After a night spent in Chesterfield, we headed off to the Peak District once more to attempt a climb to Bamford Edge. The drive was lovely and we found the trail head easily… well, with a few turn arounds.
We had a map and a GPS and were doing well until a fork in the road. I suggested we go left, Becky suggested we go right. We went right…and our trail ended. Off we go forging a trail through the heather. Heather is lovely when one sees it from the roadside…Purple patches along the moors. Reality. Reality. Heather is a small cedar-like bush that loves to make trail-forging difficult. I kept stopping and thinking to myself, “Is this the right way?” In my pondering, Becky would disappear over the hillside. I could just picture it….Melissa lost in the moorside of central England….just me, the sheep and the hound of the Baskervilles – a devil hound. Away I would tromp searching for Becky and the GPS. Finally I located her – not at Bamford Edge but at another…not where I wanted to be. By this time, it was time to return to our car not having met our goal…wah!
Did I mention the marsh? We did tromp through a small patch of marsh on the way to our false destination. On the way back, Becky suggested taking a short-cut and head for the car in a straight line. The straight-line made through more than a small patch of marsh. Having grown up in a marshy area, I told Becky that would not be such a good idea. She heeded my advice and we decided to cross where the marsh became just a small stream…at the bottom of a very steep hill. Gravity does not always work in my favor so down on my rear end I went (on purpose, mind you) and a-sliding I did go.
There I was at the stream two feet wide with fear striking me. Don’t ask me why I was frightened to cross that stream. It’s just a phobia. But I did it…only because I didn’t want to make friends with the hound.
I don’t have to tell you we made it out of the English moors…after all, I’m writing this aren’t I? or am I? Perhaps I’m the hound…or the rabid sheep….mwa-ha-ha.