My friend and I were hiking in the hills of western Great Britain, somewhere in the Lake District, when the church bells chimed four times, meaning four o’clock: we had a mere two hours until the only pub in town with reasonable prices closed its kitchen. If we didn’t make it back before six, we’d have to spend an exorbitant amount at one of the fancy places.
She and I headed down the trail quickly, our packs jolting with every step. It was at least an hour and a half back to town, and that was if we hustled. The village itself was visible, but the path back wound endlessly and cut back on itself. I proposed a shortcut through the sprawling farms, and we hopped over a knee-high stone wall, thinking of decently priced cheese boards and pints.
