What I love about hostels, number one: Arriving at sixish in the evening and not being able to arrange your bed or bags because someone is sleeping. That person, I can one-hundred-percent-guarantee you, will be arranging their bags and bed when I am sleeping. I will told-you-so about this later.
I worked out another reason that I may be having sore feet, knees etc. I am up to fifty-six k's. The first trip I didn't reach that until day six, the second, day four. I'm doing my 'stride' k's not my 'getting into the stride' k's. So with new shoes and a few fewer k's I should be able to sort this out. I have the day off tomorrow. My feet are yelping for joy. I haven't told them they actually have to go looking for new shoes. Luckily the hostel staff have shown me the closest shopping centre on the map. Fingers crossed there will be something there. Anyone want a pair of as-new North Face hiking boots, slightly smaller than an aussie seven, they'll be at an op-shop in Manchester soon. Along with a pair of denim cut-offs that I refuse to carry around any more. Liking doesn't justify the weight, and three pairs are too many. Popped into while I was in Liverpool and bought a khaki pair that fit better, and a pair of linen trousers—ten pounds! I succame(sic) to long trousers because the man at the camping store told me loose, long clothing is the only defence against the horse fly. Unfortunately too late, he also told me that an Avon product that contains bog myrtle (sounds yummy) is great for deterring midges. I would have ordered some if I had known.
Yay: spotted an old person. Thought I was the oldest. The man spruiking the pub crawl didn't even bother stopping by me. Just as well—I would have had to let him down.
Walked mostly on paths today, and along canals. Picturesque. I even took one. Had the most bizarre lunch in a toffee Italian restaurant in the middle of no-where. I had gone past other pubs because I thought it was too early. This little hamlet was supposed to have a pub but they only had this place. The maitre-d's face fell when I came in. I think he nearly cried when I dumped my bag on the floor. Everyone spoke in Italian. It was a wine glasses, leather chairs, 'pepper?', 'parmesan?' kind of place. But pasta is good walking food. Equally bizarre was my afternoon stop in a traditional English pub run by a Vietnamese couple. In a way I didn't realise that the majority of England I have seen so far is so Anglo! I wonder what their lives are like. I have been told a number of times how patrons have to train their publicans to fit into the community. This can't be an easy train, or an easy learn. I don't want to say these three words in the same sentence. Brits. Racist. Sexist. I will add two more to balance things out. Can't talk. Generalisation. Sorry, that was three.
Manchester is where the atom was first split. Maybe that is the real reason they had to rebuild the city centre (and theyy just blame it on the IRA).
Manchester is where Mr Rolls met Mr Royce—probably at the pub.
For V—5. For B—one set of feathers lost; one bead lost, retrieved and reattached; one set of feathers very bedraggled.
Good night to Manchester, good night to you.