Still stunned by fluffy towels and central heating to name a few, we’d made our way from our camp site to the local – The George & Dragon – where we were staying on our penultimate night of this circular trip.
This is a proper country pub, fine ales and great food if a little dated, a bit like Uncle Andy’s scouting shorts.
Fortunately there is no Sky TV and, although Big Al was gutted not to be able to watch the football, my suggestion that ninety minutes of overpaid ponces diving and screaming around in lycra would be available re Strictly missed the mark.
Leapy mentioned that Mrs Lee was a fan though not if it involved dancing with him, which worked for both of them. Prone to the odd gaffe his next one had more immediacy. Leaning against the bar with the landlady behind him he declared.
“Fantastic digs which I cannot see being beaten all week!” as she silently gobbed in his pint.
It was 5.30pm and I was four pints down with two hours to go to dinner; at this rate fluffy towels seemed somewhat irrelevant. Sat in shorts and flip-flops amongst hardy souls in puffer jackets, Kefalonia seemed a distant memory.
A lovely older couple were celebrating their thirty-first anniversary. The lady described her husband’s romantic limitations over the years with wry humour, offering some consolation to us.
“One morning he brought me a cuppa whilst I lay in bed, looking all pleased with himself before he buggered off.” she said. “As he left I said “happy anniversary” which barely registered’!”
You knew she would not swap him for the Earth.
Remarkably the bar was full of Bradfordians – honestly – though one was jointly claiming asylum and devolution for Haworth. Most were relieved that they had gone a full day not being buzzed by a 120mph VW Golf driven by a retard with a cap on back to front.
The food was very good but, once devoured, I retired for my cucumber face mask. GPS tucked into the cheese and wine only for him to belly-flop me a few hours later on his return; it was good to be twelve again.
Morning came and, so calming was this luxurious accommodation, even Leapy’s normal big bass snoring had soothed to the gentle brush of a jazz drum. The shower was big enough to make mad, passionate love in, a thought I kept from Leapy.
Up above, GPS had a free-standing bath and was considering replaying The English Patient although Whispering would never ever look like Kristin Scott Thomas. Fortunately, Health & Safety ruled that a hungover, fat middle-aged lad should not try this.
It was time to do what we came for…breakfast. Once again, this was magnificent and if you want a quality place to stay try Colman’s.
Anyway, enough of the sales pitch, it was on with the walking. We set off in high spirits clearly forgetful of last year’s pain and another year older. Uncle Andy strode off, little fat hairy legs pumping away.
Soon reality was biting as we ticked off the first two miles, ahead in the distance dark clouds not in our earlier planning. We climbed fields and found a level, a brisk march ensued.
A couple passed by, the man a few years older prompting GPS to comment: “He’s batting above his average!”
His rather attractive companion was carrying the only rucksack to which Leapy mused: “I can see the sense in getting a younger woman if she can carry like that!” he said “A pity that it’s never worked for me! You won’t print that will you?”
By now the early chatter had subsided, heads were down, the only noise the odd sheep and Big Al’s full English continuing to escape violently.
GPS was looking worried as, despite his gadget, we were some way off course. Soon we reached a cross-roads and we could see Hawes in the distance although we had clearly not suffered the mandatory thirteen miles pain.
We contemplated the morality of a short cut just as the last breath flickered from the gadget. Dare we risk unknown territory or did we take Big Al’s advice?
“F*** it I’m off to the pub!” he declared, the familiar rolling gait lumbering down the hill towards Hawes. Whispering got his Haribos out as we shook our heads in unison.
Just before we landed a moment of pure pathos as the big man got stuck in a gate. GPS surgically removed his rucksack as he effed and jeffed oblivious to a queue of afternoon walkers who had never seen such entertainment.
Finally we reached The Fountain, our destination for the evening. Big Al was despondent to find all the best viewing seats for the Ryder Cup golf taken by the local Women’s Institute. Uncle Andy was delirious.
“I’ve done 23,000 steps!” he beamed.
“Aye, that’s about 15,000 by the rest of us then” said GPS rather unkindly.
No sooner had the old biddies licked their plates than GPS had evicted them. One day down, four more to go and the gadget needs batteries. Otherwise…we’re all doomed!!!
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