Eventually, we reach solid(ish) ground.
We looked for all the world as if we had been attacked by a madman wielding a
gravy boat and mud pies. I glance at J and howl with laughter. He is daubing peat
stripes on the only remaining clean bits - his cheeks. I do the same. Between the
day-glo grotex kit and the excessive peat deposits we look like some kind of
plastic festishist amerindians with a grime issue. We can hardly breathe for
laughing. Mark, however, is not at all amused and says so.
"Right I've dropped the mud into his hat"
"If you two infants have finished daubing each other with mud we might get on"
He goes and stands in a "here's me nose me arse is following" stance. We look at
one-another and shrug.
As we take stock of path and direction I can see the source of Mark's anxiety.
During these few moments of light release, the weather is closing in noticeably.
Black clouds are gathering on the horizon.
There is very little written in my notes about the next bit, and memory does not fill
in many details, which is strange - I have walked this route at least twice. However
J assures me that from the exit of the mosses to Standage was simple. Good job