Goodbye Mikey...Hello Pom!

OK, so I am now an Appalachian Trail widow for the next six months - so I realise that I am either going to atrophy into an alcoholic haze, or I have to DO SOMETHING!

To be fair, I do normally do stuff, I'm just not so good at telling you all about it. so, here's the deal: each time I post into Mike's trail journal on his behalf, I will also post what I have been doing, with at least one bad photo.

So, the first thing I did was to wave ta-ta to Michael. He seemed happy, with a pocket full of trail mix and his merino wool pants (and for those friends of mine who speak American English (slight shudder) I DO mean pants, not trousers).

Oh yes, Woody, this is a picture taken at Woody Knob.

Then I reversed down the trail back to Amicalola Lodge, where I was staying another night before heading off to explore whatever it was that Georgia had to offer. From the guide books, this seems to be whatever did not fall victim to General Sherman's "scorched earth" policy during the civil war.

On the way down the trail, I bumped into dozens of would-be companions of Michael - although, with the best will in the world, I do not think the man I met within sight of the lodge, sitting on a log, smoking a fag, and complaining of the climb from the river (about 50 metres) was likely to even get as far as Springer Mountain (the official start point for the Appalachian Trail).

Back in the vicinity of the lodge, I found a swinging bench! My sorrowful heart lifted! There is nothing I like more than a swinging bench. Here is a photo of my left foot, and my rucksack on said bench. trust me, my arse is also on it, and there it stayed until sunset!

Oh, thought I should also explain the name Pom here. Apparently the Appalachian Trail is a little like school, in that you get awarded a "trail name", which is impossible to lose once you've been given it. Mike was unfortunate (or maybe fortunate? who knows?) in that the first person he met on the trail was an Aussie, through their respective blogs... Now, if you know any Aussies (and I am desperately trying to remember if any Aussies are likely to be reading this... I don't think so!) they don't really have an imagination. A duvet is a dooner. A toilet is a dunnie, and an Englishman is a Pom. That's all there is to it.