Tuesday, November 3

On buttered toast

In town for haircut and supplies (bread and tinned fish), then south to pick up a crate of chickens. As the weather looked to be clearing on my return I set off across the moor for a couple of hours. Sod’s law that after a half-mile the heavens opened and the fog returned – 50-60m visibility. Ever since the Ivybridge debacle I’ve taken to carrying my trusty Silva. The compass was purchased in ’72 for a walking holiday on Skye – Munro bagging, and though knocked about a bit it still functions. Next time I’m feeling flush maybe I will treat myself. Spotted one of John Clare’s snipes in the usual place as the bird exploded from its ‘mystic nest amidst the moor’s rude, desolate and spongy lap…’ You need two per person for a main course, more for those with a hearty appetite – roasted and served on buttered toast.

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