Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

After breakfast on the third day, we gather around the metal tables and chairs outside of the hotel. Seven middle-aged walkers, one fit leader, and me. No one is sitting down. The chairs are spotted with raindrops from an early shower. My shorts and tee-shirt are still damp from yesterday’s twelve wet miles, but it’s my feet and shoes that bother me more. Natasha, our leader, makes the route sound interesting. She warns of lung-busting ascents, sharp rocks, and sections where there is no clear path. She tells us we will cope with the extra distance; we are a good group. Good in what way exactly? “It’s a harder walk today, Level Four. Make sure you have plenty of water. It will get hot. I mean hot. There will be no willages until the end. We won’t see single person, unless hunting or collecting honey. The locals don’t walk unless car is broken.” “Hunting? Not with guns?” One of the vegetarians, Diana I think. “Shotguns, yes.” “How horrible. What do they kill?” “Anything. Wi...