I’d been hearing the trains hooting in the valleys but hadn’t managed to capture one. Port Erin.The plan today is to make it from Port Erin to Peel. Port Erin is a nice little place with a pretty harbourFirst way point is the tower on the East end of Bradda Hill.Looking back to the remains of Port Erin’s Lido. However, the path I was on led nowhere and I had to climb back up from the sea to find it again. An omen for sure. I should have heeded it and headed back for the rest day I was promising myself at 6 o’clock this morning. I did have to re-pass the immigrant woman asleep on a bench deep down the cliff. Well asleep – could be dead – but I couldn’t possibly check such are things these days. I’d probably get sued for infringing her human right to sleep.Those of you with a bit of local geography nous, will have noticed that I’ve missed out Port St. Mary to Port Erin. That will be tackled on my last day, as I’ll be short of time. Those are the hills for tomorrow.Looking back from the right path. The sun is trying to break through.At least this cliff path has a rail.Ok dead end. The avalanche took the path with it.Having had to climb directly up the cliff, I found the continuation of the route. Sort of Scrabo-ish.Looking back, we can see the bay on the other side with Port St. Mary.Quite high now and beyond that head in the far distance is Dalby.A bit clearer but I’m flagging going up the end of Bradda Hill.A wee lobster boat, far, far, away.Half-way up looking back to the tower.That 3rd hill along is the highest today – 407 metres – definitely a hill too far at the moment.I’m bent over hand on knees. Heart banging and squirrelly in my chest. Yearning for that civilisation down there.I’m starting down and the path turned into an almost vertical nightmare at times. I’m so glad it is not raining.Nearly at the bottom and surprised I haven’t broken an ankle. Dreadful feeling I’m heading down to sea level again. Woe! Woe! and Woe! again.Wait for it. Dear Mr. Milkman can you bear to leave us some milk. At the entrance to a little farmhouse.Told you. The damnable sea.Heading up the next hill, a long ridge with 2 peaks and a valley between that is unnecessary to my mind. Lhiattee ny Beinnee.The buttercup like flowers blossoming through the heather.Nearly at the top of peak 1. That steep pyramid like hill had the bastard descent.The caterpillar moving across the 30cm wide path is going faster than me at this stage. ‘I feel for you brother,’ his only comment. No idea where the shadow of a great pole came from.This is the sort of thing more often than not at the top of these things. 20cm wide and sunken into the heather or gorse. A woman with hips that rotate can manage well but I’m constantly tripping on the sides.The summit at 301 metres. Bad manners not to add to it.50 metres away another contender. More votes, looks like. Probably need a boy scout with a theodolite to sort. He/she is just there to carry it up of course. The next hill, the biggest.You can just see the path of another almost lethal descent. Glad it’s still dry.You can never underestimate the U boat menace in the Irish Sea. Convoy!I’m up and fucked. This is the ordnance survey’s summit marker at Cronk ny Arrey Laa – 437 metres, while behind me…You see what happens when you allow a bring your own stone rule. Hikers the world over are attempting to make this a mountain.Totally undefeated face. Nearly is not, so boo ya!It was kind of you to offer me a lift but I’m sticking to the task, thanks. It’s raining.I’ve got to go down again, past that little farm on the middle left. In the rain.Path is trying to kill me again.Not so little. A grand place to do mischief, so far from anywhere.Path improves but it is going down. I can barely stand it. I’m heading into that gorge for sure.Looking back at the hills of the day. Legs trembling from all the downhill. Still heading down though.See, in the gorge. Got to cross the stream and test the waterproofing of the boots.On the other side, slipped and fell on my arse coming down that step.Back on the edge of the cliff and still going down.What the fuck! A slippery river of rock. I’ve made it this far, but legs are really twitching. I’m going to fall or get swept away in a flash flood.The rock river of doom. Fell 3 times after last photo. Soaked and banged up but still whole and moving.Dalby. My safety exit and finish.Just as I came into the village the bus was pulling out. I could sit for an hour and freeze in the rain or move on to the next village, which is what I chose to do. The Dalby Ducks have the right idea. They chillin in a bit of shelter (real ducks).This is it. As far as I can go today, dead on my feet.Small surprise going up the hill. Her Maj encouraging me for the final climb. (5.22pm). Got the bus round the corner for the hour-long trip back to the hotel. Soaked and smelling of wet wool. Uneventful bus trip this time but a small incident to report. 20 minutes in, a heavy metal fan gets on. Long greasy hair, long ratty beard, denim cut-off with all the band’s patches on and a Motorhead Tee-shirt. The outfit was rounded out with a short white tennis skirt and very skimpy black briefs from which his left hairy ball was extruding. It was finished with white tennis shoes and tiny red socks. Got to love it.
