Day Three: The Tactical Retreat That Was Actually Quite Sensible
We woke up refreshed. This was unexpected and very welcome. The woods that had seemed
Day two of any multi-day walk is when the romance wears off and the realism moves in. Day one you're buoyant. The legs are good, the scenery is new, you've got a fry up in your belly and optimism in your heart. Day two you've got a heavy pack on a body that spent the night on the ground and a gentle but persistent voice in the back of your head asking whether you've perhaps misjudged the ambition of this whole endeavour. That voice got quite loud going up Glen Noe.
Glen Noe is beautiful. I want to be clear about that, because what I'm about to say might suggest otherwise. It's stunning. It's also a steep, relentless, pack-on-your-back grind that on a second day of walking has a way of making you confront your choices very directly.
We went slowly. Deliberately. The word "slowly" is doing some charitable work there, we were moving at the pace of two men who were both quietly recalibrating what they thought they were capable of and not particularly keen to discuss it.
No major injuries to report, which I'm choosing to frame as a win. Andy's left ankle, which had been making its opinions known the day before, had settled down to a sort of sullen compliance. My right ankle has developed a curious issue that only appears when I'm wearing boots, which is arguably the least useful time for an ankle issue to appear. I also have a blister incoming. We both know it's there. We're not talking about it yet. Feet maintenance tonight. Non-negotiable.
We pulled up to our intended camping spot and immediately established that no one could put up a tent there. Not in any practical sense. The ground had opinions about this and those opinions were no.
We found a spot in some trees eventually. It's a bit close, the tents are not quite at the distance from each other that two grown men who've been walking together all day would ideally prefer, but then the rain made the decision for us and suddenly close-together-in-the-trees was a perfectly fine arrangement and anyone who disagrees can go stand in the rain and think about what they've said.
I won't pretend morale is high. It isn't. We're tired, mildly broken, and camped somewhere that wasn't the plan. But here's the thing: Tyndrum is one more day away. Civilisation. A proper meal. A bed, possibly. And right now that's enough to make tomorrow feel like something worth pushing towards.
One more day. Andy's ankle is not fine. Mine is more suspicious. The blister is inevitable. Updates to follow.