The night had been mega hot, so waking up at 6am was quite a relief. Euan got up five minutes later and I ate the remainder of the banana loaf. We checked James (well, Euan did), then we went to buy bitesize Weetabix and some milk. We then walked towards London, our last great voyage.
    Rang Dad at 7:30 to make sure we should stay on the A5, not the A41. I got beeped at for urinating at the side of the road. We walked at a rather good pace whilst singing out loud, turning heads as we went. Made sure to mention a guy who looked as if he should’ve had a mustache, but didn’t.
    Then purchased some sea water disguised as lassi, added bitesize Weetabix to improve the taste, but it didn’t really work so I felt ill after finishing it. We carried on, but I got snared on one of those circular wire walker traps, half a second later and I was down, knee first. An intense pain ensued and I struggled to my feet and continued on, gradually gaining momentum until we got to Hyde park.
    We then walked to parliament, but I really needed a piss and had to stop at a war memorial museum on the way. We got there, yay! Stuck a Rat-Arsed leaflet [James’ Free Fringe show that year] on a barrier, it then rained a hell of a lot, so we went on the London eye, which had unfortunately good air conditioning. They raffled my knife, and we paid £10 for a photo, then got ripped off at a cafe and headed to Hedge’s for tasty grub and a good laugh, Head home tomorrow; 453.5 miles handled!

6.05 and I wake screaming, “It’s 6.05!” And the alarm was designed to terrorise me. My accomplice is calm and retains character whilst I compose myself. I agreed to check on a man who was left with the last of our meringues. In a defying moment, or perhaps under the strain of fatigue, James agrees to take my bag into London as he is taking the bus until the final miles to ensure his walking.
    I buy bitesize cereal with my accomplice and we hit the road before quarter to seven after sharing yoghurt cereal bars. We are tempted by a 13 mile road heading to “C London,” but my accomplice is convinced it cannot be central as that is too convenient and C could mean anything in its ambiguous stature.
    We pass what must be the final farm on our adventure and take a moment to relieve ourselves in the privacy of its countryside. City rudeness begins as we are not let across a mildly busy road. Buildings begin and trees are replaced by lampposts. Sheep are phased out and replaced with people [although Euan has written “sheep” here as well].
    A series of cheesy and Christmas sing a longs keeps up morale and replaces the difficulty in stimulating conversation with an accomplice who genuinely listens to this filth in his spare time.
    We stop to buy a drink of lassi mere weeks after my last encounter with this fantastic stuff, but the “groovestations” are all wrong. The second ingredient was salt, this broth is the taste of the seas of mother earth.
    Our contrasting vertexes of the team venture tetrahedron are updated with our position and the meeting point is set as Hyde park - for those about to Rock we salute you! My accomplice totally totals himself on one of those wires that keeps hubcaps on and I fear that the dream is over, the Olympic flame extinguished on route and that no member may make a complete voyage…
    We soldier on and tear up the road to Westminster. Sipping on an ice cream to keep in the tears at Hyde park the final mile is taken through the park as the pathetic stimulation that is Big Ben looms over and our trek comes to its end. The road goes ever on, except when it’s done.
Euan Kidston

Should of gotten up at 6am, but was suffering from mild death. I felt like an incubated baby bird. Although in bed for a week I actually didn’t get much sleep: a bit of the old on off. This was in some way to do with the heat and some way a hoover snoring (his wife next to him thinking of how the marriage has gone wrong).
    Got up and had coffee from a tea-cup; it’s political correctness gone mad! Left the room with two bags and a bit of a soar foot. Hobbled/ lift/ crawled/ surfed to the train station. At the station I scared the ticket guy by crashing into his booth with the weight of two bags and myself. He slipped the ticket to me like I think Euan would pass a note to a boy in school.
    Got to Hyde park and tripped on a Diana memorial. This is a car crsah waiting to happen [“Car crash” is the name of an improvisational stand-up show that is often on at the Fringe]. Bumped into Rich Hall, who was out jogging. Met up with everyone else and was soon forced to drink some salt Weetabix and spit.
 A discovery: one in three Londoners are nice. The guy I asked directions from told me to ask someone else. The second guy ignored me with such skill I cold have been dead. The baby bear guy I last asked was nice … he looked a bit like Omid Djalili.
    London looks amazing, but feels dead, like a prostitute. Went up a cold London Eye, soaking. It was fun. Robert’s mum* paid for this, which was very kind, especially as it costed a shit load (*just Robert’s mum, not John’s, he is adopted. Fatty!)
    I parted with the group to find a hostel. A H.O.S.T.E.L.! Not a room that cost £30,000. The best part of London so far was walking through the Marriot hotel looking hobo kin (a reference to Jack Kerouac and/or chemistry).
James McIntosh

Rose to baby food, and heard that Robert and Euan would be arriving at Marble Arch, also meeting James there.
    We got to Marble Arch and entered Hyde park to be greeted by Robert struggling towards us, sans shoes. After ice-cream we sat recollecting and re-grouping. James and Euan presented me with a tractor, attachment and attractive rendering of a transvestite for my birthday. Finally we set off for the final stretch, the original four; me striding along unburdened, Robert swigging flat cola, Euan hunched and following, James limping enthusiastically. We sauntered through Hyde park, soaking up the smog, and I even managed to eat a tuna-sweetcorn sandwich (although there was no sweetcorn detectable). As the rain started we walked on, with disregard to the fat drops falling; nothing could dampen our spirits so close to the end.
