And then there was one...

It all starts out well enough, though Mick is choosing not to walk today, as his knee is still tender from the wrench it got in the mud hole yesterday. First the drive over the top of the moor to Grinton, where we're staying for the next few days. It's an imposing place, all castellated ramparts and sweeping views of Reeth and Swale's dale.

We drive to Keld where Pad and I are starting our walk. I'm clearly the relay baton – Mick yesterday, Pad today. There's a mizzle in the air so it's on with the waterproof troos and cagoules. We set off down a slippery stone path and stop when we spy wild raspberries. 'How lovely to start the walk with the taste of raspberries in the mouth,' says Pad.

We have a track to follow past waterfalls and an old lead mining valley...
...before we reach the promised land of grassy carpet meadows along the banks of the river Swale. We're talking about how we seem to have dropped into a parallel universe of walkers, rucksacks and weather. Pad says, 'I have largely forgotten about the world outside because this world is so completely filling my mind. There's a poem by Gerald Manley Hopkins about the glory of God in nature that expresses it perfectly. The thing about the pain in my legs is that the pain ends if I stop, but the beauty of nature is always there, even through rain-spattered spectacles.' The perfect moment for a sit down on a handy style and a Kit-Kat.

We amble on, slightly perturbed by the number of dead rabbits on the trail – dead bunny bingo, anyone? The Swale, by this point, is chocolate brown from the abundance of peat in the soil, probably.
Something else that occupies us in wondering how they came about is the ever-narrowing styles. You'd have to be seven foot with legs like spindles to get through them with ease.

We get to the halfway point, Gunnerside, and takeaway cup of tea in hand, Pad decides he is 'footsore and weary and can go no further' (famous Marjorie Langmuir quote from a Tibetan phrase book). 

Fortunately I manage to get hold of Mick who says he'll be there in 45 minutes. I go on alone and almost immediately the path goes straight up the hill behind Gunnerside (or Suicide, as Pad re-names it), to the top of the moor. He'd hate it. I'm sorry he's missing such an atmospheric route, past ghost villages, across windswept moors and along hilltop roads, with views down to Swaledale, chequered with fields coloured neon green and zingy lime.

Mick picks me up in Reeth. He has spent his rest day in Richmond and bought a waistcoat almost identical to Pad's. They're now the Siblings on Safari, pictured here in their country seat.

We sang in Reeth with the choir in 2006, in the Wesleyan chapel on the green, a brilliantly eventful weekend away that culminated in a sing-song in one of the village pubs where we were plied with bread and cheese by an appreciative landlord. I'm revisiting Reeth tonight for dinner and wifi, our evening ritual since I decided to do the blog. I'm not faring so well on the veggie front, here up north, but Mick and Pad have eaten like lords, particularly Pad tonight, who is served this stately Cumberland sausage. He finishes it all.