Fionn and Craig set off early to Black Tor and the rest of us caught them up as they crossed the Yelverton road. We took a good break at the tor and then bimbled over to number five, South Hessary which we reached in the late afternoon. The chatter had pretty well dried up completely as we focused on harnessing our strength and coping with aching and blistered feet. The fleshpots of the Plume beckoned and the original plan to merely enjoy a quick glug and hurry on to cook supper at Great Mis went by the board as plates of food and beer were ordered.

It was worked out that by the time we slung out our tents we would have done in excess of 22 miles. Fionn who had yomped away quietly all day now let on that she was amazed with herself that she had come even this far because of her poor fitness. She was indeed so weary that she said she had decided to quit while she was ahead. She would cash the option of the car she had parked at the Plume and motor home.

When we finally set off for Great Mis, it was clear that Keith too was suffering extremely bad blistering . By the time the party reached the road below Great Mis, he had made the tough call to pull out and be sure that he would be fit for important appointments on the Monday.

Losing two of our number dampened spirits somewhat on the trot up to our camp but matters were improved by the arrival of Gavin and Jeffrey with a couple of boxes of wine and some beer. He did not have much to carry back on his way down to his camper sometime after midnight.

After a long hot day, Great Mis seemed to have its own very different microclimate, festooned in clammy mist which shortly after we had all lowered slightly drunken heads for sleep, changed to a major downpour. Tim G's trusty long-serving bivi bag chose this storm to give up the ghost and soak Tim , his down bag and everything else within it. With bizarre good fortune, Tim had brought an umbrella as a sun parasol and spent the night sitting up with this thing clutched in his hands. He even appeared to get some sleep. Not so fortunate was Roy, who had pitched his poncho as a basher and v good it looked too. However perhaps as a result of an excess of wine, he had neglected to tighten up the hood, so the rain poured in on him. By the time he had worked out what was wrong, it was too late and he and his kit were awash. Rob H, though dry and toasty, didn't sleep much either and in the morning needed some serious plastering on his bashed feet.

At 0730 we escaped from the damp, misty Great Mis microclimate and did the gentle trot over to Beardown Tor, Number Seven, which we could have reached easily the previous day, had we not wimped at the Dartmoor Inn.

We went on to Rough Tor (No 8) via Crow Tor and took our midmorning coffee in good spirits, though it was notable that each break was now lasting a tad longer . We gathered ourselves for the next leg after Rob once more snapped our triumphant pose.

The long, soggy slog over to Sittaford, our penultimate tor was interesting coz this is when we spy the Ten Torrers from Sittaford and Quintin's Man during the event itself.

Comments are often made about the way teams straggle across the ground. Well we straggled too. It was not a lack of team cohesion but rather that each of us chose to pick our own way through the surprisingly wet ground heading towards the narrow path that runs up to Sittaford. We were pretty well all together by the time we made the tor . However we passed up on the group hug that this year was done by several of the teams.

......continued