Why was I here? No, seriously. Why? And where was "here," anyway? I had a vague idea we were somewhere on the North Yorkshire Moors, dragging ourselves toward the Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge. But beyond that, I had no clue how far we'd come or, more depressingly, how far we had left to go. My clothes were soaked-down to my underwear, which I assure you is a deeply unpleasant sensation-and had now achieved a level of dampness previously reserved for shipwreck survivors. And my feet? Well, they too, had been wet since this morning, and by "wet," I mean they had the texture of boiled spaghetti. To make things even more enjoyable, I could barely see a few feet ahead thanks to the swirling mist and relentless rain. My only connection to humanity was a faint blob of yellow in the distance-a waterproof backpack cover, which I think belonged to Chris. At least, I hoped it did. Otherwise, I had just spent the last hour blindly following some random hiker, who was either leading me to shelter or luring me into the moors to be sacrificed to some ancient bog monster. At this point, either option would do. It was hard to believe that just days ago, we had been basking in glorious sunshine, occasionally complaining that it was too hot. That brief era of warmth felt like a distant dream, one that mocked me with the memory of dryness. Right now, I would have traded my soul for a pair of dry socks. I was fed up. Done. Ready to call it quits. I missed my family. I felt guilty for being away. And I couldn't stop worrying about whether my little boy was taking his tablets on time-tablets that, no exaggeration, were keeping him alive. My feet hurt, my morale was at an all-time low, and I was dangerously close to sitting down in the mud and calling it a day. In short: I was having a wobble. A full-blown, dramatic, existential, Why am I like this? sort of wobble. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Join Paul as he takes on one of the world's best-known and most brutally deceptive walks, following in the legendary Alfred Wainwright's footsteps. Spanning beautiful valleys, misty moors, picturesque lakes, and the occasional bout of trench foot, this is the tale of one man's quest to walk 192 miles from St Bees to Robin Hood's Bay without completely losing the will to live. Along the way, Paul uncovers the fascinating history of the land he trudges across: bridges built for lovers, murderous plots, pirate legends, ancient stone circles, and-because no good British adventure i