    We looped through another park, arriving at Buckingham palace. It was a bit ugly, so we scrambled quickly past it onto Westminster and parliament square. I was gutted to see the green of Parliament square had been fenced off, a notice of apology had been given, but no reason. Was it an excuse to control the imminent protests? If so it might only result in riots as crowds of principled individuals are provoked, their rights reduced even in this simple access to a demonstration area.
    Lightning illuminated the scene as we crossed the Thames, thunder crashing around us as we sought out the ticket office for the London eye. After not too long a wait we embarked on the Eye, boarding a shifting gondola. Visibility was rather good as we rose to the apex, I though it was the chill sky-heights sending a breeze to raise my hairs, but in fact the gondola had intense air conditioning.
    After the grand view we stepped out into the warm humidity and slowly made our way to an over-priced Italian cafe-cum-restaurant named Churchill, just outside the main block of Westminster buildings. After food the staff informed us they didn’t take cards (so we paid in coins with no tip) and they informed James there was a cheap hostel across the bridge (which turned out to be a £30,000 a night hotel).
    We made it to the Victoria station, where I got a letter for the parents of year two at Immanuel and St Andrew school, and we met Hedge.
    We returned to Hedge’s flat, joined by Sarah Tomlinson, and had a massive feast of ultimate foods, after which we crammed into a bedroom and passed out.

    [Here ends my narrative: I woke up in Bedford to Robert wishing me “Happy Birthday,” I’d forgotten I was turning 22, it felt more like my day to die. I lay there, trying to eat a cracker and drink some water whilst Robert went and had a proper breakfast.]
  
    Got up to have breakfast and check that John was still alive. The woman asked me every five seconds how it was, so I had to eat all the fried stuff. We then set off using my map reading skills, but unfortunately got lost for around half an hour, which was a bitch since I had two bags and John was slowly dying [We repacked in the morning, to redistribute the weight, putting some things from my bag into a second day bag for Robert]. Eventually we asked some Irish guy where to go and got back underway.
    We were found by Mum, who picked up John and gave me some decent water to drink. The next five miles were boring. When we got to have lunch it turned out Grandma and Grandad had had a mad falling out with Auntie Tricia and had crashed [to clarify, we went on to a village to have some lunch, and Robert arrived by foot to join us. Meanwhile we heard the news that our relatives had been in a quarrel, and in their escape had managed to get in a minor car accident]. John’s going to Hedge’s to recoup prior to the last day, so as not to die [Heather "Hedge" Combe is a family friend and London resident].
    I got to the outskirts of Luton after a t-shirt-soakingly hot day [I am simply transcribing Robert’s account word for word, except where the words are illegible]. I got to a Homebase outside Luton and asked a payment guy (cashier?) which town I was in, to which he paused as if I was testing him, and then said: “Luton?”
    When I got to the hotel the guy took ages to find my booking. After finding it he then questioned if I was a UK national, unsatisfied by my response he requested to see my ID, and then insisted on double checking my debit card just to be certain, damn my pseudo-american accent.
    I met up with James and Euan (who was going on about his penis as usual). Euan laughed at his own remarks, and then farted (standard). We took thirty minutes finding a meal and then Euan moaned about the stringy pasta. He then refused to purchase coconut ice-cream on racist grounds, he then brutally attacked us with Cheddars (the non-mini variety) and we bought James a can of nourishment milk (after not being allowed to buy milk at the bar, even though there was plenty; evil barman).

    Last night, after the pub, I ended up talking to Richard for a decent length of time. He had strong opinions, it turned out, and we watched Sky news together. He tried to convince me that it had been established by scientists that sexuality was genetically determined. I asked him blankly if he was gay, and he said that he was asexual; he’d never had any trouble round these parts because he’d never tried to get anyone’s bum. He showed me photographs from his youth, when he was a rebel biker, and then when he was a military photographer. I asked him about his time in the military and he told me the story of his discharge: apparently at the time there were three people leaving the army; the first died of a heart attack before he reached the gates, the second was taken away “to the funny farm” in a straight jacket and the third spotted a motorcycle and rode it all the way to the South of France, where he found a bottle of wine and the shade of a tree to sit under and read a book. “And do you know what book it was?” he asked me. I followed the direction of his finger and saw Richard was pointing at “the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.” Most excellent, I thought.
    This morning we sat and had a chat over a cup of tea before setting off. Richard gave us some directions through town and we were eager to try them out. Despite this, getting into the city centre was a difficult task, and I’m not sure we ever found it. Leicester was dirty and full of main roads. We edged our way over some roundabouts and through some retail parks onto the road to Market Harborough.
    The road was long, hard and hot (a bit like the highway to Hell). It consisted entirely of A-roads and dual carriageways. It was around this day that I realised how much I hate straight roads; you think it’ll get you somewhere quicker, but instead you can see ahead of you how far you’ve got to walk. I’d rather not know.
    Eventually we turned off the highway at the two mile mark and trekked up hill, painkillers kicking in. I was able to ignore me knee and managed to March into Market Harborough with a sense of victory.
