We walk in silence for ten minutes. There’s not a single signpost. I stop to survey the area and realise that Lydia is lagging some way behind. I’ve been so lost in thought I’d not been aware of the growing distance between us.
I wait for her and, when she catches up, she’s red-faced and panting, tugging at the straps of her rucksack as if it’s uncomfortable. I ought to apologise for setting the pace at my speed, but I’m irritated with her. Why didn’t she have the sense to pack light?
‘You okay?’ I ask and I can’t help the clipped tone, which doesn’t invite an honest answer. I already know she’s struggling. Although fair play to her, she doesn’t complain or give me any grief.
‘Fine,’ she says and keeps on walking past me, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other. I fall in behind her, letting her walk at her own pace. Part of me admires her silent determination but another part of me wonders how much she’s going to hold me up. Potentially there’s a lot of walking ahead of us. Now we’re far enough away from Mannerdale Hall, we can head to the nearest motorway and then hitch a lift to London. I suspect we’ve done the hardest part of the challenge, getting out of range of the hunters. Tonight we’ll have to sleep rough and who knows how far we’re going to have to walk to reach a major highway. Our combined cash won’t pay for accommodation, although it will pay for a hot meal and a cup of coffee. I could murder a flat white. Now my ten quid a day coffee habit seems a ridiculous extravagance.
It’s a huge relief when we spot an old-fashioned cast-iron white signpost with black lettering at a junction with a much smaller road leading off to the left.
Skelwith Bridge 4 miles.
I weigh up our options. The road is barely a track and four miles is not too far. If we stay on this road we’ve more chance of seeing a bus or hitching a lift, not that we’ve seen much traffic so far, but we have no idea where the next settlement might be. Going on the smaller road will mean just over an hour’s walk ahead of us. If I was on my own, it would probably take three quarters of an hour.
‘Ever heard of Skelwith Bridge?’ Lydia interrupts my thoughts as if I’m some geographic guru. ‘Do you know where it is in the country?’
‘No but we can ask someone when we get there.’ And that makes my mind up. Better to go for the finite distance than keep walking endlessly without any clear indication of what’s ahead. Lydia follows me, which I’m glad about because I don’t want to have to discuss my reasoning.
We set off in silence but after less than half an hour she’s lagging behind again. I stop and wait for her. At this rate it will be dark before we reach the village.
‘You’re going to have to dump some stuff,’ I say. ‘Your rucksack weighs too much. We want to get there before dark.’ It’s early September and already the nights are starting to close in.
‘It’s fine,’ she replies, a tight line of mutiny forming on her lips.
‘You’re slowing us down.’
She lifts her chin and looks straight at me. ‘Tough,’ she says.
I stare. She’s been so compliant since we left the layby that I’d got used to it.
She does that shrug that I’m rapidly realising is her equivalent of saying ‘go fuck yourself’. ‘You can go on ahead and wait for me in the village but I’m not taking anything out of my rucksack.’
‘You’re just being stubborn now.’
‘No, I’m not.’ She sounds so reasonable. ‘I’m compromising.’
‘How do you figure that?’ I rasp in frustration.
‘I’m not insisting you walk at my pace, am I?’
I huff out a long sigh. I can’t dispute her logic and I’m kind of impressed by her cool dismissal of the argument. Her refusal to engage is admirable. My dad could take a few lessons.
Forty minutes later, we finally trudge, together, into Skelwith Bridge, passing the village sign.
‘Looks very pretty,’ Lydia observes but I’m distracted and all I can manage is ‘mmm’.
Something isn’t right. The village is picture perfect, with stone-built houses with dark slate roofs and weathered porches, but something is niggling at the back of my brain. I can’t put my finger on what is worrying me. Maybe I’m feeling a touch of paranoia.
There’s a café across the road called Chester’s Bread and Take Away. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that we haven’t eaten since our bacon butty. A man and his dog are coming towards us. Shit. There’s no way of avoiding him. I look at his face trying to assess whether he’s friend or foe. Even Lydia, next to me, has stiffened. The elderly golden Labrador immediately approaches us and starts sniffing my hand. I relax a little. The man’s expression is benign and the Lab doesn’t strike me as much of a tracker dog.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if you can help—’
‘You looking for the Force, it’s that way.’ The man’s smile is friendly and his immediate assumption gives me the impression that, one, he’s safe and, two, he’s given directions more times than he can count.
‘The Force?’
‘The waterfall, Skelwith Force.’
‘Er, no. We were wondering what county we were in.’
The man takes off his hat and pleats the tweed between his fingers for a moment. ‘Cumbria, lad.’
‘Cumbria.’ I flash a quick wary look at Lydia. Those niggles are starting to make sense now. The scenery hasn’t changed that much. The landscape is the same.
‘Aye.’
‘And what’s the nearest town?’ I hardly dare ask.
‘Are you lost?’
‘Yes,’ I say, impatient for his answer.
‘We’re about three miles from Ambleside, seven to Windermere and about fifteen to Kendal.’ He’s a mine of useful information and without pausing for breath, he adds, ‘If you want to you can get the bus, the 516 – be here soon – goes to Kendal via Ambleside and Windermere.’
‘We’re in the Lake District?’ I ask as my spirits drop to the soles of my shoes. Seriously?
‘What, were you beamed in by aliens?’ asks the man, scratching his head. ‘You youngsters.’
‘We hitched a lift,’ Lydia says helpfully as if she’s aware that I’ve seized into one massive ball of tension.
