Some friends and I have a Christmas tradition of embarking on an overly ambitious seasonal walk. We remain gaily and wilfully deluded about the weather, terrain and our general levels of fitness (believing that regular exercise, i.e. one good yomp a year, will keep us healthy). This year was no different: a solid ten-mile trek over a mountain, in conditions described by the guidebook as ‘difficult’ in icy rain and dense fog. Marvellous.
Without doubt the best part of the day was the descent; not because it was downhill and homeward bound, rather because of the nature of the ‘path.’ The so-called track was actually a steep valley stream. However, the perilous boulder hopping quickly went to our heads. Soon we were skipping back and forth across the stream with the increasing pace and recklessness of a runaway train. The sheer foolhardiness of it all was intoxicating. Things only came to an abrupt halt because we fell over each other in unstoppable laughter. It was deliciously puerile and marvellous to be so utterly incapacitated by mirth. We rolled as drunken men before hopping another fifty metres or so only to collapse giggling again. Desperately immature, irresponsibly dangerous and absolutely wonderful.
It was a breathtakingly good day.
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