It's the owls rather than the discomfort then that get me off to an early start. Breakfast is pre-bagged muesli — just add water — goes down well. A quick peek over the wall reveals mist hanging over Sneaton Low Moor like a chilly damp duvet.

At ten-past-five then, I'm away — trying to get a picture of a young deer on the road side of the fence, but even zoomed in he bounds away before I can get anything like close. And later, apart from a little blood from the mouth, the badger in the road looks unharmed, although with tongue sticking out and gargoyle-like ghastly inane grin, the bulging eyes seem to portray a painful end — perhaps hit by a late arriver at the Caravan Club site — and a photograph seems disrespectful. I sneak through the site gates to fill my water bottle (fair do's — I am a member).

It's slow through Littlebeck, where the rain comes — heavily too, and progress becomes more sideways than forwards. So much so, that I slip and fall down the bank... tch. This incident well and truly christens my fancy new jacket. Hmm... shit sticks as they say. The bank is too steep to clamber back up and I have to find a way round. The ford is quite impassable too and requires another incredibly muddy detour. Thankfully the rain eases as I come to the open moor.

8am and the road descent into Grosmont: two ladies — one shop; one platform (with station Café). Both provide breakfast: pasty and cold milk from the shop, but the second says the café doesn't open till 9am. She's official-looking all right — she's got a brush. Maybe nothing till the Lion Inn? Okay, so I'll hang around for a bacon sandwich and coffee — sounds good. Hmm? Think on... this is losing a lot of time — it's the hot drink that persuades me though, and the toilets provide a good wash and brush up facility until opening time.

After Glaisdale the rain returns, accompanied now by a driving wind. Off the rig comes a swift runner; a mere 100yds behind, his lady partner emerges and claims that we must be mad. A sensible statement, surely? 'No,' I insist through the mist. 'We are mad!'

Running shoes quickly fill with wet grit on the water-laden tracks over the moor, so without the overtrousers I arrive at the Lion Inn somewhat demoralized.
     The fire doesn't help. I get comfy. Well you would — soaked to the skin — it's understandable. Although I'm at a loss — my fire is a simple Bob Cratchit affair, while in the next room their's is roaring and I suffer a case of 'Laughter in the Next Room'.
     At a nearby table three younger guys from my own nearby Worksop have called off their Lyke Wake attempt due to the conditions and are waiting for a lift. They can't get a phone signal it seems. Giving up is always a good sensible option, as is not starting out in the first place! Though the former will serve to haunt you; the latter will intrigue you — "I'd love to do that," people will say, "just go and sleep under the stars like that ..." Well, it's not difficult I tell them... but enough of that, there's calories afoot and a plateful is plonked right in front of me. Yummy.

It's true then — the rain has stopped. I set off steady and dry — fortified — but all too soon the wet stuff is back — with spiteful vengeance on the exposed track bed, though it could be worse as the wind comes from my right (north west) instead of full-on, and the hood on the jacket affords some protection. By Bloworth it eases and I make reasonable time to the Wainstones.

A figure I take to be a local farmer is in the process of attaching signs to gateposts. I'm all for going off down to the right, but no — one more climb yet he tells me — and he's right, of course. Not so hasty off the bank then ...

Thank the Lard! - Lordstones is still open - turns out there has been a motor bike scrambling rally today and the National Fell Running Championship is to be held here tomorrow which explains the mixture of bikers and fit-looking sharpies around!

My destination lies over yonder hill, but there's hot water here and the gas fire is warm, and the owner is as congenial as they come — so what's another 6 miles anyway?

*****

"Wha' do you think y'doin'..?" I hear as I roll out my bag later. It's a strong Lancashire accent is this — a fell runner with attitude! Apparently I'm too close to his tent and if I snore I might disturb his sweet slumber and ruin his chances of winning tomorrow's big race ... Hey, never mind if I snore. What if he should snore? Will this ruin my big day — will Reeth be ever far away? I find myself another level spot... tch. 'Skid Marks on the Summits' or what?

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Jan 2007 © m.l.weller