We headed up and West for a couple of miles, slipping and clambering in the woods, before Neal spotted a 90 degree incline and decided we should head for the top - my lungs, legs and heart turned to offal by the time I struggled up there, where I found Neal grinning, the smug mountain goat.
After that, it was a long walk west, up and down the miniature alps of the Malverns. Along the way we met a bunch of Morris Men (and women) walkers, though they hadn't started performing unfortunately. If you're unfamiliar with Morris, its origins are lost in time, but it's probably the medieval remains of earlier fertility rituals and pagan worship. These days it's the preserve of revivalists and - to judge by the men in black face paint - people who regularly use the words 'it's political correctness gone mad!'. I think this bad footage is of the same people in the same place a couple of years ago.
After the Malverns, we crossed the border from Worcestershire to Herefordshire to climb British Camp, a stunning prehistoric fort stretching an amazingly long way, with massive ramparts and views of approaching Romans from every direction.
After that, we went to the pub. Of course.
Here are some pictures - rest can be seen here. Click on these ones to enlarge.
The Dark Place, Friday. The blue is a police car
The Dark Place, Friday night.
Herefordshire from East Malverns
Herefordshire from midway along the Malverns
Herefordshire and Shropshire from the Malverns
Morris dancers, one in black-face