When I said I was going to do fewer kilometres, I didn't realise I was going to become a room-loving slacker. But, and you know I have to make excuses, some of my old friends are back—mud, boggy pathways, hills, horseflies, and, don't forget, stiles. Not to mention, of course, the inevitable faffing that comes with trying to work out where the path is in the first place. Given all that, and one more thing, a bag full of wet clothing (thought the heater would stay on all night last night so I washed up big!), fourteen kilometres is actually not too bad. I also got to this point in the climb up the Blackstone Edge (the rather nasty hill that takes me to my starting point on the Pennine Way, The White House (it is the pub under the arrow for 'tomorrow' on the picture, very little on that picture, there is one there I promise, and it is white)) and decided that a sensible climber wouldn't go up on the moor at nearly four in the afternoon when it was still some distance to not-known-if-available accommodation, especially when that sensible climber was unwilling to spend the night under canvas. Mmm, sensible excuse-maker, sounds like to me.
Not much happened today so I am going to leave you with a couple of the places I saw on the map. The names in this sentence are real, no animals were hurt in the production of this sentence, and it is brought to you by Canal Films and the British Broadcasting Corporation: Dick Slack (no, really, look on the map if you don't believe me), Turton Bottoms, Deeply Vale, Fold-Head, Southward Bottom (that is what I have, being old and all), Cock Leach (ow, even though it is a different spelling; that's probably a place where randy Englishmen went for a 'cure' in the eighteenth century), and one of my favourites, because who doesn't like a mix of Bond and countryside—Roger Moor.
Black Volvos: 2. Hot Pink Fiats: 1.
Good night to Cowberry Hill, good night to you.