What does that tell you? I don't know either.
England: Over days and days and days—rain, but never soaked. And the good thing about hail is that it doesn't actually make you wet.
Scotland: Two days—rain, sopping wet, clothes, maps, notebooks, Wesley spread all over my B&B and my boots stuffed with newspaper (eeouw) and sitting in front of the Aga.
What does that tell you? It's raining? Even the locals in the pub seemed to be complaining so I think it is possibly a bit rainier than usual. I told them we kept getting a months worth of rain in single days at home, and to impress me more than I'd impressed them they advised that today we had had a weeks worth in a couple of hours. Um, I think that still means we had more, doesn't it?
Seems the sauna did the trick. The first eight kilometres were a breeze with no aches and almost a spring in my step. Even my bag felt lighter. (I'm beginning to think maybe my bag's weight is dependent on the stage of Wesley's bowel movements—he does eat three times his body weight in wood a day.) But this lasted only to a point: the last ten were a long, hard, wet, uphill slog. I know there are three volcanoes in a cluster in my immediate future, but all around them is relatively rolling and no roads or paths seem to actually go up the mountains. So how can I still be going uphill? [They are playing that 'all by myself, don't wanna be, all by myself' song again—is someone trying to tell me something?] Apparently it turns back downhill tomorrow but I'll believe it when I see it.
Cooee is a useful word. I don't think I have ever used it before. I was on a long distance path for about two kilometers today: The Border Abbeys Way. I had been wandering aimlessly around someone's house and a field with an electric fence for ages trying to work out how to access it. Two walkers emerged out of a forest and so I followed them, but soon they were standing in the middle of another field doing lots of pointing. I had seen a pole with a possible flash of orange (the arrow) and headed toward that. Soon they overtook me (cheating) and launched into the next field. I thought I would cheat back, again, and so started behind them but they went off in different directions from each other. I spied the pole in a completely different direction and realised that they were, well, guessing, or, lost. I wanted to yell out but couldn't think what to say to people away on the other side of a field. Cooee popped into my head. And it is just the perfect carrying sound. They reluctantly followed. I don't think they were happy to be put back on track by someone who had only just turned up on the path through a field of horse poo.
My hosts at Easter Cottage are so lovely. They have listened to my whole story with interest, looked at pictures of Lolli, stuffed newspaper in my shoes, and, most impressively, given me the front room—huge, no stairs, double bed, the warmest looking doona. (I heard someone saying, as I was coming home from the pub, that they couldn't believe they were going out in a ski-jacket. Believe it! It is freezing.) They also have scales. Damn. Possibly, on first look, it appears maybe (are those enough disclaiming words) that there has been a bit more of a loss but I will try again tomorrow to verify. In the mean time I am heading under that doona with tea, biscuits and a good book.
Did you know that Lilliesleaf's eleven hole golfcourse was built by a resident who got jacked off by a club in the near vicinity refusing to allow him to play. That's the way!
Good night to Lilliesleaf, good night to you.