Wonders subtle and gross

It was a bright, breezy day today (Tuesday), so I put my shoes on with more gusto than usual. That's odd, I thought, one shoe seems smaller than the other today. I felt something pop softly next to my big toe. Hmm, I thought, I think one of God's creatures has left us. I took off the shoe, and with a tissue and not a little trepidation, I ventured inside it. Would it be a spider, an earwig, or a slug? I wondered. I felt my finger sink into something small and squidgy, which I carefully lifted out - it was two thirds of a slug, covered in lint. I ventured in again and retrieved a pea-sized ball of slime, the remainder of the animal. I feel responsible: this is a terrible thing to happen to a vegetarian. It didn't do me much good either. Ha.
But that's camping - you're only ever a nose away from nature in process. One time I was camping in my bivvy bag during snail humping season. The snails must have been drawn to the warmth because they swarmed all over the bag (snails swarm slowly). If you ever see snails mate, believe me you'll want to be one: they look like they're kissing each other with their whole, glistening, sensual bodies, and they take their time. It's a sumptuous affair. (I've already asked God if I can come back as a snail but she said no.) So my bivvy bag was covered with this great hajj of invertebrate sensuality, such that whenever I moved an inch in my sleep - crick, crickle, squelch... a couple's orgiastic pleasure came to a sudden, viscous end. I tried not to move at all, but in the morning there were bits of former snail all over the place. Some were still at it - I moved these two by two to somewhere safer to complete their life's satisfaction.
So it was a gorgeous day today, wind blowing ferociously in the wrong direction (I'm still waiting for the prevailing wind to prevail on this trip). I jumped on Raquel one more time (this is the new name for my bicycle) and zoomed off at 10 mph - all I could manage in the wind. (I was humming Sailing By - why? I don't know. Yesterday it was the Marseillaise.) There was a fierce climb on single track roads into the Peaks proper and the top of the world again. I found a cycle trail along the disused High Peak railway (part of national cycle route 68 to Berwick) that took me most of the way to Buxton, a beautiful town with its own opera house. I filled up with water at the municipal spring - the water comes from so deep that it emerges warm. It soon cooled in the unforgiving headwind as I climbed out of the town. Still following the 68 cycle route, it sent me down what my map said was a dead end, but actually had a secret stony track joining it to another road and so through to another valley. The 68 route did this all day, defying the map to uncover some beautiful deserted tiny roads overlooking the valleys. Some roads were very steep and it was hard work but well worth the effort. At one point in the evening I could see the whole of Manchester far below, an urban wilderness shimmering massively in the sun. I think I even saw the oil refinery at Ellesmere Port, 40 miles away. The road descended for a long time into Glossop, before rising again to pass to reservoirs along Longdendale - all in all, 52 magnificent miles.
I'm now at a campsite in Crowden - just a clearing in the steep wooded valley. I stayed here alone on New Year's Eve once when walking the Pennine Way. The campsite was shut - I had to sort of gatecrash it. I was in the bivvy bag again, lying on my back looking into the universe above and wondering about wonders. I'd be doing that now but the midges would chew my face off. I think they're organised, you know.
Bottom update: Adversity has for now fortified it against the trammels of the journey - life is like that. As Nietzsche said, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. He'd never read Heat magazine, though.