Hiking Disasters & Shared Soup

So, picture this: it’s a rainy Tuesday, I’m scrolling through Hinge with the enthusiasm of a sloth on a sugar crash, and I match with this guy. His profile is a puzzling patchwork of headshots and chaotic group photos, the kind where you're playing a low-stakes game of Where's Wally? but instead of a red-and-white jumper, you're squinting for jawlines and signs of basic hygiene.

I couldn’t really tell if he was good-looking or just... present. You know the type. But he seemed decent enough on text, had full sentences, no obvious red flags, and we both seemed equally unimpressed by modern dating—solid foundations for a romantic empire, clearly.

We arranged to meet for a drink. Now, whenever I’m not wildly excited about a date (which is 83% of the time), I cycle there in my full cycling getup. Lycra, helmet hair, the works. Nothing screams “this is not a seduction attempt” quite like fluorescent high-vis and padded shorts. It's basically a socially acceptable hazmat suit for dating.

We met at a pub, and by the cruel will of fate (or possibly a sadistic waiter), we got seated right by the door. Romantic draughts aplenty. The chat? Surprisingly alright. He was nice, kind, the sort of conscientious that might pick up litter on a beach and tell children to chew with their mouths closed. Not my type body-wise—there was a soft dad-bod situation happening—but I figured maybe I should stop being shallow for five minutes and try liking someone for their personality. Growth, right?

Only problem was: I sort of liked him... but I also really, really wanted to be home on the couch watching Netflix in my pyjamas. My social battery was blinking “low power” and my bike was parked outside looking like a more exciting companion.

So I did what any mildly overwhelmed woman would do—I told him I was worried about my bike. Classic escape line, works nine times out of ten. Except he didn’t take the hint. At all.

Instead, he offered to go for a walk. A walk. I panicked, said yes (still learning to say no in 2025 apparently), and off we went into the night like two mildly awkward squirrels.

Mid-stroll, I told him about my hiking group—a wholesome little gang of nature-lovers who sign up for group hikes online. It’s a bit of a lottery who you end up with, but usually harmless. He lit up like I’d just told him we were giving away free puppies with every hike.

“When’s the next one?” he asked.

I blinked. “Saturday.”

“I’ll come!”

And just like that, my Hinge date had invited himself on a 10-mile hike. In my head, I was screaming. Out loud, I said, “Cool.”

Fast-forward to Saturday. The sky is doing its best impression of the apocalypse. Grey, angry, wet. A solid 3/10 on the hiking weather scale. Most sane people bailed. But not my Hinge date. Oh no. He showed up. And so did one other guy—who, bless his heart, was so painfully awkward, so impossibly difficult to make conversation with, that I honestly feared I might get murdered in the woods and it would be weird guy, not nature, who finished me off.

If it weren’t for my self-invited Hinge saviour, I might’ve been a soggy missing persons poster by now.

We tramped through the woods like damp hobbits for hours. The rain was horizontal. At one point, I think I questioned all my life choices, including the decision to install Hinge in the first place. But finally, finally, we reached a pub. A proper country pub with a roast dinner on offer and roaring fire.

He sat across from me, damp fringe plastered to his forehead, and asked:“Do you want to share a starter of soup?”

Soup.

Shared. Soup.

I don’t know what part of that sentence offended me more, but in that moment, the ick set in like a sledgehammer. Who shares soup? What are we doing, recreating Lady and the Tramp with a ladle?

I declined, obviously. And that, dear reader, was the moment I knew: this one was done. A slow fade ensued, as is customary in modern romance.

So yes, I hiked through a biblical rainstorm with a near-stranger, narrowly avoided being alone in the forest with someone who might’ve licked moss for fun, and had to politely refuse shared soup in a country pub.

Dating’s fun, isn’t it?

Until next time—may your matches be hot, your hikes dry, and your soup strictly solo. 💁‍♀️

Fancy another tale from the trenches of modern dating? Stick around.