They had forgotten how arduous this hiking trail could be, but for seasoned walkers Joan and Kevin, they somehow couldn’t help themselves.

This wasn’t the most popular of routes, being as it was, one that segwayed off the more popular Pennine Way, and was quite rough in parts. It was also raining heavily, but there was no wind to push at them, and it wasn’t cold. Hills sloped upwards on either side, dotted with coarse shrubbery.

They trekked for around a mile. At one point, stepping across rocks over a thin stream. Ahead, another hiker was headed in their direction, and only seemed to notice them when a few feet away.

“Hi, nice weather for it,” he said, trying to be funny but not stopping. When he had passed, he slowed and looked back, “Oh, and try and avoid the hermit up there. He’s one of those conspiracy fellas,” Then he waved and continued.

Kevin and Joan looked at each other.

“Conspiracy fellas,” Kevin said with curiosity. 

“I don’t remember seeing anyone like that the last time we did this route,” Joan said, looking at the path ahead.

They were in their late fifties, not a couple, but the type that seemed to have made the outdoors their home. Their journey was their destination. With rucksacks and waterproof clothing, hiking boots and hats, they looked like ramblers, because they were, and had been for many years.

They continued onwards along the rough path worn by years of boots and weather, carving their trail. The view: a panoramic vista stretching for miles out into the distance, and across to their left, the range of Pennine mountains. They trekked on, through the terrain, and after two miles had forgotten about any hermit and decided to stop for a drink of water at a rocky outcrop. Their rucksacks were placed against the rocks, and they took in the view.

A small Roe deer was down in a field on its own, minding its own business, munching grass, completely unaware of Kevin and Joan and the rain.

“Look, Kevin,” said Joan, pointing, “a deer, all on its own”. They watched it in silence for a few moments, then Kevin said:

“Reminds me of the time when we were walking in Dorset and we saw that parrot sitting on the wall on its own”.

“Oh, yes, I remember that. I think it must have got out from somewhere. We should have reported it”.

“Yes, we probably should have informed the relevant authorities. Yet, it could have been wild. There are parrots that are wild here in the UK”.

They hefted on their rucksacks and continued along the stony, rough-hewn path, and for the next three miles saw nobody, and it seemed like they were the only occupants of the land, except for distant sheep and cows, society non-existent. They passed through and beyond the path into a valley with sparse fields.

“I wonder where that Parrot is now,” said Jean, stopping. “Parrots live a long time, so it could still be out there in the wild, terrified, alone.”  Kevin also stopped and looked forlorn, knowing she was right.

“Yes, we should have done more,” he said, “but we can’t know. It could have been taken back in by its owner and is living a happy life with other parrots”.

“I hope so. We’re never going to know. We should have done more. It’s the not knowing that hurts the most”. Kevin nodded but said nothing. He walked on, and Joan followed.

The path cut through a rocky field for around two miles before blending into a field of heather, which, after a mile, gave way to a more narrow path curving into a grassy field dotted with red clover flowers. The rain eased away but did not stop altogether.

They also found themselves not on a pathway but on the wet grass.

“Kevin,” said Joan, “we seemed to have gone a little off-route”. Kevin looked at the ground and was genuinely surprised.

“Oh dear, how have we lost the pathway?” he said with a smile, until Joan said:

“This is not the official route, though. I hope we’re not trespassing”. Kevin’s eyes widened.

“We’d best get back on track”. They retraced their steps until they came to the well-worn path and continued.

“Good,” Kevin said, relieved, “I was thinking about what the bank's interest rate would be at the end of the year, when I just carried on off the path. I predicted it would be down by one percent”.

“One percent,” Joan repeated, “maybe nought point seventy-five”. Kevin thought about that for a moment and nodded.

“Yes, you could be right”.

“Well, I was thinking about that supper we had the other night in that village in Mrs Benson’s café,” said Joan. “When we had afters, and she brought out that blackberry chocolate cake covered in custard. Wasn’t it amazing?” Kevin stopped in his tracks as he remembered.

“It was gorgeous,” he said, “the way the chocolate just melted on the tongue. I think she must have had a special recipe, that was just…so sweet and delicate”.

“We really must go back there. I remember she also served lemon poppyseed tea-cakes, which we must try next time”.

“Reminds me of that time when we were in that bed and breakfast at the coast, and we had that ice-cream strawberry shortcake sundae for breakfast”.

“Yes, that was delicious. Ice-cream for breakfast”.

Onwards they trekked. The rain came back stronger for around a mile, then eased off altogether, and they traversed more fields, more hills, crossed another stream by stepping across rocks, and came to one of the foothills of the mountainous Pennines, which curved around to the left where they walked until they came across a sheer fifty-foot-high rocky cliff wall.

