Through sodden peat and dusty track
His trusty boots and laden back
No fell runner, no mountain biker
He has no name, he’s the Lonely Hiker.
From Dale to fell, from far and wide,
His pounding stick, a limp in his stride,
With a love for snow, but he pines for sun,
He waits for Spring and Autumn to come,
Whatever the weather he’ll don his kit,
Munro or Wainwright, he’ll bag it.
But now and then, he’ll stop and gaze,
Looking over the hills, his eyes will glaze.
It’s not from the pain from a nagging knee,
This pains invisible, from injuries you can’t see,
It’s not from now, it’s days that have been,
From a stolen youth, from his days in green.
But with his head he gives a shake,
Looks at his map, which route to take,
Thoughts don’t linger, they come and go,
But stay with him, no one is to know.
So back to the hill, there’s miles to go,
The shadows lengthen, it looks like snow,
Many contours crossed, many a stile passed,
Every turn is etched in a knowledge that’s vast.
But when the miles are done and It’s time to rest,
a bag of pork scratchings and the landlords best,
So tip your hat, he might even like ya,
You’ll know it’s him, the Lonely Hiker.