Wilsons Prom

The English 2000ft Mountains - Being the 253 English Mountains that exceed 2000 feet.

Following John and Anne Nuttall's The Mountains of England and Wales Volume 2 England, published by Cicerone Press.

This is a work in progress as I’ve barely made a dent into this classification. I intend to update this account year by year until the task is complete.

Saturday March 2^nd and Kate, Alison and I are looking back to where Adrian had stood a few moments before. “It’s the fath factor again,” explains Alison.

Kate and I wait for Adrian to reappear, scooped up by Alison, and we all continue the walk out of Ambleside and the start of the climb up Heron Pike. We soon meet surface snow, the remains of weather forecasts that may have reduced our weekend away to board games and tearooms. But the weather is being kind and we make good progress, even though I sense I’m making a slower pace. Over North Top and Great Rig and it’s clear I’m struggling. Alison and Adrian have the illusion I’m a fast walker - a hangover from when I met them on the Cuillin Ridge where adrenalin, and the fear of being left behind, had me raising my game.

But now they’re seeing the true me - lagging, heavy legs and struggling with my breathing in the cold conditions.

Just before Great Rigg we rest for lunch, where Alison produces a fantastic bivi tent. A device where a group of four sit in a circle place the large sheet over heads and tuck the edges under bottoms.

Adrian elects to sit outside, gentlemanly still sitting on the edge of the sheet, while Kate, Alison and I enjoy the warmth of the interior. With my rarely used gortex, the soles on my leather ones having become a little thin, I have developed blisters on both heels. As I remove the first boot there are cries of ‘pooh’ as my reassurances of not having smelly feet were countenanced by overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Fortunately that was the only smell emanating from body, the strange ripping noise from my trousers was the material tearing as I sat down.

I manage to get away with taking the second one off when Kate through the smog says, “They are nice little ankle gaiters you’ve got.”

“But I suppose they are still snapping at your ankles,” replies Alison. I can not stop laughing and we have to relay the humour to Adrian, still sat outside enjoying the views.

Continuing on we begin to lose Adrian as he insists on ‘Crinkle Bagging’ - A term for exploring every bump, hump and outcrop. For a man of about fifty his energy knows no bounds.

On the approach to Fairfield we begin to meet other walkers doing the horseshoe in the opposite direction. The cold requires hoods to be drawn and scarves to cover mouths. But each walker we pass smiles with their eyes, and we smile back.

Because I’m clearly struggling, the wind having now picked up to mop us with the icy weather, the others offer a quick descent from Fairfield, but I’m keen to continue so we start the return of the loop taking in Hart Crag, where we have to wait for Adrian, still intent on further exploration, and Dove Crag

While waiting for Adrian, Alison and Kate decide to build a snowman that is soon transformed into a snow penguin. Feeling the cold I just look for his beak and eyes amongst the rocks and hand over suitably shaped rocks for the inclusion in the rapidly forming Antarctic beast.

Alison and I stand admiring the work as Kate, bent over, puts the finishing touches on the snow creature, now looking ever so sweet. A group of young chaps arrive and one stands admiring the work. Kate has not registered this and after some loving final touches she looks up and with a shocked bemused voice says, “Oh hello.”

Adrian joins us to admire the fine fellow and it was decided that Penguin needs an igloo to live in. Adrian and Kate set about the task, a few false starts and rethinks but an igloo begins to form. Unfortunately, on near completion, Adrian’s fist went through the essential rear wall causing the majority of the structure to collapse.

After a further few minutes Penguin is equipped with a ‘cool pad’, which he stands proudly by the entrance. He is a little oversized for his new abode but this is soon explained by it being tardis like. One of the students comes over and says, “The guy that lives in that igloo is going to have one hell of a shock when he comes out to find a giant penguin sitting outside.”

Continuing on we descend, making full use of the snow to have some wonderful bottom sliding, over Little Hart Crag and, missing Red Screes, descend back to Ambelside to a relaxing evening in Kate’s parents’ cottage. A game of limericks ensues with Alison coming up with:

I reflect how much I enjoyed the walk, a nine-hour roundtrip that I was more than happy to allow the others to lead and navigate. I really enjoyed that, not having the added pressure of being responsible if we got lost. Alison, Adrian and Kate’s company was so good and I wonder, after having known them only nine months, how that has come about. But then being strapped to Alison and Adrian for a week on the Cuillin Ridge did accelerate the friendship by a good few months. I’ve always believed that friendships are much stronger by having lived through something together.

