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BB2539 : A Tale Told By An Idiot
Thursday
6th November 2025
I told the boys of a rather unkind thing that I
heard said recently about my meagre efforts at entertaining those who read these
epistles. “A tale told by an idiot.” That
could well be true
but “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing” was a tad over the top, I felt. However I let it pass and we got on with today's
purpose.
It wasn’t the brightest of days but at least it wasn’t raining,
unlike many recently. In Cumbria, rivers
have burst their banks and the Lyth Valley is flooded, though that is nothing
new.
We wanted somewhere that wouldn’t be too boggy so Martin
suggested Whitbarrow Scar, which he knows from tip to toe. A linear walk from the north was the plan.
It’s limestone country so, unlike in the valley, the water
had mostly drained away although limestone, when still wet, is remarkably slippery
for something with such a seemingly rough surface.
Our intention was to reach the Derby Arms in time for
lunch. It had been originally postulated
as being at 1 p.m. but I always thought that somewhat ambitious. As we
progressed over Township Allotment, we kept losing people. Or sometimes gaining people. The reason being that most of the folk on the
hill were local and one or more of us either knew them or had much in common with
them. Unexpected conversations led to our
ETA slipping by an hour.
Following a coffee stop at Lord’s Seat......
....
our ETA slipped even
further and we WhatsApped anyone who wanted to meet us that 2:30 would be
nearer the mark.
We swithered about which way to come off Farrer’s
Allotment. Should we go down to Raven’s
Lodge then back up the remarkable limestone slab? Or should we drop down through the wood to emerge
near the top of the slab. Given the conditions,
we feared that the slab might be a greasy challenge so we chose the slightly
perilous latter though at the bottom we did have a little detour to see if it
had been the right decision. It probably
was.
Soon,
as evidence of all the recent rain, was
an improbable sign directing would-be skinny-dippers
to a flooded field.
After a mile of minor roads,
passing several interestingly gentrified, old and
new properties, we reached the pub which I don’t think I would call gentrified. Shabby chic, perhaps.
There was nothing shabby or gentrified about the fish finger
butties. Hearty fare in monstrous buns.
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Mike B had joined us and I told him of the cruel words that had
reached my ears.
“Don,” he
explained, “They are not cruel at all. It's
from Macbeth. Read the chalk board on the wall
over there. They are likening your prose to Shakespeare.”
Wow! What an
accolade, I thought. Then
I realised. It had all
been a Mid-Autumn Night's Dream.
Nevermind. As the Bard said:
“All’s
well that ends well.”
Don, Thursday 6th November 2025
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