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.

    Actually got up for breakfast. Ravenstor is like a hotel; pop in your orders and some poor volunteer has to deliver your food, as requested, to your table. We sat with our feet up trying not to stare at parents trying to cope with unruly toddlers. Played the Wii for the first time ever today, simply because they have one here. It’s situated in a cushy games room, in the basement. They also have vending machines down here, so I sat eating chocolate as Robert got beaten at every game by a nine-year old named Terry (who was very fast at mental arithmetic). There was also a giant Jenga set in the basement, which was far too tempting to balance. Sadly it collapsed on me, teaching me a valuable lesson: giant Jenga is only for giants. I now have a cut on my forehead and a sizable lump by my temple; I had only been bending over to pick up more blocks when I turned around I got an unexpected face full of pain.
    Had a decent casserole for dinner. The girl from reception is apparently an acting waitress too; I hope she gets paid for her work (she even offered to wash some of our clothes). Most people at this hostel are really easy going and interactive. We met a girl named Xena and played pictionary with a mental health nurse from Northampton.
    My knee is exceedingly swollen. It’s been getting steadily worse since Settle, and now it feels rusty as if something inside is grinding with every flex.
    The four of us had a chat about the pace we should go at as a group. This resulted in the inevitable schism, which is sad since James and Euan are good company; however, necessary since Robert and I go at a more intense pace. We didn’t leave the hostel today, but rather enjoyed its large living rooms and the chance to rest up. It feels more like we’re making progress south now, the hostel visitors have fewer northern accents.