Yesterday, as I trudged along the sandy track to our social club in sticky forty degree heat, I found my imagination wandering back to my beloved Peak District hills. I pictured myself rambling about the Goyt Valley to the north west of Buxton in the High Peak - a breeze buffeting me beneath a moving sky. And I imagined these scenes - snapshots from my picture library. Walk number fifteen:-
|The Spanish Shrine, Errwood Estate|
|View from Shining Tor to the Cat & Fiddle road|
|Signpost at Pym Chair|
|Tumbledown moorland wall and view to Goyt's Moss|
|View of Errwood Reservoir from Goyt's Lane|
Slightly homesick, what could I do? There were supposed to be wild parties in this social club with Bob Brague standing on the bar guzzling yards of ale with the rest of us clapping and cheering. Earl John Gray crooning endless Matt Cardle numbers on the microphone. Jan Blawat performing the hula hula dance she learnt in Hawaii. Jenny in her zebra print bikini doing her Paul Daniels magic tricks and Libby lapdancing in front of the lascivious Arctic Fox and slavering Shooting Parrots as Lord Mick of Bristol regalled us all with tales of military life and pipe smoking. Helen and Katherine would be by the pool giving quilting and art lessons respectively while simultaneously topping up their tans and comparing the virtues of their antipodean homelands. Maudlin, I guzzled five pints of Tetley's bitter and watched edited highlights of the Manchester derby match - Manchester Ferraris versus Manchester Lamborghinis. Oh, it's a hard life!