We trudge along the ridge away from our camp, trying not to think about the
weather. in return it doesn't think about us either. In fact the wind refuses to go round
and tries to go through
After about a mile the Way turns off to the North east and we squelch across the
peaty moor to the A640. The wind is blowing the rain into my cuffs. I shiver a bit
and seek shelter further in my Grotex.
As we stump up Rapes hill, the weather begins to clear a bit and some chatter
begins... Although not that much.
up white hill and the ground gets a bit better
From the top we can see some radio masts - Bleakedgate Moor WT station. we
head for it at high speed.
Even Clive is subdued today and his usual cloud of dust/mud/spray/wizardy is
dispelled. Talk is mostly quiet and is usually involved with direction finding. Dunc
looks distinctly cheesed off and we keep hearing curses regarding the weather and
the going underfoot. Mind you he is the only one really dry - he is equipped to the
nines with high quality gear. I wander over and attempt to chat about stuff - nothing
We go over white hill and arrive at the radio station.
From a large trench in front of us a rumbling roar emitts! What could it be?
Dragons? High water?
No! All wrong! its the M62 which is a thunderous mass of cars and an unwelcome
reminder of the 20th century.