Trails and trials of the writer who walks
6.20 pm. At last a quiet pitch on a lonely moor, Ickornshaw Moor actually. For once, I’ve beaten dusk and am now sitting in my tent pretending my legs aren’t itching all over from 17 midge bites (each) – more than I achieved in Scotland in May. I suppose I was asking for it by continuing to wear shorts, with the idea that I could keep the zip-off bottoms clean for going into pubs.
This trail should have been named the Moorland Way. It’s just moors, and more moors.