the waterlogged tussock grass and the razor-wire heather while I stumbled and swore along in their wake.Thankfully, they stopped at the summit of each tor for a photo call. Which gave me just enough time to catch up before they went bounding off like hyperactive
.And then it suddenly dawned on me that next Sunday would be the first for 20 years when I wouldn’t tread the well-worn path past the blackened remains of the stolen moped; wouldn’t trip lightly across the little wooden bridge over the stinking ribbon of slime
