Day Twelve: We Love Our Fucking Tents. We Really Do.

So. Amazingly we were on our way at 8am, for a longish 17+ mile day with shit loads of ups and down. After 1 mile we were distracted by a Folk museum that served breakfast so at 8.20 we were sat at a table with a plate of sausage bacon and mushrooms (Nick) and beans and egg (me). Oh, and a lot of toast. At 9am we were back in the road.

Little to report as we cruised along those bulldozed estate ‘roads’ that exist solely for fat rich people to travel along so getting to kill things is easier and involves no effort; up and down only 400-500m hills, the climbs still felt hard. It was very noticeable that estates like to kill things. A lot of traps and a place that wasn’t a place for good things to happen. It had a vile vibe. We moved away. 

Onwards. Following Water of Dye for many miles until Char Bothy where we stopped and sat by the stream for the last of our fruit cake, with tea. Sore feet in the river. They still smelt when they came out and our shoes stink of ammonia. We are sexy.
Onwards to Spital Cottage and into the forest where we knew finding a place to camp would be tricky. Unfortunately by now Nick had long since taken refuge in a shelter called ‘edibles’. 

Close to Tire Beggar Hill we found some land that was flattish, without trees nor big nor heather, dryish, and by water. Brown peat filled water but it would have to do. We were fairly fekked and so took the sensible action of slotting rather a lot of whisky and Nicks tent was erected with the professionalism of a dead dog on speed, something Nick both resembled and smelt like. Putting up a tent whilst stoned and pissed is indeed difficult.

Then we were inside as the heavens opened and we are now loving, totally loving, just being here. 


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