Failure to stride

    We were the only guests at the farmhouse and went to sleep listening to the sheep bleating, calling goodnight to each other, a peaceful, restful sound. But when I awoke later in a very dark room, the sheep had fallen silent or moved on and rain battered the window. 

       The walk we were set to do that morning was over a high mountain pass called Kidsty Pike. Walkers tell stories about Kidsty Pike. 

     Breakfast was lovely and we drank tea and watched the wind blowing with gale force winds. The house was snug and solid though. If you want a house to withstand storms, you could do worse than to build it with two foot thick slate walls. 

     

       

     Our landlady raised the subject. "Are  you going up there? I wouldn't if I were you. No, no, I wouldn't. The winds'll be higher up there and you'd be blown right off. I'd have to send the mountain rescue. Yes, yes, I would. "   

     It'd be foolish to ignore the advice of someone who'd lived right there all her life and hosted walkers for years. We move the tea pot and spread the maps out on table, trying to plot a low elevation detour that would get us to Bampton. Eleven miles plodding along the lake and how many more on the road.....

       We suit up in rain gear, say goodbye, and start off.  The storm is exhilarating but the driving rain seems to come from all sides and the trees are taking a beating. 

         Passing the youth hostel, I glance at the bus schedule. A bus to Penrith, the only city in the vicinity, is passing in eight minutes. It's Sunday, so there won't be another for hours. 

       We round the corner into the village and it's easy to spot the bus stop: a dozen walkers in rain gear, already sodden, cluster around the bus door.  The moment of truth and one minute to decide..... we climb on. Plan B. 

        There is, of course, no bus from Penrith on to Bampton on Sunday and shops are all closed. We spend an hour in the town museum. We window shop in the rain. We drink coffee in the cafe at Sainsburys, a supermarket. I'm depressed and frustrated. 

       I browse magazines and he chats up the ladies at the help desk. They call a friend who runs a taxi business and within seconds he whisks us off to Bampton.  He runs his taxi service from behind the steering wheel, taking calls and calling on three cell phones while speeding around the curves of a narrow lane with stone walls on both sides. Sheesh. 

      At the pub in Bampton the sheepish walkers trail in. They have different stories to tell but nobody, it turns out, nobody walked over Kidsty Pike today.