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to make our way up the crag. I followed Erica, swathed in a red hooded cloak that reminded
me of elves and goblins, perhaps hobbits. Vicki sheltered pixie-like in a half-made cairn at
the top as we waited for the stragglers. Before I could dwell more on the stuff of folklore,
Suzanne said, “Sod it, I'm wet”! Babs shivered as the rain careened off her nose, but apart
from that no one complained; we set our streaming faces to the wind and began our long
descent into Grasmere. After a prolonged, sodden while, Pete called a halt and reminded
us that we needed to eat. Chris and I looked shiftily at one another. Despite the glories of
“en suite,” our Bed and Breakfast had failed to supply us with a packed lunch. The others
quickly dragged their sandwiches out, and we watched first in envy and then in amusement
as they dissolved not in our friends' mouths, but in the pouring rain. There is something
about hungry, drenched adversity that brings you together. Despite the fact that many of
us were now walking in water, pooled and sloshing in our boots, we pressed on undaunted
again. We were no longer a bunch of strangers; sopping and unlovely, we had become an
unlikely but entertaining team.
We made slow progress; the descent was crisscrossed with numerous little streams that
should have been no more than clichéd babbling brooks, but now were careening cataracts.
Stepping-stones were totally submerged and banks washed away. We all paused at one
severely swollen stream. Its boiling waters were just too wide to jump. To my surprise,
Chris, who is not a big man, launched himself across and just managed to scrabble up the
other side. For a while he played the role of hero, catching damsels who flung them-selves
into his outstretched arms! But his glory was short-lived. Another gallant hiker made his
way across, tore off boots and socks and waded into the torrent to help the hesitant hikers
make a safe crossing. Even he was a little nonplussed when a soggy dog was propelled into
his waiting arms.
The rain poured steadily down and we also went steadily down toward the shelter of the
village. When we reached a stream that actually had a bridge, we were a shade disappoin-
ted,
“Where's the challenge in that?” Sarah said with just a hint of irony.
We ended the day safe and warm at a Quaker-run guesthouse where they served afternoon
tea from a trolley, and offered the luxury of a drying room for deluged gear. Where the
average age of our hiking group was mid-fifties, the average age of the rest of the guests
must have been at least mid-eighties; we understood we still had much to learn about en-
durance, dogged persistence. Revived, we strolled into Grasmere; the rain had passed. It
was 70 degrees with a blue sky, puffy white clouds, and a little breeze! My predictions still
held. There was a spring in my step and a smug grin on my face.
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