    The hotel is very pleasant, a real difference to Richard’s; more standard and impersonal. We had dinner at a Chinese restaurant run and waited by Professor Lupin from the Harry Potter film franchise. Robert didn’t like him, saying he was weird and creepy. I thought he had a woeful demeanour, like a father who knows he’s failed his child. The food was good, though; however, I started to get strange heart palpitations and rang out Dad freaking out. Apparently it might be a sign that I’m low on glycogen, so more sugars and other carbohydrates for me. I think Robert got excited to try out his medical training as he sat there taking my pulse; every time a palpitation occurred my pulse would disappear. They felt strange, a bit like I was having hiccups at the same time as rapidly falling (something like one feels on a rollercoaster, only in your heart, not stomach).
    We got a call from James and Euan, saying that Euan’s foot had developed a hole. Has Euan began to get the stigmata? They’ve gone ahead to Luton to give themselves a few days rest and recuperation while we catch up.

    Sitting in the Plough, sipping Aspel (on tap here), slightly disconcerted by the Alsation behind the bar.
    We got up and set off at a snail’s pace today. We bumped into Euan, in a dressing-gown and sipping a mug of tea, near the toilet block this morning. He and James had enjoyed the hospitality offered to them last night; all the breakfast they could eat, and the couples looking after them had insisted on feeding them even more. I wasn’t jealous, no, that’s a lie, I was very jealous. We had a terrible night’s sleep and had to pack up a damp tent this morning; not an ideal start.
    Progress seemed slow and unremarkable as we stumbled forth into Kegsworth. It seemed to take forever to get into Loughborough, which was a totally underwhelming disappointment; it was as if Westerhailes had claimed independence and set up on its own, even Subway was closed down. We queued for our meal deal in Boots, and I talked to Nat by phone as we watched townsfolk feed pigeons.
    Eventually we made it to the Birstall sign, at which point Robert rang the hostel owner arranged. We followed his directions and met him on the corner of a road in a residential area. He stood there in a baseball cap, shades and joggers, supported by a walking stick, grinning like Jack Nicholson. He had the voice of Michael Caine.
    We strode, and Richard hobble-strode, back to his. On the way he made us guess how old he was and repeatedly emphasised that he wasn’t prejudiced. He off-handedly introduced a Dmitri character before revealing that he would be eighty-one this year. When we got to his he asked us what we expected to pay, followed by giving us a rate of £25 total. Apparently (this might have been his catchphrase) “this is a non-rip-off area.” He imparted all the local tricks of the trade; buying clothes at Sports Direct and going to Lidl for groceries. He revealed these “secrets” to us as if these stores were only particular to the area.
    He then said that if we both requested we could watch some gay DVDs, but we’d both have to request. That, I thought, was a reasonable condition, but a strange offer. He showed us the room and told us the adjacent room is paid for (by Dmitri, the maths genius). He showed us his own room in case James and Euan wanted to stay (we’d have to share the double bed in our room, one of them would get the bunk bed there and the other would get the bunk bed in Richard’s room), he told us that they wouldn’t get the same cheap rate as us, but not to tell them that. I noticed a few calenders in Richard’s room which weren’t exactly to my tastes.
    We went back downstairs and Robert ended up in a play fight with Richard. Both had boxing gloves on and were jabbing at each other, Robert was quite tentative, but Richard was insistent and dealt out a few antagonistic left hooks. Richard then insisted Robert put some hand-cuffs on me, followed by Robert being hand-cuffed himself. Richard told us how to discern whether any given pair of hand-cuffs were fake, before releasing us with the trick. We all collapsed onto the comfy sofas chuckling away. We talked a bit to Richard before going to a chippy he recommended. He was reminiscing about Dmitri, a foreign student who obviously provided Richard with good, intelligent company.
    After fish and chips we returned and showered. Robert warned me that Richard had told him not to bother locking the bathroom door, and when I went down stairs he said the same to me. He had previously let us know that he didn’t care how we walked around, to make ourselves at home; we could walk around naked and he wouldn’t bat an eye (not my style). I went into the bathroom and tried to lock the door, but it was stiff and I decided not to bother, for some reason I trusted Richard (luckily that trust wasn’t misplaced).
    I got out of the shower and ended up chatting to Richard in my boxers for twenty minutes, after which I got dressed and we came to meet James and Euan at the pub (where I’m writing up this journal).

    It’s raining a flood and both our packs are in the tent, so there’s no room (there’s not usually any room regardless). Essentially campsites should have lockers for bags and valuables. Did no-one ever think about such an obvious innovation?
    It actually started out as a seriously hot and sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. As we left the Haytop campsite we decided to change into shorts. The walk to Belper was slow and painful with my knee acting up.
    Lloyd’s pharmacy didn’t even have blister plasters when we got there, let alone knee supports. Fortunately I noticed a Boots pharmacy off the main road, so we went in. As I found blister plasters (on special offer) and a decent knee support, I saw Robert only just entering the shop, friendly waving farewell to some old dude in a neck-brace. Weird, I thought, he was only thirty seconds behind me, yet a relationship had clearly been formed.
