Eventually we turned north on a compass bearing but soon our progress was being hampered by boggy, tussocky ground. It had something of the feel of Mangerton last year, and in an attempt to find easier ground we turned back west towards the edge of the moor. Here, by a wall, we found the path. Hardly surprising I had a bit of difficulty here, since the last time I came this way was in the 1960s. The path led us in due course to the edge of the woodland. This corresponded quite well with my childhood memories. We carried on beside the woods, passing streams and small quarries until we came to a metalled road, which when last visited by me had been a farm track. We followed this down towards Brinscall, pausing briefly where a track left ours and went into the woodland. Here, by the stream, was a supposedly well-remembered quarry.

A few years ago I took my cousin up Pinnacle Ridge on St Sunday Crag. He had a bit of a hard time on it. "The last time I did anything like this was on that quarry when we were kids. You scared me to death then, too." He would have been twelve at the time, and I eight. I had a vague recollection of the incident, and nearly coming off at one point near the top of what was in reality a bit of a doddle. Looking across at it my adult self was now appalled. The thing is fully 150 feet high, disgustingly vegetated, and generally to be avoided.

We left the road a couple of hundred feet above the village and took a path which brought us out on the Abbey Village road. At the pub at Abbey Village Pete B was waiting for us, to discuss Bernard's Eclipse Party. Social chat carried on well into lunch, with the result that business ran over into walk time. We were now at the furthest point from the cars with perhaps two hours of useful daylight left. The walk would have to be cut short. Any idea of going round the reservoirs east of the A675 and over Spitlers Edge was abandoned and we set off along the main road at a rapid pace, which soon sapped the reserves of those of the party who were recovering from lurgies or just less fit.

At three o'clock the group reached the path over Great Hill back to White Coppice and the decision was taken. Brian, Ros, Dave and Helen would carry on to Belmont along the main road, while Bernard, Fionnuala and I would leg it across the moorland for the cars, taking head-torches with us against the gathering darkness. We alternated walking and running up to Great Hill, where we found there were a few folk about and decided we ran no further risk of benightment on the hill, so slowed to a brisk walk. We were down safely and got back to the cars with just enough light not to need the torches, then drove to Belmont to fetch the others, who were sitting comfortably in the pub enjoying their drinks.