He lied, of course: Not about the soft velvety Devon evening and the gentle meander up to the village pool behind Peter Tavy. Nor about the track skirting Cox Tor and the bright red sheep passed en route and the soft views of distant tors. But then, then he lied. Uphill for the very last time, he said. Pffffh !! Downhill at first, though. Then over the stream. And then...up. To a chilly White Tor that was there one minute and then it wasn’t as the mist was. As it were. And so down to the pub for beer and crisps and nuts. Anne’s walk, really. But then, he lied about that, too. Eee, but it’s good to be back !