The sun was like me today—reluctant to really do the job with full and devoted commitment. It semi shone on my east-placed bag, but still left me sleeping ‘til late and didn’t really dry off all the wetness of the night. I was similarly lack-lustre and only made it a mile to the golf course before stopping for the first time for coffee and scones I didn’t really need. In truth I thought the day was going to be more of a doddle, but the golfers set me straight—it was a long walk. The golf course was quite cool. I would love to have played a round but they only allowed guests who could produce some kind of card that proved they weren’t hacks—I am a hack. I had been wondering why I kept seeing golf balls as I came up the hill. The course was on the moors—and there I was yesterday thinking that part of the moors looked like perfect places to play golf. The English find any space and pop in a golf course—I have run into them on sand dunes by the beach and among specially placed pile of refuse on the outskirts of towns. Part of that last sentence may be a lie. Being a moor, of course, there are sheep wandering around keeping the grass trim and golf-course-like and nibbling the purple bits off thistles. I wonder how many sheep get donked on the head by golf balls. I wonder how many golf balls roll off the hill never to be found again. Do golf balls cost a lot?
This second trip back to walking has been decidedly greyer than the first. Thankfully, though, all it takes to make the rain stop is to stop, take off the pack, rearrange all the outers, gear up for the wet weather, put the pack back on—rain stops the minute I click the one part of the pack strap into the other. I was listening to music today to facilitate hill climbing—there was, surprisingly, a lot today, with fabulous views. I sang to the sheep. Music does not calm the submissive beast. Maybe it’s just my lack of talent combined with breathy uphills.
I was doing the stress about accommodation thing as usual—two nights on the ground made me desperate for a bed. I lucked a great room at the George and Dragon in Knighton. They all had names rather than numbers—nice touch. I was in the Kite’s Nest.
I had some dinner and spoke to some more walkers—these ones doing Glyndwr’s Way which is the national trail that loops into Wales off the Offa’s Dyke. When I went back to my room it was like swimming in the creamy white sauce of my fish pie. It was like being completely off your tree drunk. It was exhaustion—again! I am boring myself with this exhaustion thing. I waded through showering, washing undies—the eternal chore—and making a cuppa to read by. The last did not happen. Last night I had a snotty filled nose all night and it ended up making the back of my throat sore—you are so happy to have read that detail aren’t you? I think I may have been just a tad under the weather. I think I woke and drank the cold coffee about midnight and crashed again.
Good night to Knighton, good night to you.