    We bought the items and the staff at the counter started the customary inquiries: “stocking up for a big walk?” We told them the situation and the guy was keen to sponsor us, so we gave him the “just giving” page details and left to put the plasters in our packs and the knee support on my knee. Robert noticed the woman come out of the shop, and a few minutes later another girl came out and said that since we were doing this for charity she didn’t think we should have to pay for our purchases. She obtained our receipt (around £17.50) and returned with the cash and a couple of bottle of water for us (later we donated the cash to 500 Miles).
    We continued on our way, knee supported and spirits soaring. After a long stretch we walked into the Derby City limits, and an hour later we got to the actual city centre. We went to the first establishment in the city centre that looked reasonable (a Frankie & Benny’s doing a lunch offer). The girl doing all the service gave us a window seat so we could stare at the wild variety of city folk passing by. This was our first major city, and after nearly three weeks of walking it was strange. It occurred to me that fat and disabled people didn’t really make it into the countryside. Neither were there very many multi-ethnic people roaming the moors and hiking the Pennines. We also hadn’t seen very many attractive women in the last nineteen days.
    After our milkshakes and food we headed out. We let our food go down as we look for highlighters and stare at maps. We sat near a big block that also functioned as a shower for the local Goths (some of whom jumped off the top into the square below). We had no idea how to escape the city centre, and an old guy in a wheelchair, eating a sausage roll, is no help; he just keeps repeating that we’re in Derby City centre and asking where we want to go. We did tell him Leicester, but he keeps on going with the same line of questioning.
    We eventually figure it out and leave Derby behind. Things are looking good: it’s 3pm, only seven miles to go and we’re not even lost, just a straight road to follow. It’s at this point we get through to the campsite and they tell us to be there by 5pm, as that’s when they close up. We tell James and Euan (who aren’t even at the Derby City limits yet) and beast the last seven miles, getting in with ten minutes to spare. Luckily I had that Boots water, as it was boiling hot and I was running low on liquids.
    We get in and pitch our tent under a small willow tree, and go for a shower. The marina is stunning; it’s dry, sunny and all the boats docked create pleasing angles and lines with their masts. We decide to try out a local renowned pub, the Old Crown. We swagger into Leicestershire to check it out, but it doesn’t serve food on a Monday for some obscure reason. It did look wonderful, however, very quaint with a great selection of beers. We got the Navigator instead, which turned out to be very nice, even if they’d run out of Hobgoblin. Just as the food’s appearing, so does James. He runs out and drags in Euan, they cheated and got a bus.
    We get back to the campsite just as it starts to rain exceedingly hard. James and Euan are squabbling in their leaky tent because James had run away and found them a caravan to crash in, they’re bailing to it now. Apparently James had run into the bar toilets, ringing out his clothes in a urinal, and some guy had offered them shelter for the night.
    Meanwhile, in the compression chamber, Robert silently snoozes and the hammering of raindrops shakes our canvas. One pack sits between us like a third, obese member, forcing us both to lie against the sides of the decreasingly waterproof tent. The other pack is at out feet, forcing us both into a cramped, foetal position. What have I learned? One should always arrive late and unannounced, and couch surf off generous, middle class people. Being prepared = preparing for mediocrity.

    We started vaguely early. I needed the toilet, but there seemed to be a portal into it that I was not aware of, as each time I went to go it was engaged. This culminated in me bursting into what I thought was a vacant toilet to get my last impression of Terry, sat on the toilet and staring up at me with wide eyes. Luckily I didn’t see anything too compromising.
    Left through the mansion’s estate along a well marked footpath. The estate merged into a nature reserve, in which we saw a fuzzy, black ball pacing its way gently over the thin mud of the river bank and some signets, but when I stopped to take a look the mother swan hissed at me viciously.
    We went through Bakewell, getting all the maps we needed and the compulsory pudding, then went round the corner and saw the self-proclaimed “birthplace” of the Bakewell pudding.
    We walked on and entered Matlock Bath, a mental biker’s town. There were hundreds, cramming the street and filling up pubs and restaurants. We talked to a shopkeeper who said it was actually a quiet day, usually there are thousands. The bikers came in all shapes and sizes. Literally all shapes, probably moulded by a lifetime of road traffic accidents, hobbling in a surprisingly uniform uncomfortable gait like an army of gnomes.
    We walked on and made it to the campsite in reasonable time. After seeing countless numbers of the same sign (“No trespassing, private land”), we got to reception; which was actually a very messy static caravan. We rang the doorbell and waited. After some time we heard some rustling and grunting and the guy slowly came to the door. He was rather slobbish and consumed the entire doorway. His eyes were small and discerning, his skin pasty and oily in a marbled pattern, his hair was thin, greasy and trying desperately to evacuate his scalp. After asking if we were trouble and essentially insisting we had a shower, he consented to letting us pitch our tent (by the river, far away from the toilets and out of the way of all the other visitors). He then asked what we studied, as he found change for the showers (precisely two ten pence coins). Robert mentioned medicine and got the guy started on his doctor brother throwing out Dutch applicants’ CVs without a glance because of their assumed stance on euthanasia (I declined to mention my philosophy degree, unless euthanasia was brought back up).
    We then tried the pub, but it was closed due to “technical problems.” Robert got the dirt on that one when he asked to get some takeaway menus from the campsite owner; apparently the two guys who’s taken it over had fallen out (“typical gays,” said mr Owner).
