The breakfast duo take some long overdue exercise in squelchy heaven….. The Plan. Yes, the plan. To get el to a point where breakfast is at least 10 miles away; ingenuity required. Me too. Need some steel in these legs. An early afternoon taxi gets us to the environs of Megget reservoir from whence we sally forth towards Lochcraig Head (a Donald, no less - ð please tick). I don’t even know what a Donald is….and could care less. The initial track is a good way to gain height into the somewhat pleasant day; the weight of the lunchtime (ahem) ballast, however, is an ever-present gravity check. It’s all good until its goo; this is the case when we leave the path and wander onto my ‘imagined’ route…which is where I think there should be one. There is. Thanks sheep. Always good to get one’s navigation tips from a dumb ruminant…room (sic) for a joke there… It’s very wet up here. Looks like Northumberland but holds a lot more water (must check underlying geology). After some time bog-hopping off-piste we drop to a semblance of firmer tread overlooking the somewhat wonderous Winterhope Burn. All is well…with el… …especially as this little newly born fella thinks el is a parent…and follows us, much to the distress of baaaaing real mum. Down to a sheepfold. ‘Lunch’. At least a kilo off the pack-weight. And then upwards to our ordained bivouac site…we are heading for the hill split by the wall above my compatriots head. Sloooowly. At about 700m a halt is called to collect some rather ‘bitty’ water; subsequent progress is a tad more slow… You could get most of a music festival set up on this summit… Update on the baby lamb…. With rain coming in atmosphere abounds… The timing of the day is good. The light slips away as the rain arrives….driving me into the tent to eat (not my favourite as it is all cramped up)…but at least I can feign deafness to the constant bleating from nearby - ‘wasn’t that little lambsy-wambsy the cutest’? Oh please. Earplugs. An homage to Mark Rothko. As luck would have it… rain falls all night, on occasion heavily. Yet our stadium pitch is fine as the winds are light to nothing…in all it promotes slumber. At 5am it is still coming down so a film is partaken; bored with that coffee and kuchen are prepared…the film is more syrupy than the baklava. The pitter-patter relents as we strike camp; the views slightly different from the fine clear evening of yesterday. Yet these mists too are illusory, as they comprise but a little low early morn cloud…the day becomes fine later. Fine open ridges ensue; all rather damp underfoot…. Looking back to our bivouac site. el revelling in the titular ‘Rotten Bottom’ – the map describes this morass pretty well. ..and so to Hart Fell (another Donald; let the tribe increase…) Really………………………………………………………………………welcoming I pause only to pay homage to the noble pork-pie.. And that is about it…really. We drop down from here to a couple of Kms on a country track, a little tired of soaking feet and watching every step. Besides, the young lad needs his breakfast. Obviously.