Musings From The Padded Cell

Day Five – Greetings From Kendal

“Have we been over that viaduct yet?”

Touching distance

Our stay at The Dalesman Inn in Sedbergh had truly revived spirits after the pig shed the previous day.

Home Sweet Home

The fine setting, wonderful beers and high quality food had combined wonderfully with the fact that Big Al and Patch had been tossing it off all day riding the pensioner buses.

Uncle – “when I was in the fire brigade” – Andy had generously turned out to relieve us of soiled gear.

We warned him that a swarm of flies would follow him back to Bradford and offered him Big Al into the bargain.

Patch was giving us the usual motivational talk ahead of the next day’s exertions.

“I’ve checked the mileage and you’re all going to die” he said cheerfully “and then our bodies will be washed away by the monsoon coming down the valley. Say your goodbyes tonight!”

Happy birthday indeed.

I retired early desperate to reclaim some of the lost hours sleep and put my night cream on before Leapy took the piss. As it was Leapy decided to stay out on the piss.

At this point I must warn readers that a certain photo keeps popping up and I appear to have little control over when it does.

Look away if you are easily offended or own the Station at Ribblehead.

Morning came and the magnificence of the school across the way illuminated the early gloom.

We were reunited once again but would it be back for good?

Patch had lost the snore-off against Big Al and had crumbled, resorting to throwing biscuits at the big man all night hoping to abate the noise.

Estimates varied as to the scale of our challenge ahead from 18 miles and near death to zero miles and the pub all day. The rain began to fall almost inevitably.

It turned into the most brutal day so far. Field after field of moody, miserable cows each scaring the pants off Patch.

Of course we had GPS: we also had a guide book; but we were bloody clueless. The calamities came as surely as the rain.

I went tits up better than any Premier League forward. Leapy discovered that attempting the Dalesway in a pair of slippers was always going to end in tears.

Big Al nearly sank at one point and then ripped his shirt to bits as he de-robed under a tree. Half naked, soaked to the skin, thoroughly pissed off I sensed this was far from his happiest day.

There was one moment of sheer pathos as we, once again, consulted GPS and the guide. Patch took a look at the guide, pointed to a character on the map and said.

“Look, that’s where we are! Where that man is!”

And he was guiding us.

At what we guessed/hoped/prayed was somewhere around the halfway mark a decision to follow the road was made based on a road sign promising Kendal in 5 miles.

Whoever measured the distance claimed wants shooting.

After an eternity we hobbled into Kendal possibly marking the longest walk any of us had ever endured just to find a pub.

Big Al summed it up as he shivered in the corner.

“I want to cry!”

The Gateway, Kendal.

So imagine our joy when we arrived at the beautiful surroundings of The Gateway at Kendal. Was it only 48 hours since we were in a cow shed?

Only ten more miles to go subject to several fitness tests in the morning. Big Al is making Brexit like attempts to reduce the mileage further.

And I have a room to myself, Big Al one floor below and the promise of sunshine allten miles tomorrow. My first night’s sleep at last!

Meanwhile, Patch has just discovered an app how to plan a Dalesway walk…I rest my case.

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Comments

  1. P@ssing myself laughing, these blogs are so Brysonesque…and that’s no bad thing believe me

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