Hartfell

My mind calmed as I left the town of Moffat and started my ascent to Hartfell.

I love the vibrancy of ascetic of the countryside, nurturing nature is the all healer and ultimate mind calmer, both settler and rationalised motivator of a disturbed soul.

Have chosen to find my own route up Hartfell, ascending a steep incline from the West with the assistance of my walking polls.

The wind and rain were ripping across the summit, but doubling up my fleece kept me from reaches of exposure.

Partial visibility came and went, teasing from sight an awesome view of the Moffat hills.

I walked back into Moffat, and entered a bar named the Coachman Bar. There were obnoxious men playing pool and a lanky blonde white woman, known to them, kept entering and leaving the bar.

I keep asking myself why I keep resting in these places for so long, maybe it's because these publicans are so brain-dead that my frantic, disturbed mind rests easily here; and after being castigated for so long, any company is better than none, right?

The two barmaids were butch homosexual lesbians, one said she was South African, I did not ask her any more questions. Various people entered the bar through the evening, including two cyclists who were riding from Land's End to John O' Groats. After some degenerates entered the bar from the camp site, I realised this pub was a hapless dead end, quite literally. One minute before 10pm I made my escape, walked to the playing field and pitched my tent in the rain.