Rambling in the Dales

Mam Tor SNext morning the company awoke to the smells of yet more cooking.   Gallons of kedgeree, mountains of snorkers and fresh baked bread attracted small, eager faced children, fed-up with gluten-free muesli, who were beginning to gather hopefully around the field-ovens.   As the aroma of toasting crumpets spread round the camp troopers began to emerge.   Boz and Co. had been cosy in their allotted yurt with its central, pot-bellied stove, but the shrieking of owls, barking of foxes and coughing of feral mountain sheep had intermittently disturbed their slumber.   They rose to be greeted by an infuriatingly boisterous Slasher.

“Are we all fired up for the mission?” he asked, to be answered with general mumblings, scratchings and yawnings.   Ginsbergbear was grabbing a quick fix of catnip shag as Phoebles emerged, wide eyed, from behind the latrine screens.

“It’s disgustingly primitive in there.”

However a good breakfast soon saw the heroes raring to go.

In preparation for their foray into Castleton our quintet disguised themselves as ramblers in heavily dubbined hiking boots, red socks, knee-length corduroy shorts, anoraks and bobble hats. To his outfit Slasher McGoogs had added Groucho Marx specs complete with moustache, eyebrows and nose.   They carried Leki Treckies and Bergen rucksacks packed with Kendal Mintcake, Ginger Beer, a Saturator AK-47 water pistol each and several fully loaded magazines.

“I have put fresh batteries in all the assault rifles.”   Boz took out his one-inch OS map – somewhat out of date, but it was still true enough, the natives of the Dales only reluctantly embrace change – folded it neatly to expose the section covering Edale and the Hope Valley, and slid it into his map-case.   He consulted his trusty Dan Dare Space Cadet compass and waving the others to follow set off on foot over Hollins Cross into Castleton.   It was a tough climb along the winding path taken in older times by the deceased of Edale to the cemetery in Castleton.   But the view from the ridge was spectacular.   The descent was paved for much of the way and easier, though precipitous.

Once they reached the outskirts of Castleton the gang could see that the Goth Festival was still in full swing.   In the centre of town they squeezed their way between blue haired, dark eyed maidens in black lace; shock haired, pale faced youths in black frock coats and dead man toppers; tall vampires with even whiter skin, redder lips and yellow fangs.   They pushed betwixt cyberpunks and diesel punks; took note of pale cats with brass goggles, dark glazed in ruby or purple, swathed in white leather great coats, mingling conspicuously with the glum revellers; and veered away from zombies that jerkily lurched in festering groups from one pub to the next.   Once they were over Cross Street, Castleton’s Main Drag, and out of the crowds the ramblers ducked up Castle Street, with its grey stone buildings and grey stone walls, where Phoebles managed to trip over the slumped and sobbing form of a diminutive EMO.   As he scrambled to his knees and she rubbed a nasty bruise that was developing on her ankle, she observed Phoebles through her tears, “You can’t win you know.   We are all flushing headlong down the toilet-pan of existential ennui towards the cesspit of despair.   Our fate is inevitable.   Turn back!   …Oh, and avoid the zombies.”

The gang were disappearing up the road apparently unaware of Phoebles’ absence and the wan and excessively body-pierced creature was inconsolable.

“I’m really sorry.   Wish I could cheer you up.   Try not to fret.   We’re going to do our best.   Got to go now.

“Er… Guys!” Phoebles cried as he rushed to catch up, “There’s a sad heap down here might have something important to tell us.”

By the time Phoebles had caught up with his companions the zebra haired harbinger of doom was out of sight and all but out of mind.   He was gasping for breath but managed to recount a redacted version of her warning.   Boz was the first to reply.

“Don’t worry about the zombies.   The Chats Souterrains should prove more than enough to contend with.   Impending doom is undermining people’s confidence.   Action – that’s what’s required.   Let’s crack on.”


6 thoughts on “Rambling in the Dales

    • Do you has to go Christmas shoppin in disguise, Aunty Stella? They is in Slasher’s Acme Junior Spy Kit box along wi the invisible ink an explodin cigar, wot we keep behind the bar at The Den for emergencies (anna baseball bat an Dark Flo!) You can borrow them next time you is over.

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