    When the food arrived so did James and Euan. We ate and then discovered that James had forgotten the outside of the spare tent (the one we used to keep our packs in), and my sleeping bag is cold and damp. I was about to write that it’s better than nothing, but there’s little worse than sleeping in such a state. It also appears that the tent has been growing mould. Basically camping equipment can’t handle persistent rain.

    Woke up in room three, and went to breakfast after having a shower in a giant cubicle (in which the light kept turning off). I struggled to eat my breakfast, but enjoyed over hearing the conversation of other guests, one of whom was there with his very old father. We set out with cold pizza and a packed lunch, but no Euan; he going to meet us by train at the next stop in the walk (hoping to locate James, who had promised to rejoin us for the rest of the walk).
    The first obstacle before us was the “Devil’s Elbow,” a large hairpin bend on the road to Glossop. Glossop was quite a long town, shaped like the parabola formed from a positive function. We passed through Chapel-en-le-frith, and after two minutes of rain we reached a seemingly never ending hill, which angled down directly into Swallowtip (what a beautiful name for a village) where we sat on a stone trough and ate our lunch.
    We joined the A-road and followed it, thinking we were making good progress, to a massive zig-zag in the road (akin the road up to the Carter Bar). We looked ahead of us at the barrier between us and the Derbyshire dales; the road was going to be a death-trap if we weren’t careful. At first it moved away from us at a sharp incline, twisting round at a tight right angle, and then after a couple of hundred yards it turned a sharp ninety degrees for a final time. We decided to plan for this one; walking on the right hand side of the road would mean we didn’t have to cross the busy highway and we could see round the tight corner in plenty of time, but it would involve having our backs to oncoming traffic for a portion of the ascent. A man in a van, titled “Logic,” stopped on the verge ahead of us as we were crossing over the road to start the dangerous section to tell us to face into the traffic as he was concerned for our safety. I’ve come to the conclusion that most drivers don’t want the hassle of dealing with hitting a pedestrian, but every so often you come across a person who’s not just self-interested, but genuinely considerate.
    The last stop to the junction was long and straight with fields either side. We continued past the junction I expected to take in favour of some directions Robert had gleaned from an old local who had been scrubbing blemishes off his car.
    We arrived in Tideswell, went to the Co-Op and bumped into Euan and James, who had incidentally been on the same train into Buxton (town of bottled water). We walked with them to the hostel, a couple of miles down the road. The hostel had an enormously long driveway, opening up to reveal the mansion and surrounding gardens. We felt positive about the place, but ill with hunger and exhaustion. After eating some of James’ famous minestrone and lentil soup we recovered slightly. Sadly there’s no phone reception here, which meant that Dad phoned the hostel worried we’d not made it. The attractive girl on the desk mentioned this (actually, she told James his Dad had rung, which confused him slightly), adding “he says he loves you.” James started laughing at this, in disbelief. However, we couldn’t imagine our Dad saying that to us either, let alone a stranger. Some kind ad lib we assumed, giving her a smile.

   Holy Cow, what a day! I’m essentially a zombie right now, and for once I believe my exclamation of daily intensity is worthy. Woke up and chewed a tracker bar for breakfast. We went to the drying room to collect our wet clothes, and wet they still were. This was incredibly disappointing as packs with wet contents are heavier and the water has a tendency to spread through diffusion (unless the large quantities of maps we’ve been collecting count as a “semi-permeable membrane,” in which case I suppose it’s technically osmosis).
    The first part of what was undoubtably the hardest day of the walk entailed climbing a massive set of stone steps to the top of a ridge. We mounted the hill and at its peak we could see for miles around. To the North were a herd of wind turbines and to the West we could see the sprawling mass of a city in the distance.
    We turned Westward and jogged (I now regret that expenditure of energy) along a reservoir, where we bumped into the last Roman legion; still searching for their outpost. They weren’t really Italian (too active), but there seemed to be hundreds of these ancient people marching bravely forward.
    It wasn’t until the first A-road (sporting a tempting pub) that things turned sour. Robert and I bounded along, whilst Euan trailed with the maps. Now I should probably defend myself right now, since you are almost certainly asking why we made such a terrible tactical decision; who gives the slowest member of the party a map? Euan had (perhaps rightly) questioned my ability to read the maps accurately, and so I thought it was only fair to give him a trial, and I thought it might encourage him to stay with the group.
    After I reached a cairn, resting up against it as I waited for the others, Robert phoned me from an adjacent ridge to ask if we were going the correct way. I was quite certain it was, but Robert decided to go back and find Euan to check. Unfortunately he couldn’t find Euan, so he called me back to a spot that seemed to be a vague crossroads. We tried in vain to call Euan’s mobile, giving up when it seemed to be turned off, and resorted to shouting his name. I was beginning to get rather annoyed.
    At this point we decided it was necessary to find Euan (not that we were worried, we just wanted the maps), so Robert left his pack with me and ran back to the pub; he thought Euan might have wandered back there, not that he was desperate for a drink. After a while I gave my long distance correspondent (Nat) a call to check which way to continue, sans map and compass. I managed to ascertain that I would need to cross the M62 at some point, followed by an A-road or two.
