First, though, we had to negotiate the debris and brambles which marked the end of the visible trail. At this point, Mont gave in so I had to lead the way. This is one of the reasons I don't take shoes with me when I go on walks like this. It would have been extremely tempting to put them on and just barge through the undergrowth until we reached the path. Apart from the fact that Mont would find it difficult to follow such a route, I hate the damage caused by not having to look where I'm walking - it engenders carelessness with regard to the plants and wildlife I'm there to enjoy and is one of the unwitting consequences of walking in footwear.

Fortunately, I didn't have this option and was faced with the very enjoyable challenge of picking a route through fairly hostile terrain. The ground, as well as being damp and slippery, inclined upwards quite steeply and was knee-deep in dead branches from felled pine trees (this side of the reservoirs is largely managed pine woodland in contrast with the bluebell-carpeted deciduous woodland on the opposite banks) with the spaces in between populated by thistles and brambles newly invigorated in the unaccustomed light - a side effect of the winter's felling. I pride myself that I did not receive a single thorn in this struggle - a circuitous route across about 100 yards (straight line) of woodland floor which took a good quarter hour to complete. Even Mont kept stopping, at a loss as to where to go next, but I love this kind of thing. For me, it's what barefooting is all about and it's probably one of the reasons why Mont likes to stick to marked paths :-)=

Having reached the path safely, we were running out of time so, instead of continuing on around the lower reservoir, I led Mont across the dyke which divides the top and middle reservoirs and started back up the hill, a route parallel to the wooden steps and heading in the general direction of the car park. At this point, having lulled Mont into a false sense of security, I struck off along the path he'd balked at earlier, but this time from the opposite end. Here, as I had anticipated, the mud was plentiful, deep and, most importantly, warm. The first stretch was covered in the previous autumn's fallen leaves. Ankle deep, it was just a few yards long but felt fantastic and I had to take a minute to peel off the leaves stuck to my feet and between my toes with the black, peaty mud. Mont, luckily, was able to find a dry route around and set off at a run ahead of me (he was obviously ready for his dinner).

Two thirds of the way back to the steps, a narrow stream flows down the hill and becomes a mud bath bisecting the trail. Here Mont stopped and sniffed suspiciously at the puddles of water but this was what I had been hoping for. I strode boldly forward and my feet sank a good six inches into the thick brown. mud. This was joy for me but when I looked back, Mont was staring at me in despair. The message was clear: too wet for dogs. There was no way he was walking through that; I could get my bare feet as wet and muddy as I liked but his paws were staying dry. Slightly disappointed, I stepped back out and we searched out a slightly safer route around the edge. This involved Mont balancing precariously on slippery logs placed by hikers in the mud to get them through with dry boots, while I contented myself with walking in luxurious, brown, ankle-deep mud :-)=

Much to Mont's relief, we reached the end of the trail without further "difficulties" and quickly climbed back up to the car. The great unwashed but, sadly, not unshod populace were beginning to arrive in numbers now word had got around that the sun was out, and the car park was filling up. To my surprise, the car-people were out of their metal shell and sat around the picnic bench. They watched me wipe the mud off my feet but were too far away to exchange words. On the way home, I couldn't help smiling at the sight of three hikers trudging through Cutthorpe in their raingear (despite the bright sunshine) and with both sturdy hiking boots and knee-high waterproof gaitors to protect their legs from getting damp. Amusing as that is to me, I can't help feeling a little sorry for them because they feel such a need to protect themselves from the natural world they are seeking to enjoy. Maybe that's why hiking boots have so many laces - the manufacturers know that if we take them off, we might never put them on again so they make sure it takes so long to put them on that it's far too much trouble to take them off again; at least until the blisters start to hurt

:-)=

Sorry this is so long - I've got nothing better to do (it's raining again<g>).

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