All Along the Watchtowers

We slogged up towards Green Slack beacon, stumbling across the rutted turf. It was a cold, blustery morning and clouds raced across the sky like sailing ships. On our right, the dolerite cliffs of the Great Whin Sill plunged 100 m into the metallic blue lake, which rippled uninvitingly. On our left, some bedraggled sheep huddled in the heather and watched us with bemusement. We had 46 km ahead of us that day and the thin stone wall marched imperiously along the cliff tops into the distance.