    Finally Robert got back to me, not literally, but by phone. He’d called the police and mountain rescue as Euan wasn’t at the pub. He said that since then Euan had somehow made contact and he would wait to talk to the police, going with them to meet Euan at junction 22 where he apparently was. Robert was not in a good mood, as he’d been ignored by the bar staff despite his bedraggled look (possibly because of his bedraggled look) and his insistence that he urgently needed help. I asked Robert what to do with his pack, and he told me to just leave it. Robert couldn’t hear the face I pulled over the phone, so I told him I doubted it would just be there when he got round to getting back to it. Right, said Robert, you better take it with you then. I suppose I’d asked for it, and this was the biggest challenge so far.
    I put Robert’s pack on my front and somehow managed to hoist my own pack on my back. It was an incredibly fragile maneuver, I nearly tipped over from the delicate balance required and struggled back to the cairn. It turned out I had been going the correct way previously, which was fortunately since now I could barely see over the 75 litre pack on my front and I was swaying dangerously from side to side, swearing loudly and thanking God that I still had the feel of the path in my memory.     
    I went beyond the cairn, treading carefully, using my feet to feel out the path below me. I struggled to a dirt path a mile down the track and crossed over towards some woods (I thought I could remember someone mentioning some woods at some point). After five minutes of this trail I noticed an old couple in a horse-drawn cart coming up the track towards me, a Dalmatian following behind. I said hello, then thought to check I was on the right track. Apparently I wasn’t, corrected the couple, chewing on some hay leisurely. I thanked them, and huffed and puffed my way back along the trail, secretly hoping they’d offer to take at least one of my 18 kilogram plus packs on their plush cart for maybe a few minutes. They didn’t, and as I got to the top of a ridge I started to hear the hum of the motorway. I walked on, past a small house and over a bridge, at which point Robert rang. I gave him a vague description of my whereabouts, precariously positioned over the M62, but the strain of the packs came through in my voice as I said, “there are a lot of cars below, aaaaaaaah…” and eventually my tone flatlined into a blood curdling scream, trailing off as I dropped my phone. I dumped the packs and picked up the phone, but Robert had obviously hung up on me.
    I reached the other side of the bridge and left the packs as I rang him back and started to jog in his general direction. He had just reached the track I had accidentally crossed, and soon we were reunited. As I called Nat for some directions (getting increasingly angry with Euan for having the map), Robert gets chatting to a guy driving into the farm this side of the motorway. He recommended to us that we walk through the field adjacent to the motorway, towards a TV tower where junction 22 was approximately situated.
    We set off, and I felt much lighter having returned Robert his pack. As we hike through the field, shimmying under electric fences and avoiding angry looking cows, I ask Robert what’s been going on, why isn’t he with the police? Apparently they never turned up, and so Robert decided to reunite with me after hearing of Euan’s movements from the man himself [for a full account of Euan’s adventures see the Appendices]. We powered up a steep and sketchy ridge to the TV tower and saw Euan across a road, lounging on a large boulder. My hands twitched to strangle him.
    We meet up with Euan, he gives me the map and I decide that murder might be a slight over reaction. Oh, exclaims Robert, I need to phone the Greater Manchester Police. He does, to tell them that we have been reunited with our friend, “the young Scottish male, with glasses, wild ginger hair and goatee,” they were apparently relieved.
    As we leave the car park to embark on a trail leading over the moors, Euan tells us that he’d found himself on the motorway, before being picked up by highway patrol and dropped at the car park at junction 22. He considerately adds that apparently we’re walking over the very spot where Ian Brady buried the moors murders victims in the 1960’s. I cock my eyebrow and restrain myself from adding to the body count under my feet.
    We walked on, up and down moorland trails that led around a reservoir and across another road. The moors go on for a while, starting with a dirt trail that develops into a comforting  path constructed out of large white slabs of stone. I have my suspicions that the elaborate walkway was being created to unearth a few secrets still hidden by the moors. Perhaps, since the path was incomplete, the builders had discovered something gruesome and had delved no deeper, fleeing in terror. Regardless, we pressed on unaware of any negativity for a while. The moor sprouted delicate, white flowers that dotted the landscape like elysian dandruff. In the distance a saddle shaped hill was rained on and slowly we marched on into the wilderness. The path petered out, and was replaced by ridges and ditches that we struggled along, looking for an A-road which was supposed to mark the final stage of the day’s walking.
    Eventually we reached it, but not before I met with a gigantic slug (the biggest I’ve seen in my life; Robert and Euan were not as impressed when they caught up with me). Euan’s enthusiasm was wavering like the sun light, and he felt he could not go on. Instead of holding us back, Euan vouched to stay behind and get a taxi to Crowden (little did we know that at this point we were situated on the border between two counties (West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester), leading to the cab company assuming Euan was a hoax call, until he described the sparse landmarks, a sign and a parking bay, which one driver in the office happened to recognise).
    At this point the storm clouds were gathering, and as we started on what we assumed to be the final stretch the heavens opened and spat hail on us without mercy. To make things worse we were traversing the worst terrain yet; bogs, marshes and grassland, somehow rolled into one inconvenient area. The boggy soil required substantial energy to walk over, and the small hillocks of grass (about a foot or two in diameter) were awkward to tread, often threatening to twist our ankles. There was no definitive foot path, and after about 500 meters the wooden posts marking the way abruptly stopped. Luckily the hail had stopped by this point.