Having been finding work scarce for four months, an IT recession having hit the computer industry hard, and taking some extra professional exams in the meantime my mind drifts back towards hill walking.

On August 2nd I’m off to Dartmoor to climb its two two thousand foot peeks, Yes Tor and High Willhays. Of course I get lost trying to find the route to the car park at Meldon Reservoir. The local planners and sign writers conspiring on decades of games of 'guess where it is' delays my start by some hour. Once I get going I enjoy a heavenly five hour round trip of Yes Tor, High Willhays, Dinger Tor, Lints Tor, Steng-a-Tor then Shelstone Tour. On the approach to Yes Tor I’m humming the Beatles ‘Yesterday’ for 'Yes Tor Day'.

On April 11^th I arrive at Alison and Adrian's at one minute to nine. Alison opens the door with a bemused look. My ability to turn up spot on time is gaining humour with Alison, we'd said 0900 and I've done the three-hour drive with a minute to spare. Adrian chooses to look after their baby, Ellen for the day so Alison and I drive down into the Peak District to walk Bleaklow Head and Higher Shelf Stones- a walk of about six hours, nine miles and 1500 feet of ascent. High cloud gives us views, not superb yet views worthy of the walk. Starting at just before 1100 from Old Glossop we make our way by joining the Pennine Way (the long distant path to Scotland). In areas the peat is thick and boggy and make it tough going. Many people are out on this Easter Sunday with some very young children wondering why their parents have brought them to this wild spot.

Having brought a full pack, in practise for the upcoming cross Scotland walk (the TGO), I require more rests than normal. On the descent we sit, allowing a party to pass us, and I say 'hi' to one guy, over sixty and over weight. He turns to say return the ‘hello’ and promptly falls over. Fortunately Dr Alison is here to offer advice but I do feel a bit guilty.

Driving up to Derewntwater Youth Hostel on Friday November 19th I stop at The Cotswold Outdoor shop to buy new walking boots. Both the assistant and myself admire my old pair; worn through in places it’s sad to finally retire them after they contributed to over 200 of my Munros, one TGO and numerous other walks.

Joining a walking club was something that I'd never considered, especially one by the name of The Over The Hill Club. However the enjoyment of the TGO and Sue Oxley’s good sales pitch has had me filling in forms and attending the club AGM.

Saturday 20th brings my first walk with club. A fine winters day dawns over Derewentwater Youth Hostel. Usually one to walk solo, and nervous about my pace, I pump myself full of my Salbutamol inhaler, grab a lift with Maggie Hems and am off walking with the group at around 0945.

For once I am flying and by Cat Bells I’m heading the procession. Not even being reduced to one trekking pole (the other having become unthreaded) deters me. My usual place at the back, puffing and panting, has been promoted by medication and the hangovers of many. That beer barrel in the Youth Hostels Members Kitchen is clearly not for show.

I take a minor tumble on ice, causing my hand and knee to smart. Picking myself up I’m pleased to be momentary out of sight. Being out in front and taking a tumble would receive some deserved smirks. But my position is a false one; I really had gone to town with the medicine. On from Cat Bells is the broad top of Maiden Moor. As my height rises the views became more stunning. There are mountains all around with a view out towards Scotland. The tops of High Spy are taken and I wait for the others as I survey the snow dusted peaks and the winter’s light spreading its shadows out across the tops, cliffs and crevasses. The sun hovers low in the sky, gently warming and lighting, gently shadowing and freezing. No wind, blue sky and a light crispness of snow under foot tells me that this is my best day in the hills for many years.

I set off again, dropping steeply past the water of Dalehead Tarn before the pull up Dale Head. I am slow, others quickly catching me, overtaking me. This was no race, I was not intending it to be. I was just enjoying so much the pace that I’ve found. Rare, to be savoured. I use my inhaler, take on food and am soon flying again. The proposed walk takes in Hindscarth, but not Robinson. I fancy both; it would help my 2000ft tally. At the summit of Dale Head a number of us congregate. Mountain stories are abound, including the strange tale of an Irish visit where a walker was discovered hauling a porcelain toilet with him. "Was there something wrong with the man?" asks somebody.

