Shall we? Shan’t we?
Rain pouring down like a leaking Derbyshire dam: surely over by the 7.45pm start time?
Think again, dear reader. Better still, consult the deformed nail on the big toe of my right foot. If it’s giving me gyp at the start time, come walk with me if you want to stay dry. Rachel, I did offer – you have only yourself to blame for missing out on reducing that million steps target (running steps don’t count).
With Rose, Elaine and Dave unable to match my searing 2kms per hour pace, I headed down Lock Road towards the river, past the house of a student I’d had the pleasure of tutoring for three months. From here, the trail’s return leg hove into view.
A delightful riverside stroll, punctuated by groups of non-hashers, unaware that they were on trail. Clear skies, fishermen who appeared to have caught nothing but the point of their conversation, gin-sipping boat owners ignoring the yard arm, and house owners glued to their tv with backs turned to their fabulous riverside view.
Much tempted to visit the lakes beyond the road bridge, but that toe was really yelling by now and I walked instead along a private gated road, musing about the number of times our cottage (+ workshop and roofed car port) would fit into the utility room of any one of these private gated houses.
A Spring like drizzle, gentle enough to allow me to find the vestiges of the Marlow Donkey’s former station platform, saw me back at that eponymously named pub, not two minutes before the heavens opened – with a vengeance: not a dry t-shirt (except for the walkers’) in the house.
Dripping dogs, sodden Shorts (and shorts) and Longs formed a delta at the bar from where the speedy delivery of crispy, chunky chips – no, potato slices – soothed many a humid Harrier and Harriette.
In a highly posed selfie, Papuan Maski reminded us of what a balmy riverside evening should look like.