    We scrambled over the land, meeting with deep furrows in the land where streams cut through the bog. We jumped, packs still on our backs, over these rifts, clinging to the other side to not slip down. My hands were covered in peat and mud, my nails crammed with dirt, but I didn’t care, we had to reach our goal. Now I think about it, I don’t know why we didn’t leave our huge packs with Euan to take in the taxi, but for whatever reason they were still with us. We eventually hit upon the Pennine way (our old enemy) and stopped to drink stream water (our bottles empty) and eat our final two cereal bars. This was a disastrous day, and at no point had we encountered a place to get lunch; we were starving.
    We followed the Pennine way down, hoping to see the faint glimmer of Crowden any moment, but instead the path begun to elevate. We continued along for quite some time until we noticed we’d reached a plateau. Down below, several hundred meters, was a river, and across from us we saw more hills. The valley described by the river was surprisingly wide considering that even a small deviation from the footpath would land us in the vale (after a painful descent of uncontrollable velocity and orientation).
    As the sun finally set completely the path began to descend sharply. We rounded some boulders, pressing ourselves tight against them lest we fell from the path. As the path dropped more boulders made themselves apparent on the path. The sudden and sharp decline was not good for Robert’s knees, which he stoically put up with.
    It didn’t get properly dark until we’d reached a level path leading through some trees. We breathed a sigh of relief; we were going through some farmer’s gates, an indicator of civilization at long last. Getting through the barriers we picked up on a small road leading to an A-road. We didn’t notice the pavement in the dark until a huge lorry lit it up for us, moments before it almost ran us over.
    We reached a dam and crossed over, turning right into a long avenue of trees. In the pale light of the stars we could just about make out that this used to be a railway, but now it had a sinister feel to it, as if anything could leap out at us from the shadows. Perhaps it was the hungry exhaustion that led me to hallucinate a ghostly train moving along the forgotten line in our direction, but no, it was just the B&B owner guiding is to safety with a torch. We hopped a dry stone wall clumsily and limped up a field to our final resting place (I thought it would be, but luckily I survived).
    As we were getting changed into non-sweat drenched clothes Euan busted into the room announcing he’d got the pizzas; hurrah for Euan! We sat, eating our 16” pizzas and guzzling coke, in our socks waiting for a well deserved sleep. I glanced at the clock on the wall, eleven forty-five; we managed it all in one day, and not a moment too soon, the walk of over thirty miles had really taken its toll.

    Woke up, packed, ate some yoghurt and left without saying farewell to the volunteers, which was a shame. As predicted we failed to see hide nor heel of the German girls. The social side of the walk varies with each day; sometimes it’s other travelers we gel with, sometimes locals, and in this instance it was lovely to get to know some of the volunteers that keep the hostel network on its feet.
    We took the Pendle way for a bit, and after some time got to a town we thought was a major hub of activity. My knee has been getting worse since I smashed it off a rock outside of Settle; today I was the slow one (at some points). We limped into Trawden, Robert and Euan spotted a biscuit factory and immediately walked through the door like bees attracted to honey, whilst I tried to lean casually against a bridge. They emerged ten minutes later, victoriously, with what would become our lunch; cookie off-cuts. We supplemented these with pies from the post office. This town was strange, and when I asked if there were any other shops nearby the woman in the post office said:
    “In Trawden? There are no other shops in Trawden.” I was waiting for her to tell me that the post office was a local shop for local people, but she just looked puzzled and slowly exhaled in my face. Perhaps this was a shrewd business tactic to maximise her profits, but as we continued through and out of town we saw no evidence that she’d lied to us.
    We mounted a steep hill and followed a lacrosse ball down the other side to a tea room, at which we stopped for a second lunch. We had to remove our boots on entry (entering the through the wrong door), and we sat with our socks exposed and stared at the paintings on the walls whilst cultivating stares from the clientele (the average age of which we lowered by over forty years on our appearance). Only one member of staff was on duty, but she must have alerted others to the presence of young, rugged types (ourselves, not the swarm of pensioners hoping to siphon off our virility for their own devious uses), as the chef emerged personally to present Euan with his soup.
    Soon we started off again and came to really intense hill (every other paragraph starts with a giant hill, possibly because, despite dispensing with the Pennine way, we’re still left with remnants of the Pennines). After taking this in our stride we paused to eat oranges at the end of a reservoir, thinking we’d made great progress. It started to rain, and I decided waterproofs would be inessential, but soon the down-poor was torrential and I was soaked.
    We made it to the target footpath, after trying to shelter from the blanket of rain under the dark branches of ancient tree that surrounded a church in the middle of nowhere. We trudged, our feet squelching, over hills and through bogs hoping to strike out in the right direction (our map was too wet to read). We were somehow lost again, and emerged in a stretch of houses, leading to a peculiar village that seemed to be designed and owned by dogs. The village had cobbled streets and miniature houses, with door frames a person of normal stature would almost have to crawl through. The only inhabitants we saw were canines craning to peer at us through the dim windows. It was built on a slope and as we gained momentum through the strange streets we suddenly found ourselves out the other side.