There were a few groans but then Gordon Coventry stands up for me, "no, that was very good." A nodding agreement seals my joke.

So I now have a friend and he fancies Robinson too, so off we set. We take Hindscarth in half an hour, slipping our way in the sole deep snow. On the approach a man and woman are descending. I recognise them and assume they are other club members. He stops and points at me in some form of recognition, clearly not members. We both agree we know each other but can not think from where. Somewhere out in the hills, no doubt – Wales or Scotland.

Back tracking from Hindscarth we fly round to Robinson. The snow is starting to harden underfoot. Ice patches form and young children, being introduced to the hills, slide across and shriek with joy. From Robinson we descend back towards the cars. The light is starting to fade as the sun heads for its set. A few icy rock descents have to be negotiated before a steep grassy slope towards Scope Beck. The remaining trekking pole buckles and collapses and dumps me on my backside. I start to slide on the icy grass (I could have made this rhyme) but keeping my right foot flat I come to a halt. That would be the end of the story if only my backside stopped too. Alas not and, like a slow motion car crash, I sense what was going to happen as my body slides into the back of my boot.

After sliding the remainder of the slope I catch Gordon up and, a few octaves higher, amusingly explained the story of my collapsing trekking pole. We wonder if the figures coming off Hindscarth are members of our party or some of the many other people out on the hills today. Back at the car all is revealed. Gordon’s pace, from Hindscarth quicker than mine, has got us back ahead of the others. We sit in his car and watch the others emerge from the shadows, some half an hour later.

Meeting TGO, Over The Hill Club (OTHC) friends and trying new technology are the thoughts when I lay keyboard, to rest, pack the car and set forth for a M6 Travel Lodge halfway between Wiltshire and the Lakes. Will the £25 altimeter watch bought from Lidl’s be any good? Will the impressive Travel Lodge voice recognition booking system see me with a bed for the night or a sleepless night in a chilly car?

“No Mr S Smith on our booking list,” says the Travel Lodge receptionist. My heart sinks before he adds, “There’s a Mr F Smyth, is that you?” After my reasoning of “not exactly yet in the balance of all probabilities, with all things taken into consideration and given the similar sounding names and the slim likelihood of a Mr F Smyth showing up later,” I’m handed my room key.

Passing the time with a M6 service station meal, a quick wander around, sleep and chipping the car free from its ice tomb I set off around 0530 on Friday 18^th November. I make good progress, consume a large breakfast at a different service station (I was desperate for a change of scene), take it easy on the ice covered A592 and set foot on the hills at 0830. My first target is Red Screes, left wanting after a long walk back in March 2002. Risking an ungloved hand I set the altimeter and make good progress across frozen marshy ground that on another day would have had my feet plunging. Today I’m spared the familiar walkers treat of sunken foot, random Microsoft style pause as one waits for the wet to soak to the skin.

As I climb the altimeter does too. It kindly points out to me that I’ve screwed up and have ended up on Middle Dodd instead of Red Screes. The lack of trig point, much higher ground to my left were clues too but I’m pleased to see that it had hung in there. Not given into arguments, stuck to its guns and resolutely informed me that I’m not where I think I was. It would have a comrade in a GPS - perhaps even a voice recognition booking system would back it up too. Oh that reminds me, the other great thing about the voice recognition booking system was that when I made my little jokes it replied “I did not understand that. Can you repeat that again please?” The more traditional, anthropological induced method always met my jokes with silence.

From Middle Dodd I start the easy ascent to Red Screes. To my left the hills fall away into the Kirkstone Pass, only to rise again leaving the road snaking towards Ullswater on the valley floor. At the summit the mountains open out, an optimum viewpoint for a theodolite that would have once been mounted on the trig point of local stone. A crisp blue sky with low hung winter sun dances the light and shadows like an artist with a rarely used palette.

I make a quick descent back to the car, and look back to take in the mountain, living up to its name. If only I understood Gaelic then the Scottish peaks would have been more navigable. Carn Mor Dearg – big red hill, so simple if you know.

