We stayed in the romantic Izaak Walton Hotel in the shadow of Thorp Cloud - a diminutive pimple of a mountain around 600 feet high. After breakfast we walked north along the river enjoying the scenery and the palette of rich autumnal tints, our conversations sparkling like the river. Crossing Viator's Bridge in Milldale, we continued bankside and entered the wilder Wolfscotedale, passing the most hallowed spot for anglers in the world - the Pike Pool below the heights where the ghosts of Beresford Hall still roam. I pointed out Charles Cotton's still surviving but reclusive Fishing House in the sward by the river. And lunch in Hartington before returning to the hotel.
Ravenous like trout in May after fifteen miles of energetic walking, we scoured the dinner menu for sustenance appropriate for mountain men. But what did we find? Descriptions of sweetmeats and confections that had the stomach groaning. We ordered with trepidation and received a most colourful assemblage of what once had been pure, unadulterated and unmolested food, now contorted, twisted and skillfully manipulated, the ensemble resembling some gaudy abstract painting. Wary trout, instantly realising that these flashy baubles were pure artifice, would have spat them out but men of decorum, we munched (very briefly) eyeing with covetous glances the plump fish in the glass cases that adorned the walls.
Despite offering the two lads (pictured) lashings of Yorkshire Puddings and copious helpings of bangers and mash (just like Peter Seller's mother used to make) they high-tailed it back home with me waiting on the shores of Carsington Reservoir alone to complete the final event in the triathlon. They wouldn't even hold my towel!
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