The sun started crawling above the trees as
tents unzipped one by one, camping stoves were fettled into flame and campers
stumbled towards the showers. Then,
before long, the apparent troglodytes had magically evolved into booted and
be-rucksacked ramblers, ready to roll.
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| Symonds Yat: we still don't know what a yat is, though |
 |
| Hand-pulled ferry, and hand-pulled pint |
Rob led us out of Bracelands and into the
woods, first to bag our scenic views of Symonds Yat, and then down to the
meadows. A tactical blast from our human
fog-horn (who could that be?) won us a ride on a hand-drawn ferry over the Wye,
and led straight in to a rather nice pub too.
The afternoon passed in a sunny haze, which the
pub may have had something to do with, and a gentle amble by a very pretty
river became a stride through equally handsome woods. Then, after a jolly meal at a reasonably
nearby pub, we were all ready for bed – well, most of us were, at least.
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