    We hobbled down the hill meeting a winding river which took us past abandoned mills and closed down hotels towards our turning. A nice couple asked us where we were off to, and we replied that Mankinholes YHA was our destination for today. Ah, said the guy, a nice hostel indeed. He told us that they have a good chocolate selection, and to ask the owner for his recommendation. However, after we parted ways and perceived the strong aroma of good quality cannabis we reconsidered his advice in a different light.
    The final few miles were up hill and we eventually made it, relishing the warm living room, massive kitchen and, most importantly, the drying room.

    I still remember how good that shower was, this morning in Settle. Had a very pleasant breakfast and talked to the other three guests over food; one claimed to be from Cambridge, but there must be a Cambridge in New Zealand, because he seemed to have a Kiwi accent. The other two were a couple from Brisbane. The husband wore a tank top and reminded me of William Shatner in appearance and demeanour.
    However, the peaceful harmony of our morning meal was shattered when Euan got over zealous with some coffee, and with what seemed like a mug’s worth in the cafetiere decided he could polish the lot off in one go. Even with the mug filled to the brim (I feared over-spill, but surface tension magically protected Euan’s dignity) there was still a dribble left. I watched with agonising restlessness as he added his customary mountain of sugar to a mug that had clearly reached capacity already. The first sip was terrifying, and Euan discovered the coffee was still too hot. The catastrophic spill came with his cooling blow; this destabilised the entire operation. His hands shook and a big tilt began. Fortunately his saucer collected a majority of the liquid, but the damage had already began; a stain had permeated the fine, perfectly white table cloth. My suggestion of soaking it up just led to a spreading of pale brown to the previously perfect napkin.
    We packed and left; the owners bidding us farewell with friendly banter. We found the relevant map in town and after consulting the world’s walking expert we coerced Euan into shelling out £150 for hiking boots. Perhaps he wasn’t an aficionado, but a very good salesman. Straight roads and shortcuts through fields; I banged my knee hard off a wall not a mile out of Settle.
    We sat on a chopping block and peered over the millimeters between paths on the map before us, before a farmer gave us directions through his land. In the UK one has the right to roam; time and again this is an invaluable right. Not only is this a great advantage for hikers, but not one farmer has begrudged us the right, rather they all cheerfully guide us onto the best routes. This might be because if they didn’t we might wander all over the place and into trouble (like a paddock containing a fierce bull), holding the farmer accountable.
    We followed his instructions over a bog, through a dark, echoey tunnel and up a steep bank. On our slipper ascent we passed by a melted sheep, the mother of some doomed lamb, bleating as it waited for advice from the angular ribs and stream of wool, the only discernible features left. Sadly it wouldn’t follow us away from its site of hope and gruesome vigil.
    We decided not to carry on with the shortcut; the ‘footpath’ had somehow emerged into the middle of a big field containing evidence of cows and we weren’t sure exactly how to progress. We reached the road and not sure of where the next section of the footpath began (other than possibly through a field densely populated by bovines) we followed the road along. It was a bit longer, round twisting country lanes and over fields, but eventually we reached a main road and after resisting the temptation of a local village’s book fair we rounded the brow of a hill and saw our destination in the distance. We crossed a field and were funneled down a skanky back-alley which emerged into Earby with a fanfare of fat turkeys. A brown bunny bopped about the road in front of us and a llama sat chewing air curiously. Obviously a local resident owned some sort of eclectic petting zoo.
    After a lengthy walk we discovered the hostel hidden away at a back corner of Earby; past a tempting looking pub and on a steep hill in a completely residential area. The couple running it are some friendly volunteers in their retirement. As we checked out the local Co-Op I began to feel feint, so I ventured back to the hostel where I sat refilling a mug with warm water and ginger beer. Euan and Robert visited the “alternative Co-Op;” my term for the bins. Apparently Robert didn’t realise skipping was illegal (bin raking, not the aerobically beneficial exercise); a testament to his ignorance as almost all the tales Euan tells of his skipping misadventures imply its dubious legal status. Besides, if it was legal everyone would be doing it; the food’s almost as good as new, and free besides.
    I felt quite sick before forcing some fried sweet peppers and noodles down my throat with a healthy dose of ginger beer. Feel fine now, I think, but this walk it taking its toll on me; I’m terrified of removing the layer of blister plasters that I’ve mummified my feet with, my hips sport worn, bruised and raw marks where the weight of my pack bears down on them and I’m nowhere near hungry enough to sustain this amount of walking.
    Apparently there are a couple of german girls staying at the hostel too, but I’m not hopeful to make more than just their acquaintance; we said, “hi,” and asked if they were checking in, but since then they’ve been reclusive. I miss the Kirkby-Stephen level of community and warmth. Instead, Robert and I sat with the volunteer couple in the living room area reading; a strange experience, us all sitting there, engrossed in our individual texts. The old couple are clearly avid readers, I’m enjoying “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” and Robert’s hiding behind a Penguin classic he unearthed in the corner. Robert is convinced the woman volunteer dislikes him, but Robert’s always paranoid about various things. We are briefly interrupted by Euan, who informs us that James might be coming back to join us somewhere in the peaks, around Greater Manchester. I hope he survives this time.