Thursday, May 3, 2012
19.1 kms: Liverpool-Sefton Park-Penny Lane-Gateacre-Hale.
Before I say anything else, let me apologise. I cannot work out whether it is Blogger or Blogsy that is doing my head in, but either way I cannot spend any more time on this holiday trying to put paragraphs in here. And, loathe though I am to say it, spelling mistakes are staying as the way to edit involves more complications than building a new iPad myself. I'm sorry—and ashamed—but life is going past too fast to try and fix this now. Curse you though, one of you blog type thingys! Grrrr! I want to cry. Either that or vomit. But I know I need to eat because the k's will hit me suddenly and I will be hungry. My B&B doesn't do the second B as such (not the fried version at least (yay, in a way) so I wouldn't be able to catch up in the morning). That means I am in a pub (again) waiting for the smallest and cleanest meal I could find on the menu. I did not intend to walk this far. It will take a while to get the idea of the maps again, and how far things are. It was all in the pursuit of the 'bed'. The irony is that not having a bed usually means you have to walk further—you can't just pop off the path and into a field at four in the afternoon; you have to wait until the sun is nearly about to contemplate going down, and that means at least eight pm in this long-day English summer. I would have had to keep going another two or three hours if I hadn't found somewhere to stop. I am going backwards. I am doing the Trans Pennine Way. It goes a little south out of Liverpool (hence the backwards) and then heads up a disused canal or railway, or both, into Manchester. I liked Liverpool, so I am hoping that I will also like Manchester. Reading a murder mystery set there is not supporting that confidence. But, if history does indeed teach us anything, then it will all be okay. (Although, history, according to the sign at the start of Hale Village does advise that the most famous resident of Hale, the Childe of Hale, was nine foot three—I get the feeling history may be telling a furphy there.) I say this stuff about history because when I went to the Slavery Museum in Liverpool it was talking a lot about the riots that happened in Toxeth (seventies?) and I resolved to make sure that I didn't go through there on my way out. (I know it was a while ago but I am sure that a riot doesn't do great things to property prices, and, as a result, demographics, even in this amount of time.) Guess what, walking down the road this morning I came across the 'Welcome to Toxeth' sign. It was okay. Had a couple of nice parks and a diverse population. In the middle of this industrial belt is this little thatched cottage village. Quite incongruous. I am staying at The Barn. They have their own lambanana (the real thing). The also have lots of yappy fox terriers (have a lot to say, as terriers usually do) and a greyhound (yet to meet this one of Lollii's very distant cousins). Also alpacas and some three week old lambs that I need to go and find as soon as I get back. My room is heaven. H-e-e-a-v-v-e-n! It got more heavenly, and less important as to cost, the more the lad at The Childe of Hale had to try the next B&B on the list. It's a Thursday in April. Did not think I would have this issue this early. Gary, at the Barn, suggested the Wellington may be a nicer place to go to eat, but the closer I came to the intersection where I would have too choose between it and The Childe of Hale, the more I realised that not going back to where they had gone out of their way to get me a room, and where I said 'I'll be back', I would be testing karma in a way I wasn't prepared to risk. I am happpy with that decision, I am happy with my tiny, clean dinner and I am heading home to my Wesley and my bed. List of afflictions: dogs barking (sore feet), old knee wound playing up, achillles tendon tender, hips bruised, back sore, shoulders sore, armpits red from the pressure of the pack, and a bruise on the left knee. The latter was from smashing into a display cabinet while looking for wool socks in John Lewis and so probably doesn't count. Didn't realise there would be so many black volvos here! Good night to Hale, good night too you.