Storm Dennis. The notebook names it, which is unusual — I don't often bother with what they call the weather, only with what it does — but Dennis earned his line. Rain coming sideways off the water at Blackmoorfoot, and I nearly didn't go. The book admits as much: "nearly didn't go, but a boot doesn't record itself." I stand by that sentence. It's as close to a philosophy as the register has.
Left boot, tan, laced to the top, and in fair condition considering — considering being the operative word, because everything at Blackmoorfoot that morning were in fair condition considering, me included. It were on the reservoir path on the west side, which takes the weather full in the face when it comes from that quarter. I did what needed doing: left or right, colour, laces, position, and got it down in a notebook that were doing its best to become papier-mâché.
No sit-down, obviously. No photograph worth keeping — the book says one were attempted, and I remember the attempt more than the result, which tells you how the result went. The flask were drunk in the car afterwards, and the notebook flags this because I don't usually do it. Tea in the car is an admission of defeat. But there's a limit, the book says, and there is. The boot got its number, Dennis got his line, and I got home for a bath. Everybody accounted for.
Written up August 2026, from the notebook.