MY HOLIDAY in the north-west of England was not going well. To be honest, December was the wrong time of year to be camping on the Morecambe Bay shore. My clothes were soaked. I was spattered with mud, weary and fed up. A few days before Christmas I abandoned the Lancashire Coastal Way, trudged inland and pitched my tent for the night next to the West Coast Main Line. Tomorrow, I would walk to the nearest town and thaw out with a brandy in a cosy B and B. I must have been dog-tired, as I awoke with a start in the early afternoon. The weather was misty and chilly and there was a keen breeze. I munched an energy bar, splashed my face tentatively in a freezing stream, packed up the tent and set off in a northerly direction along a farm track by the main line, hoping to find a place to stay before nightfall. The landscape was barren and there was not a soul to be seen.
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