Travel Reference
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compromised sight was a blur, a dark jeer at my fragile vulnerability, a sock in the stomach,
taunting me about how things had changed. “What a wimp!” I thought, mentally beating
myself up for both my weakness and how it had caught me off guard. All of a sudden I
was unable to take my own cheery advice about not comparing, for now I was the one, no
longer winkle-toed springing from safe tuft to safe tuft, but I was the one, turning the ankle,
squelching by mistake in fetid swamp. The outdoors was oozing into my boots, seeping
ever closer to the doughnut and the Irish blister dressing. My feet tensed and screamed. I
was fifty, disabled and in pain.
“Call this a vacation?” I would have loved to have taunted Chris, but even in my frustration,
I knew it had all been my idea. The trip was about reclaiming promise, but I had forgotten
that reclaiming often isn't about doing things in the same old way, it's sometimes about
finding another route. How apt a metaphor for our journey, especially this section across
the quaking black bog. So, in my typical fashion, I put my head down, gritted my teeth,
(foreshortened by previous “grittings”) and limped a little further, then further still, and
quickly relief reared up in the form of a chalkboard sign. We had crossed the slough of des-
pond and tea, scones, hot chocolate and the miracle of a portaloo were our reward! What
bliss! We had reached Raven Seat and the sun winked at us and winked again, and the wind
joined in the game blowing off the dark clouds, so that the sun no longer played a shy game
of hide and seek, but warmed the good firm earth where we sat, awaiting tea. It was about
70 degrees now, there were puffy white clouds and a little breeze.
In due course the beautifully named, beautiful, young girl from the farm staggered out with
tray loads of refreshments, and a little dog stretched out its belly in the sunlight begging to
be tickled. We absorbed all the nurture of suddenly bountiful nature, leaning back on our
elbows and feeling the breeze refresh our sweaty, stringy hair. It was at this point I made the
miserable mistake of taking off my boots and socks. The doughnut had slipped and twisted
into a nasty crueler and the Irish cure all for blisters had failed to live up to its advertising
promise. It floated as a free radical in the liner sock scorning my calloused and blistered
toes. I decided not to worry - this was after all a time of “coasting” —of leaving behind
everyday cares, living for the moment, enjoying the puppy who was sniffing now at the
remains of lunch, being vaguely conscious of the murmur of contented hikers ruminating
in the mellow sun. And in this haze of general content and conviviality we made it to the
village of Keld in glorious Swaledale and in particular to the Keld Lodge, where we were
to spend what I was startled to discover, a Saturday night, in the height of the season.
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