I think I will go with ‘otter’.
There are lots of people on the walk which is nice. It always facilitates a rest stop to compare notes—although at this stage I seem quite insignificant compared to everyone who is on the last bit into Bath. The Le Jog story seems harder to explain this year. ‘Where’re you headed?’ ‘John O’Groats.’ ‘Oh my goodness, isn’t that amazing! Phil, she’s going to JOGs.’ ‘Really? All on your own? Bev, this girls walking to JOGs all on her own except for that beaver.’ ‘Really? How far have you gone?’ ‘Umm, fourteen kilometres.’ Stunned silence. ‘This time, you see …’
With no impending prospect of PHs (Public Houses) on the map, not even towns, I started looking for camping spaces at about eight. I had been spewing, for want of a better word, about an hour before as I was walking past a golf course with fabulous lawns whose manicuredness seemed to extend into the copses of trees that were scattered through it. I would have bunked down there. But, with the typically fabulous long summer days, there were still heaps of people actually playing golf. There was not a chance. Plus, my best laid plans of waking early enough to clear out before the next round of golfers would never have eventuated. I know me. Instead I have this field, the edge of which curves away from the path that goes through it so I can pop back on the path with ease tomorrow but won’t be seen today. There are houses across the valley, but they are too far away and wouldn’t see me without binoculars.
I have sewn on my fourteen sequins, carried the point three of a sequin over until tomorrow and we are now here together waiting for the mattress to inflate. Turns out waiting for the surprise of reading in situ is not as exciting for instructions as it is for a book. I was supposed to do this at home before heading out to prime the thing apparently. Oh well—there is a mouth piece for inflate and a whistle and a light to attract attention. Oh—that’s a lifejacket isn’t it?
Good night Lower Hamswell. Good night you.

No comments:

Post a Comment