It’s not even the cold nor the pains or aches
I can cope with blisters and the weight of my pack
And I don’t mind the rain if I’ve got my mac
But have I cursed Wainwright in my time
To be fair, he said it’s all muck and slime
The creeping sludge, the never-ending peat
It were that that nearly finished me, it nearly had me beat
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
You’d never credit it–they burn the stuff instead of logs
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
Well it’s such a funny stuff is peat, it’s nature’s own glue
It got to me, it did, and by the end of day, too
I thought, I’m only carrying on so that I can say
If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve walked the Penine way
But I did it seven years ago, so why do it again?
Well I don’t really know, and I didn’t know then
Unless it’s this that’s been nagging at my noggin
Peat bogs and me have got this love/hate thing
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
You’d never credit it–they burn the stuff instead of logs
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs