This morning was the second day of The Dales Way walk. Yesterday’s walk from Ilkely to Burnsall had been a magnificent journey of 21 kilometres. But this day started off differently…

The pain started almost immediately after we set out. It was the familiar tight tendon that sometimes flares up below my right knee, making it feel like my knee will still bend, but only under screaming protest. Unfortunately, the act of walking entails quite a bit of bending.

I taped it, hit it with some big iburprofen and kept moving. I thought if I focused on the undulating hills that surrounded us, the meadows that glowed like emerald pieces of stained glass, the baa-ing sheep, the endless rock wall fences and the wild winds,  that perhaps I would be able to carry on.

I was mad at my body. Mad too, that I never know when this silly thing will flare up and never quite sure how far to push it.

At lunch, we hunkered down in a wild and wet windstorm, draping ourselves in ponchos and plastic in the hopes of getting a dry bite or two of our pork pies. In between bites we laughed at the ridiculousness of the wind and the rain that squalled and pelted us with sideway lashings of bits of hail. The weather changed by the minute, from downpours to low gold light that repeatedly transformed the meadows from squall-covered darkness into glowing greens while teasing us with fat rainbows and the intense purple of the far-off heather hilltops.

It was the descent that finished me off. It’s always heading down that kills me when my knee gets like this. So. I hummed. I tried swinging the right leg wide to reduce the bending, I ate more ibuprofen. I hummed some more. I tried ignoring the burning, then I tried focusing directly on it. Neither was successful. The pain was still rather intense.

And truthfully? I started to feel a wee bit sorry for myself.

When we finally got into the little village of Kettlewell around 3-ish, I knew I was done for the day.  Kevin, Yvonne and Bruce were game to carry on for the last four miles of the trail to Buckston.

I was going to be the wanker that had to call it quits. I do not like being the one who has to quit. I do not like it one little bit, said Sam I Am.

I checked the bus schedule…next bus was 2 1/2 hours away. I went into the Blue Bell Inn pub and asked them to call me a taxi. She dialed and passed me the phone. I listened to the recording. It was obviously from the night before and a bit mumbled, but the upshot was that he was fully booked for the night and would resume taxi service on Monday.

Today was Sunday.

Right.

I went back out to talk it over with the three of them. A man overheard us, stopped and asked where I wanted to go. “The Buck Inn in Buckden,” said I.

“Well,” he said, “it’s only 2 1/2 miles by road from here. Why don’t I just drive you then?”

Well why not indeed?

My new friend told me to wait while he brought the car around. We had to drive around in various circles just to come back to the pub and start our way out of town. Nothing is straight ahead when the roads are the size of chariot tracks. Turns out he was the owner of the Blue Bell Inn pub. Turns out too, that he has been a publican from the age of 12 and he’s now 68.

He told me stories; of the lady who was found dead in the field, the nervous breakdown of the man that just passed us (“he’s through the worst of it now…bless him.”), and how the police always come to the pub first whenever they want to know anything about anyone at all.

He dodged the cars around every skinny corner, backed up with verve when we met the motorhome, waved to the bus driver (“Good ol’ George!”) who squished into the hedge to let us by, and then delivered me directly to The Buck Inn.

I no longer felt sorry for myself. I’d had a wonderful adventure and was waiting for my husband and friends when they finally arrived.  I am otherwise healthy, blessed and if this is my biggest complaint about life today? Well…seriously.

Tomorrow’s another day. Here’s hoping the leg co-operates.

If not?

Maybe another stranger will be willing to give me a ride…