This sign post looks so innocent, sitting on a pleasant, tarmac road on the finer side of the moors.

By the time we got to the party, it was 9pm and we were extremely late. I was covered in peaty bog water and whimpering. I opened the door and crawled through to the kitchen where the happy voices were; crawling on account of the dirty shoes that I was incapable of removing, rather than an inability to stand up. I collapsed at my lovely hosts feet, with the weight of the wine bearing down on me and was aware of beautiful people in the room, sitting around a table and a sense of candles and fine-ness. I kind of lay there, wishing I had opted for a less dramatic and more dignified entry. But once the wine was removed from my back and poured down my throat along with some great food, and we had enjoyed some lovely company, none of it mattered. (apart from the horrors of realising I had to do it all again tomorrow). We sat up until 4am, still in our bog encrusted clothes. We did manage to dress for breakfast though. Dave took pity on us and drove us the 12 miles of tarmac, but as I pushed back up the hill, with such a long way to go - no longer enjoying naive ignorance - I felt as if I had done 50 miles of tarmac already.