I’m just five minutes from the car when I hear the first rumbles of thunder. I could probably get back before the heavens open. But it’s months since I’ve been in the Dales, and the promise of time with the river has been sustaining me all week. So I continue.
Ten minutes later, my commitment is wavering. I’m splodging through a deluge that is washing the last of the snow from hollows, slipping on mud, glad of my wellies but regretting the jeans. Do I really want to swim?
