It was an excercise if futility.
I packed up and ran for hills as the sky was clearing. I’ll get a night at 400m and just blow the dust of some of the colder weather kit.
But clambering haphazardly towards the Lang Craigs with my vision rearwards towards the setting sun was bound to have some sort of consequence.
As I pulled myself out of the burn, not only were my Hi-Tec’s full of water (Aye, they’re waterproof. Once it’s in there it doesn’t come out) and my trousers soaked to mid thigh, but my bubble of enthusiasm had landed on the bathwater of chance and was popped by the passing yellow plastic duck of misfortune.
I squelched home. Camping with wet gear is fine, but only three miles from home? Bugger that.
I paid for my weakness and lack of resolve. Last night there was a clear sky and bright moon, the fog crept down the Clyde and over the land giving it a thin, low covering of mist. A ship being guided up-river sounded its mournful fog horn and I could here its engines before I saw its lights glide pass me slowly as if on a cushion of air.
I’ve been thinking about how that must looked from the hills above me all day. Watching the sun rise and burn it away slowly, revealing the pleasantly silent wonders of early morning West Dunbartonshire below.
However, today Minardi won the Italian GP (sort of…) and on the telly right now is Where Eagles Dare. I’ve got a fresh cuppa and Jammie Dodgers.
I’ll call it a draw.