A marathon... not a sprint...

I’ve often wondered what ‘hobby bobbies’ (Special Constables) actually do, and this morning I found a few of them scrubbing away with cloths and bottles of white spirit at some of the graffiti which disfigures Otley. I’m no fan of graffiti, the artistic equivalent of a dog pissing on a lamp-post.

In assessing where I am with the book, I reckon I’ve run a marathon. Now I’m back in the stadium for a couple more laps. In marathon running, this is so the leading runners can soak up the applause; for me it’s to tie up a few loose ends.

Another unexciting pic, just sold: the Border hotel, in Kirk Yetholm, which maks the end of the Pennine Way...