Although I had desperately fancied a well-earned siesta after the afternoon’s exertions, a crisis far away focused hearts and minds, well at least Leapy’s.
Mrs Lee had communicated a tale of woe; the washing machine had given up the ghost and she had charged her man with sourcing a replacement, rather unreasonably in my opinion which, for the record, I knew did not count.
Leapy looked lost not least because the chance of dropping into a Curry’s during the next few days looked remote but that he confessed he’d never ever used it so felt “somewhat detached.” I convinced him that online was the route to marital bliss.
In truth he made a valiant effort but the sheer multitude of brands and options were too much for a man who confessed to viewing this as “her department”. Dinner saved us, the choice of wash cycles would have to wait.
Suddenly we heard a crash and then a huge splash of water. Big Al had taken a bath and, like many elderly and infirm people, he struggled to get out. Uncle Andy had refused point blank to assist.
“I were in the fire brigade not the fishing fleet!” he protested.
Regardless Big Al had worked out a method that involved him sliding to one end and then surfing from the taps, up the other end, aiming to fly out feet first, landing like a gymnast off the high bars.
How eighteen stone could manage this feat seemed beyond us all as it was retold and, predictably it ended in disaster. It took an age to mop up the floor from the escaping giant wave and the duck was never seen again.
Dinner was absolutely top class as was the hospitality at Butt House. A diverse and interesting menu was cooked to perfection and the attraction of a visit to the pub across the road receded the instant the log fire was lit.
Six tired bodies found contentment; Whispering slid into a chair and had rarely looked more content as Uncle Andy snored gently after confessing he’d clocked 35,000 steps today.
“That’s 35,000 chaffing steps for me” wailed GPS newly lathered in Sudocrem, his most accommodating boxers chosen for the night.
The wine continued to flow albeit involuntarily down Leapy’s white t-shirt.
“Suppose I’d better get a new machine now!” he said. It was time for bed.
Morning came and the wind had definitely picked up as had interest in the local bus timetables. The day ahead had more climbing though not of the scale of the previous one…so we thought.
Over a hearty breakfast our landlady told us of the bleak landscape ahead, scarred by lead mines where hundreds of men had lost their lives in the harsh working conditions over a century ago.
As the Dales bus vanished up the hill, Big Al and Uncle Andy looked on ashen faced as GPS disappeared to lubricate his troublesome undercarriage.
Leapy was in a dreamlike state with thoughts of Candy on his mind plus Bosch, Hotpoint and Indesit; it was time to go. Early signs were good across a scenic bridge before we climbed into the country.
It was truly beautiful, little did we guess the horrors in store.
We had climbed the third biggest peak in Yorkshire the previous day but surely we were on the way up the next highest. On it went until we descended into an old mining settlement for lunch.
As a team man I offered my destressing body oil although GPS found it amusing I needed to destress; a quick rub of his calves and he was away.
By now several of us were becoming distrusting of GPS and his gadget. As if to prove the point we went three different ways after lunch with a few death defying climbs in amongst. Even the sheep were laughing.
Whichever way we went we made a balls of it as Big Al commenced the longest continuous moan in the history of outdoor pursuits.
“F*** it…just shoot me and cover the body with a pile of rocks!” he wailed.
Whispering had contracted nappy rash too and confessed that he felt as if he had “two razor blades between my legs!”
Uncle Andy’s bad knee was holding up, unfortunately his good one was knackered. All the time Leapy hared off into the distance as if determined that over one ridge he would find a Currys and soothe Mrs Lee.
Lost again, GPS, defending the gadget, pointed to a cairn on the distant horizon as Big Al sank in a peat bog.
“It must be right it shows a cairn!”
“Woopy do there’s bloody hundreds of them!” I countered unconvinced he’d ever been in the scouts.
Carrying more injuries than we could count we arrived at what one could only describe as a canyon. Uncle Andy looked as if he wanted to throw himself off whilst Big Al marked his final resting spot.
This was a tough afternoon and if you ever see a country sign that says “1m to go” be prepared to be left feeling you’ve been had. As we entered Reeth all Uncle Andy’s pains vanished in a flash as we turned the corner…
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