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As we crowded onto the porch, someone said, “Not bad, only twelve miles.” They had been
twelve pretty tortuous miles for me, but I mustered up a smile and added, “Since when was
twelve miles a short walk?” Twelve miles had earned serious boasting rights back at home;
so much had passed since we were preparing for this walk at home, and there was deep sat-
isfaction and not a little wistfulness in that change. Funny how it can be hard thoroughly to
enjoy a moment without simultaneously regretting that it is slipping by. We walked through
the bar to the staircase that would take us again three groaning flights up to the room, but not
before Chris had exchanged some pleasantries with the Yorkshire landlord. More evidence
of how much, delightfully, had changed. A week ago, they would have had little in common
and only a rudimentary understanding of each other's accents.
After a long rest, a virtuous cleansing, we re-entered civilization. It was Saturday night after
all, and the Keld Lodge was hopping! My impressions of that night are kaleidoscopic: the
scene flits from the hiker in the twirly red skirt, to the guide in orange, to the affable host-
ess offering us curried banana soup in the depths of Yorkshire! Cars incessantly drawing up
and disgorging diners - could there be so much humanity on this planet we wondered who
had seen little of traffic and no crowds in a remarkable week. There was good Wensleydale
cheese and even better single malt. What counted a few blisters in comparison to this? That
night, before we let the satisfaction of strenuous exercise, good company, and healthy fare
lull us to sleep, we registered with soporific satisfaction, the occasional reassuring bleat of a
sheep, the midges' whirr, and the reckless snort of an old dog.
Too soon it was Sunday, the Christian Sabbath—traditionally a day of rest, a time to slow
down, to put life in perspective. Although we were not indulging in physical rest, and we
had no hopes of slowing down if we were to keep pace with the rest of the party, the whole
adventure was like a refreshing spiritual shower; time taken deliberately out of life to rinse
the mind, wring out the detritus, and put a polish on hopes and half-forgotten dreams.
We had barely left the Lodge before we came to the crossroads, the point where The Pennine
Way and the Coast to Coast intersect. I felt this ought to be a weighty moment, a time when
I would indulge in more navel-peering, but it was not. Chris gamely took a photo, and I
gamely struck a pose, but I had no recollection of this spot, nor of the five miles where
both paths coincide. It had not left its mark on me all those years ago. I remembered instead
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