The previous weekend I walked twenty-four miles across Wiltshire downland from my home to my parents and, for my troubles, a long-term knee complaint remerged. Having hobbled for most of the week I’m pleased that it has held up on Red Screes and I decide to attempt another this afternoon. I set off for Grange, the small village at the south end of Derwentwater. After the OTHC Newlands round walk of last year I convinced myself that I missed out High Spy North Top. I wish to ascend again to be sure I’ve taken this in. Taking the minor road, from Keswick, to the west of the lake I twist and turn to avoid oncoming vehicles and patches of ice. Having already seen one car slid into a wall I’m being cautious.

The combination of an adverse camber, a shaded spot, a bend and a hill conspire to form sheet ice and for me an impressive zero point turn pointing me perfectly back to Keswick. I take the hint, pass through Keswick again and tackle Grange from the better road the other side of the lake.

I’m slow up the sharp incline to Narrow Moor. During the week I’ve spent time with a neighbour’s dogs and its probably playing my asthma up. I puff, pant and beg the altimeter for each increment that it slowly meters out. My confidence in the wrist technology increases and both my new toy and the sun touching the ridge, count me down for the unending views out towards Hindscarth and Robinson. The many shades of the blue sky contrast with the shades of green, brown and grey of the mountains. I’m grateful for the ridge, views and nearby summit of High Spy North Top with its adorning cairn. Looking back towards Grange Derwentwater sits in her full glory above the hamlet. Its islands and glistening water punctuate the mountains rolling down.

On the descent my knee starts to groan, not quite up to the levels of the tribe of pin jabbing patella fetish pygmies that had settled in during the previous weekend, but nonetheless I become aware of it.

I finally reach my car and set off for an evening at the Youth Hostel. Like my breathing shyness holds me back. I always feel bad, fearing I come across as a little aloof and rude, as people welcome me into their conversations. Being a reformed drinker the two OTHC barrels of beer, which do look tempting, can not be used for rescue. But slowly I relax, take in the surroundings, the people. Skulking put to one side and I join in.

I sleep well. Steve Wagstaff’s attendance at the international snoreathon finals (this year being held in the remote reaches of the Amazon) aids my comfort. I join Big John’s Scafell Pike walk along with Sue Oxley, Jacqui Hutchinson , Gordon and Gavin Coventry, Dave Skipp, George McKendry, Dave Wilkinson and Andy Sayer. I chat to Sue, we finished the 2004 TGO together on a warmer yet equally blue sky day. In front of us George slips on ice, Sue goes over on the same piece. We turn to see if Big John will fall foul of the same ice covered rock. Nobody considers shouting a warning. We just wait and watch. It’s Gordon that takes the slip, a great cheer goes up and he manages a bow as part of the steadying process.

We pass up the Corridor Route, the mountains tower above us. Where the sun’s fingers have touched the ground it is safe, other places are covered in ice. Sometimes it’s layered like uninviting steps. It takes us three hours, with me well at the back, for the final ascent to the summit. A large summit cairn come shelter marks ones arrival. I try and recall the 1958 picture I have of my father on the same spot. Even in black and white the grey, misty day is obvious, in contrast to the glorious winter day we are blessed with.

I’ve been struggling, my breathing down. I’m grateful for the rest and dose up with food and inhaler. I check with John about the route off. He makes a casual comment about people could do Great End. I eye it up, along with Broad Crag and Ill Crag. I fancy them all and ask about the route off Great End. We set off and I’m flying. Something’s kicked in, an extra cylinder is firing. I go over Broad Crag then take a look at Ill Crag. I try and make a quick ascent yet it’s frozen in its own shadow. Feet slide around like a newborn horse. I make the summit and set off again, keeping my eye on the rest of the group, I pass them as they just start the descent to Esk Hause. I belt up Great End with the view to descend and meet the party on the path to Sprinkling Tarn. I intersect them easily. Too easily. There’s been a misunderstanding about my intentions. They’ve waited for me and John is still waiting for me on higher ground. We’d talked about Great End but the communication had broken down somewhere. I now make a big mistake. I leave my kit with the others so I can nip back up and tell John I’m okay. It is longer and harder to reascend than I’d imagined. I’d estimated my energy reserves and now they are burnt up. I end up crawling the last hundred yards to the point where the others left John waiting. No John. I can see figures in the fading light, high on the ridge. My stupidity hits me. I’ve fallen into a trap. I’ve left my kit assuming I’ll soon be collecting somebody with a map and compass. I now feel alone and wonder where John is. I can not risk going any further, looking for him. The temperature is dropping and my rucksack, packed with survival gear, is safely making its own way off the hills. I descend, pass the spot where I’d met the others and come across a junction in the paths. Bugger. Straight on or go right? I have no fix, no map, no compass. The light is fading and I’m feeling colder. In the distance I see two figures, I make my way to them and ask to take a look at their map. I think they want me to be more lost than I truly am - alarmed that I can not remember the name of the start point it takes me a few goes to claim some level of competence by remembering the grid reference of 235123. This is as good as remembering the name of Seathwaite. Once I get a look at their map I set off and catch the others up. Sue reassures me that John is very experienced, he’ll turn up. Jacqui, his wife, looks unconcerned.

