Well, that was quite a weekend.
Let’s start with the ups. We saw friends (and their absolutely gorgeous chocolate Labrador), Yorkshire was liberally festooned with snowdrops (I don’t think I have ever seen that many), we had some lovely food, I resisted puddings an epic 3.5 times out of 5, I ate very, very sensibly overall and avoided carbs as much as poss, I still ache from one of the hikes which must have meant it did me loads of good, we had access to several roaring fires.
On the downs – the owner of the place we stayed at was epically unpleasant when we pointed out they’d undercharged us for the bill; they were happy for us to pay it but didn’t feel this merited a simple thank you or apology for the inconvenience. It rather spoilt the whole weekend.
Also – and this is probably the only place I can confess this – I bought new jeans. [A moment is inserted here where we can all go ‘ohhhhh’ in mutual pain.] It should have been easy – I bought the same style as the ones I’d recently trashed and the same brand etc as my bootlegs except they were straight legged and a bit longer (the horror: I recently came to the unwelcome conclusion that my jeans are just that fraction too short. So. Unflattering). I digress but this should have been relatively simple, right? Wrong. They felt tight when I put them on but they have 2-3% of stretch so I thought they’d give - I'd even read advice that said you should buy them tight as they give. Um. I got more and more uncomfortable on Friday and by the time I took them off at c1.30am I really did feel some pain. Well, a couple of days later when being tortured by bath (more of which later) I noticed some absolutely corking bruises across my abdomen. I don’t bruise easily and I can’t remember the last time I saw anything like it. And I really do think that it was my jeans. I’m actually scared of them now. And I'm still green, black and yellow.
Before we go to the bath of torture, let me tell you about the hike of horror. It started off beautifully – gorgeous day, lovely path. We went through a beautiful village and onto a path described as “undulating”. Well, it wasn’t the undulations that were the problem. This path was like a goat path – ie v narrow and essentially on the edge of a ravine. At the bottom of which was mostly a river. The path was thick with mud. Deep, sticky, slidey mud. For about 2 miles we teetered along this path, grabbing hold of trees, rocks, anything to try and stop slipping over the edge. It was exhausting (and filthy) – my legs burnt and then they just went numb and rubbery. The relief when we finally emerged a tense and very long hour and a half later! Short lived relief because then we had to climb a massive hill and I had legs of rubber to take me up. I ache round my waist, as well as the tops of my arms and all of my legs – two days later. It surely – if there’s any fairness in the world – must have burnt at least a gazillion calories? Hmm, let's see what SoD makes of that on Friday.
Ah yes, then I decided to have a hot bath. I’m more of a shower girl but as my legs had pretty much gone on strike and to try to prevent total seizing up, I decided to have a hot bath. I don’t know which sadist (and indeed masochist) put it about that a hot bath was a great thing but if I find them, I’ll boil them alive. Assuming I can catch them. Youch. I sat in there. I tried to lie in there. I tried to relax and unknot my muscles (or what passes as muscles). I gritted my teeth – I must stay in for 20 mins. I couldn’t make it and got out after about 12 mins. My heart was galloping, I thought I was going to throw up or pass out. Or indeed both. It took the best part of an hour and a half for my heart rate to return to normal. Never again.
Slippery ravines and baths of torture apart, I’d like to go back to Yorkshire. But I’ll be staying somewhere else next time. Seren: what’s the Star like to stay at?