I didn't die. I had a great adventure!
Saturday night I stayed near an idyllic village called Ravenstonedale, figuring I would make my way to Dufton early morning and walk up to Cross Fell, braving my (lighter) pack again and wild camping in one of the remotest spots in England.
I made friends that night in Ravenstonedale - meeting strangers in a pub that become people in your life is a pleasure that has been long since the taking. I had forgotten how to talk to strangers, that sometimes it feels effortless. I was feeling buoyant as I drove the slow roads to Dufton, tracks shared with sheep that sometimes don't care to budge.
The public carpark in Dufton was free and full of birdsong, with a view of the hills I was about to ascend. I assessed everything that went into the pack, opting for just the rain jacket and not the puffy, because it was such a nice day. Hmm.
Not a mile out of town, showers started. I was beneath huge trees on a dirt track, whose exposed roots were covered in moss. I got the rain cover over my pack and donned my jacket. A mile later, the sun produced the only liquid to run under my shirt: sweat.
The way up to The Heights was beautiful. Through cow-filled fields (today they decided not to follow me) and then sheep filled meadows (they occupied the bridge I needed to cross), the earth and the sky were at their finest. (The path, as ever, strewn with faeces). I stopped for lunch at a view point between two cairns - a majestic seat, of sorts, a mini Amon Hen. I could see field upon field of farmland across the flat, and then the hills surrounding the Lake District to the west.
And I could see a sumptuous dark ribbon of cloud, saturated with water. It was moving in my direction, so I jacketed up again and got underway. The shower reached me and passed in fifteen minutes, the sun drying me out in another fifteen. My path followed a beck for some time, a beautiful clear spring called Knock Hush. Water in abundance for my descent the next day, I thought. The path was a discreet one - indiscernible from afar, but visible a few steps ahead.
Waymarkers on this part of the trail are stones with golden debossed arrows pointing the direction. There are warnings everywhere: sink holes and disused mines, ground nesting birds - please stick to the path (don't follow the lights). One sign, describing this natural park as one in which the effects of climate change are monitored, emphasised that at this altitude, the weather can change quickly.
At one of the arrow stones, I paused to take off my jacket, now being cooked inside the plastic. I bent over to make sure my pack was sitting right, and as I moved upright, a rush by my head. Maybe fifty black birds moved as one over the moor, dipping and gliding over the contours, moving as light over rippling satin. For that brief moment, I'd been in their slipstream. I could do nothing but watch, mouth agape, eyes filled, heart soaring with them.
I stopped again at a summit, with a well shaped but leaning cairn. Hearing thunder I turned west, seeing a solid front of weather covering most of what was visible to the south and west; dark grey at the edge and then a solid blanket for the sun thereafter. I wondered what it was like 'under' that weather. It was moving fast, as if commanded by Saruman to get its ass on over to Caradhras.
I turned to the weather station on Great Dun Fell, a gleaming white orb like that I'd seen on Dingli cliffs the last time I got soaked to my knickers. The wayfinding got harder - marshy across the top, walkers had clearly spread out over time to pick a path. I went carefully, determined to avoid wet feet. As I moved, I noticed clouds moving alongside me, and in a moment, they had engulfed the weather station. I turned on the spot to see smaller wisps of whiter cloud racing toward me and braced myself to feel them as they came upon me. I felt nothing, but looking up I couldn't see anything. I was alone, in a marsh, on the moor top.
And then, the rain really came. My shoes were puddles within minutes, my trousers clung wetly to my legs. I was stock still, not wanting to stray from the path. I got out my compass, felt sheepish for thinking earlier that I could have left the map holder behind. North was erratic. I started turning in circles to get a handle, but the compass was not the solid signal that I needed. I weighed up the risk of trying to navigate the next few miles to dry ground where I might camp. I realised the ground would not, anyway, be dry. And I thought of the various warnings for this part of the trail and just how hard it was to stay on a path that couldn't be found. I decided to turn back.
The mist rose for a second, no weather station, but the faint outline of a cairn. I made for it, and then when I arrived, I checked myself. I did not remember this cairn. I waited. I soaked. The rain showed no sign of abating. Another uplift of the mist and I could see the unmistakable shape of the cairn that I'd stopped at. Relief washed over me as I headed that way.
It was a long and wet walk back, but where the path had been shy in the relative dry, the compacted ground held water on the surface and became a beacon, lighting the way home. If my feet weren't already sodden, the water-logged path may have been a mixed blessing. As it was, I could only sing its praises.
Now I sit in a hobbit hut, wet clothes still drying off, waiting out the worst of the rain for another Tolkeinesque adventure. As Samwise says, the heros in the stories have plenty of chances for turning back, only they didn't. I'm not your hero today, but I remain, your un-sinkholed correspondent.