to the maddening effect of the beast upon even men of great fortitude and shortly after he too followed the valley to regroup with the rest of the party. As we hung our heads, Capt. Harris chose to wade down the river rather than use the waterlogged path beside it, he soon found that despite appearances, it was wetter than the path, but it had little effect on his soaked kit. This moment of craziness from an otherwise stable fellow is also attributed to the chocolaty Frankenstein. After the valley was left, to avoid climbing yet another hill, we chose to contour around, following the river to a footbridge, with around 12km to decent track. This terrain was saturated moorland, where often boots became stuck in the mire and much jumping was required to avoid pools of brackish water. Fortunately singing the songs of “alestorm” such as “wenches and mead” kept our morale up while our waterlogged boots caused our feet to rub and fester. Upon reaching the bridge leading to the track though the forest, the other members of the squad pelted me with lumps of beast to “purify me of my shame” as a charged toward them, poles held high like sabres. Many of them had already purged their shame by wading across the water, shunning the bridge in hope that the gods of the mountain would forgive us for our cowardice.
The final path