“Try not to lose your lens cap
in a pasture full of sheep.”
Sheep
turds take the form of small, bumpy, black discs that are easy to mistake for
lens caps. The search for a camera cover turns into a bending, groping,
blindfolded "Where's Waldo?" that can run an hour or more with no
success, leaving your eyes burning and your fingers sticky for days. Like lens
caps, the discs are also easy to step on.
But
if it does happen, look at the bright side. You're burning up a few calories
and helping to work off the effects of the small, dark bumpy bits that you ate
at breakfast or in the pub the night before. This ironic blend of food and foot
paths defines British walking holidays.
The
walk through ancient villages and rolling countryside in this part of England
soothes the spirit, and we would do it again. But it was a week long struggle,
not so much with the hills, wind, drizzle and mud, but with that pervasive air
of British contradiction. English foot paths like this one take walkers through
long stretches of fresh air and exercise pocked by the dietary dead ends of
beer, pub food, and calorie laden English breakfasts.
As
you will have read, each morning we ingested piles of sausages, bacon, beans,
fried tomatoes, eggs, and toast, unsure of when we’d eat again; during the day,
we picnicked on Cadbury products; each night, we succumbed to the exquisiteness
of cold drinks and warm comfort foods at end of a day in the countryside. Even
though we walked for up to six hours each day, across fields, up hills and
against wind and rain, we knew that miles were not the only thing we were
putting under our belts.
An
English walking holiday probably would not merit its name if you tried to
sustain yourself with watercress and celery sticks throughout, and I now see
the times we retraced our steps or found a pub closed as blessings because they
offset bad diet decisions.
Still,
my strained eyes and soiled fingers would advocate for holding on tight to the
lens cap. Thanks
for sharing our experience.
