I'm not sure what time I got up, it was light and it was early. Allan was in a makeshift bivvy; no sleeping bag and only a plastic sheet for protection; I am not sure what to make of him and his approach to this walk; whether he is ill prepared or it is force of circustance is hard to tell from our conversations. We packed our things and left on an undulating path that took us past the Tarn, which was crowded with tents. Some of these people were no doubt those that had walked past our bivvy site at intervals throughout the night.
It takes a little while to get going in the mornings; the legs seem fine but the pinching of the toes and the smarting of the blister disrupt your walking significantly until you get into a rhythm, after which the sharp pain becomes a more acceptable dull throb and things get easier. However, every time you stop you have to go through the same painful process again, working through the initial stinging of the blister to the dulled pain that a few steps of walking induces.
In this manner I limped along the trail. It promised to be a clear, hot day again although at first we were protected from the heat by the lie of the land. As we headed east though, over some marshy terrain and towards the climb towards Kidsty Pike - the highest point on the walk - we were once again in the sun's full glare. A long way below the full length of Hawswater stretched out before us gleaming in the sunlight and it was to its shore that we now needed to descend. Firstly though, we took a rest at the peak; it was once again proving to be a slow and tiring day.
After our break at the Pike we descended the 2600 feet to the shore of Haweswater, a steep and bone jarring descent that proved tough on suffering feet. It was slow work and we felt we deserved our rest by - and drink from - the ice cold waterfall just off the path at the bottom. It was then time to move on, this time along the shoreline of Haweswater itself, another long and seemingly never ending slog for quite a few miles along a path that was not as flat as a walk along a shoreline should have been. It was slow work with tired and aching feet, worse than I would have expected. Allan was still with me and suffering too, but keeping with him was never the sole reason for my lack of speed. The strange thing was that I felt fine physically yet everything seemed to take forever. I can’t help but think that the heat and the lack of decent sleep and food for two successive nights was affecting me in some way; if not manifesting itself physically, then maybe affecting my mental stamina and ability to push myself as hard as usual.
After having made very slow progress along the lakeside we pressed on through woods and fields along a river bank to Shap Abbey. It was beautiful countryside in beautiful weather, but at the time it was largely lost on me as I internalised my thoughts and weariness; there is a mental aspect to coping when tired and maybe, here and now, I have just lost my ability to exploit that skill.
I had sorted a room at a lodge on the edge of Shap (not that Shap is very big), and I would be alone this evening as Allan had been picked up by his wife just a mile outside the village. I looked forward to solitude, a nice room and cozy bed. This and the promise of a cooked dinner kept me going as I limped into the town. The place is so small that at first I wondered what I might find there but the lodge was comfortable and they provided dinner so I did not have to go out. I met a couple of other people doing the walk. Having laboured here with my pack it was noteworthy - to me at least - that all of them were making use of the transit service that supports most people, taking all but what they need for the day from one stop to the next; from a brief conversation I had with a man on the second day as I ascended to High Stile, only two percent of people are self-sufficient, carrying all they need for the trip themselves.
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