The things you do for love, or lust. As a younger man I had a girlfriend whose grandparents had the pub at Muker (Farmers Arms ?). After Christmas with my own family I set off to spend a few days with Mandy and her family. I took the bus to Hawes, it arrived in pitch darkness at half past four in the afternoon and I resolved to walk from Hawes to Muker. About half an hour after setting off a blizzard descended, I couldn't see five yards in front of me. Now a vehicle passed along the lonely and windswept moorland road as I trudged along, headphones on, singing Marillion songs to dopey looking sheep. When I eventually reached the pub I was freezing and soaked, despite my waterproofs, two hours of driving snow into my face, melting down my neck. My snow covered glasses steamed up rendering me doubly blind. I could just see the fire so I shook my jacket in the doorway, walked across the room and hung my coat to dry over a chair in front of the fire. A wave of laughter erupted, grizzled farmers telling jokes at the bar, oh good thought I, plenty of folk here already, should be a good evening then. After cleaning my glasses I glanced over to the fire, oh horror, they hadn't lit a fire at all, they'd stuffed the fireplace with red tinsel and aimed a spotlight at light. The farmers were not telling jokes, they were laughing uproariously at the long haired, dippy hiker bloke. Life moves at a slower pace in Muker, my unwitting moment of comedy was repeated to every newcomer for the rest of the night.