Muddy? By God it was, right from the off.
The kind of mud that sucks in boots and traps small children, who then collapse into the brown, unmoving stream and wail. The kind of mud that makes you think of First World War trenches, and feel thankful.
Our party struggled on along the swampy path, hemmed in by hedgerows: soiled and saturated mittens were rung out; dry feet given up as a lost cause. With a stiffening wind and rain around, we wondered if we would reach our goal, Wolstonbury Hill, which was not far off; but maybe far enough for the youngest of us.
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