There is a picture in my copy of Wainwright, drawn in what appears to be blood.
It is below the "Exchelsior : Departure from Edale" picture. It depicts a cagoule
clad walker with an enormous rucksack, up to his waist in slurping peat bog
examining a book (Wainwright) with a puzzled expression. There is an arrow
behind that points off to one side. The caption is simple. "The Owner of this book
Wayfinding in White moss Page 151 ........ Its that way folks!"
And so it was!
There is nothing white about white moss. All the pain of Kinder watershed
repeated and multiplied ... oh and washed in a sort of unsavoury gravy. We
struggle and slip and swear.
There is, I'm sure, a cosmic accountant (to go with the cosmic censor) Whenever
someone does something dumb or is lucky, the cosmic accountant is there to equal
it all up.....
I look back, and notice with a slight start that Mark, over to once side appears to
be smugly walking on water. "Is there anything you feel you should be telling us
right now" I snarl, not best pleased at his apparent dryness. "Ah!" he grins "I
found this bit of..." but we never knew what. Just then his foot slipped on a soggy
slope on the peat and the rest was lost from view as he slid arse first into the
deepest part of the bog. Equilibrium restored.