A small, occasional journal about walking long distances slowly — the terrain, the weather, the food, and the people met along the way.
The forecast promised rain by noon and delivered fog instead — thick enough that the ridge line disappeared twenty metres out. By the time the trail dropped back below the cloud the valley was doing that thing where every field looks freshly rinsed.
Blister care, mostly. Also: the village bakery opens at six and sells out of the good bread by eight, a fact worth remembering for anyone passing through with a slow start.
Last year's bridge is gone — washed out over the winter, by the look of the bank. The ford further upstream still holds, ankle-deep and cold enough to be a decent reason to stop for lunch on the far side.