English pursuits

[ladyofastolat]

Miles away from anywhere, we sit on top of a hill with our backs against an 18th century monument in a vain attempt to get shelter from the howling gale. Thick fog billows in from the sea, hiding any semblance of a view. Hands are freezing. Boots are caked with mud, and mud is thickly splashed all the way up to our knees, and higher. Valiantly we eat ham sandwiches from a plastic bag, and drink tea from a flask. "What a nice walk!" Pellinor says, with no irony whatsover. I agree.

Yes, it has finally happened. We have turned into our parents.