In that wall was a natural cave. Opposite was a smaller field which looked more like an allotment, where there were patches of overturned soil and lines of plants and gardening equipment. It looked like somebody was growing food.

Two small trees had an empty washing line strung between them.

Outside the cave was a small sign staked in the ground. ‘Keep out’.

“Looks like somebody’s living here,” said Kevin. Joan stopped and looked concerned, staring at the entrance.

“Do you think they have permission? They would need approval from the countryside ethics committee to live here?”

Kevin thought for a few moments.

“Maybe they’re here on some sort of holiday,” Joan gestured to the allotment.

“No, this is somebody’s home”. Kevin knew they couldn’t just walk past without finding out whether or not the occupant had the correct permission to live in the cave. It would not play well on his or Joan’s conscience if they didn’t know. If they knew somebody was living here illegally, then they would ring the countryside ethics committee to let them know. Or indeed, the police, and if the phone was not working or they couldn’t get a signal, then they would end the walk and head straight for the nearest phone-box.

They approached slowly to the entrance to find that the cave was not very large. It went back about twelve metres and was quite well lit by daylight. As well as a small fire cooking a pot of rice and beans near the middle, sitting besides it on a rock, stoking the flames was a long-haired, thin man, dressed in ordinary clothing, as if he had wandered in straight from the streets. He looked up when shadows fell across him as the ramblers entered the cave.

“Excuse me, sorry to bother you,” said Joan politely, “but we were wondering if you had permission to live here”.

“Yes,” said Kevin, “it is a legal requirement in the countryside ethics act rules and regulations, section 8, that anybody occupying the land will need to get written permission from the landowner”.

“It’s just we need to know if we will have to inform the relevant authorities”, said Joan, looking concerned that he might not actually have any documents.

The man just stared at them as though they were aliens that had just stepped out of a spacecraft.

“Hang on,” he said, “let me just go and get the documents from my office.” He stood up, and Kevin looked slightly confused, not sure if the man was serious. Maybe he actually was going to show him permission.

However, the man stepped across to them with a face like thunder.

“I’m giving you permission, mate, to go away. Leave me alone to my own business,” he gestured to the path outside.

“We only need to check,” Joan said, “then we will leave”.

“You know,” the hermit said, “it’s people like you is why I’m out here. I come here to get away from society. People like you who will do anything you’re told and don’t ask questions. Yes, sir, thank you, sir, anything you say, sir. I’m here off the grid. I’ve got everything I need. I don’t need money. I grow my own food, got warmth, peace and quiet,” he said with emphasis. Joan pointed to the side where there was a supermarket carrier bag and a mobile phone on a towel.

“That’s not off the grid,” she said.

“Look, I need essentials, okay, I’m still learning, so please do me a favour, and get out”, he gestured again to the path outside.

“Just show us the permission, please,” said Kevin.

“I can’t get away from society, can I? This is my sister’s fault. I keep trying to tell her the truth about governments and conspiracies, and d’you know what she said? ‘Leave society then and go and live in a cave,’ so you know what, I did. I showed her. She can’t see the truth. The truth that…” The hermit then proceeded to launch into a rant about governments and politics. It was clear he had a lot of frustration built up and was perhaps, at the back of his mind, grateful for an outlet to speak his opinions.

Yet, as he waffled on, Kevin and Joan simply looked at each other. Kevin leaned towards her ear and said.

“I don’t think he has permission.”

“Agreed,” Joan said, looking disappointed, then pointed to the fire cooking the rice and beans.

“I’m hungry,” Kevin looked at the fire also, and nodded in agreement.   

“Alright,” he said as the hermit droned on. He and Joan both put down their rucksacks and opened them up, catching snippets of words from the man:

“…corruption …wake up…poison minds…”

He was so focused on his rant that he didn’t see the ramblers take from their rucksacks well-used machetes. They hefted them up and advanced on the hermit, who only noticed when the weapons were slicing through the air towards him, and he barely had time to put up his arms to protect himself.

They hacked and hacked and hacked him, chopping until he was in pieces.

Five minutes later, they were sat at the fire, cooking chunks of his flesh and eating them. Joan skewered and cooked and bit into his heart.

“Never had heart before,” she said, and swallowed a bite, blood dripping, her hands glistening with the red fluid.

“Very delicate,” Kevin said, as he ate the fleshy part of the hermit's cooked fore-arm, tearing it from the snapped bone.

“I like heart,” he said, “but it’s not my favourite part. I love the spleen. It just has a special…texture”. Outside, the rain began to pour once again, and they looked out across the allotment and field.

“Shame he never had permission,” said Joan. “Wouldn’t have mattered either way, but some people just have no respect for authority”.

“That’s true,” Kevin said, looking genuinely disappointed. “None whatsoever”. They finished up their meal, eating only about ten percent of the hermit, and were soon hefting up their rucksacks.

They left the cave and continued on with their ramble.