It was a hot day and I went along what is known as the Granite Way, thinking it would be more sheltered than the open moors. It probably was, but still a slight misjudgement as it’s a pukka cycle path, so the surface was glaring when the sun was very hot. Still, a very nice walk. I had lunch overlooking a Victorian viaduct, a huge construction of steel over a tree filled valley in a tiny viewing spot my airbnb host recommended and which none of those who passed, on foot or wheels, seemed to realise was there. I went off the path a few time not very successfully. One stop was at at Emmett’s Folly, advertised as a viewpoint, and there were benches there but no view that I could see. Maybe that was the folly, or maybe I didn’t make to the actual place.
This is a site of Victorian industry and there were views over a huge quarry, really massive. Why are quarries so creepy? Even in the sun it made the light watery somehow.
Another diversion was to buy some water. I went off the road to the sort of pub I would never stop in otherwise, basically a Wetherspoons, and managed to fall over in the parking lot and scrape my palms rather badly. I must have tripped over my own my feet. Anyway, I felt foolish and my hands hurt.
A little further on, I passed a man with white-blonde hair cut in the sort of bob that He-Man and his human alter ego (Adam) have, though he was a fraction of the width. He was taking a photo of a yellow notebook and seeing me stare curiously, explained that he was marking out a path for a race. People here are very friendly, it’s always an adjustment from the city. I knew I was not in London when, yesterday, a hard-hatted head popped out of a drain to wish me a good afternoon.
I reached the point at which I planned to end the walk, at the Lake viaduct which was advertised as being even more beautiful. I’m not sure it was, but it was certainly impressive. Views over the downs, and then the path to the nearest village went underneath it so you could see the soaring stone pillars (withe a dead infant hare, red eyed and covered in flies).
The path ended at a pub where the bus was not due for another hour so I had a cream tea while I waited. Not as good as yesterday’s, with a jarred jam and slightly tough scones, though still generous with cream. This time it was served by a young boy doing a summer job, and presumably made in a more commercial setting, so I think I’m developing a sort of theory of cream teas, that the type of cream tea correlates with the server.
The bus arrived and I returned. A late dinner, after the kitchen was out of use, so I could have it to myself.
I read a really excellent book, Claire Keegan’s Small Things Like These. Very short, delicate and beautifully written, and quite devastating.