Bothy Tales - John D. Burns

I can move only with the aid of barrels of anti-inflammatory gel, sticking plasters and real ale anaesthetic. Martin and I descend from hours of walking to the small town of Middleton-in-Teesdale. I walk, stiff legged, into the campsite office and a plump, middle-aged woman looks up from her desk and can see the old timer is in trouble.“Oh, what a shame you werenÂ’t here last week,” she says, pity radiating from behind her horn-rimmed specs. “YouÂ’ve missed him.”I look at her, puzzled.“Elvis!”... Zobrazit více