We reach the cars in the last of the light. Gordon and Gavin and the two Dave’s are waiting for us. We discuss the situation, wondering on the best plan. Admitting we’ve “lost John.” Gordon finds it funny; Dave and Dave express their concern with a proposed visit to an off licence. Gordon, Sue and I start back up the hills, hoping for some sign of John. Latecomers are stepping off the hills. Torches can be seen on high ground but always in groups. Not the single torch we are hoping for.

It was Sue that spots John. Friends for many years she picks out his shape in the darkness.

The hills normally let one get away with it. Today was such a day. Nobody was hurt on the ice. Nobody was lost. A misunderstanding introduced some risk but we all survived. Yet things can always turn out differently. I couldn’t believe that I left my kit. Something in all my years in the hills I vowed never to do. A lesson learned.

November 18^th and we pile out of David Handley’s Landrover into drizzle. Most of the peaks are hiding in cloud, those on show are covered by snow. A far cry from the last two OTHC AGM club meets where blue skies and crisp weather made for fine winter walking days.

John Hutchinson produces a dog lead and clips me on. On the walk last year I parted company with the group to bag a few extra peaks. “I’m not taking any chances this year,” he says.

“I promise not to hump any legs, sniff any butts however I can’t promise to spare any handy lampposts we might find.” At the sound of leg humping John unclips me. I don’t think he heard the word ‘not’, or if he did he was not taking any risks.

Seven of us set off towards Base Brown. I feel tired. Sleep has come poor. The OTHC snoring gene has evolved in the last year and now easily penetrates wax and radio earplugs and pieces. As far back as the nineteen eighties, when canoeing and rock climbing were more my thing, I remember, at Derewentwater Youth Hostel, the mention of “You’re in Room One” with dread - the scrap yard for men who are single because their snoring is beyond what any wife could take. The reputation of Room One is now becoming part of the OTHC folklore.

I’m also stiff from the drive up yesterday. I’d fancied doing a walk in the Dales but when out on the high roads I’d pulled up, wound down the window (involving pressing a button) and somebody sprayed my face with a power shower. It was not just the force and quantity of the water it was also the student halls of residence shower temperature that had me heading for an early arrival at Derwentwater Youth Hostel.

We climb west from Seathwaite, following the path, taking care of the wet and slippery conditions. Sue Oxley is nursing a knee injury and elects to keep on the main path around Base Brown whilst myself, Dave Skipp and Gavin Coventry take the rocky scramble to its summit. It’s wet and slippery in places, we stick together yet give one another space on the scrambles in case of a slip. As we approach the exposed summit the hail strikes us. Sand blasting our faces we are pleased for the brief shelter of its summit. Sue and John join us, having ascended from the rear, David Handley and Dave Gothard were already heading for Green Gable. We press on, Dave Skipp hangs back for me. I’m a little slow with my breathing today and I find the tromp through fresh snow an added burden.

We all congregate at the summit of Green Gable, taking refuge in its horseshoe cairn. Wind, rain and hail join us. John and Sue decide to head down via Brandreth and Honister. I ask after her knee and the response left me in no doubt that it is rather painful.

I’m now the guy with the map and Gavin the guy with the compass. The string has come off mine and my hands are too cold to fix it. Gavin lends me his, making no fuss in having to take his pack off to retrieve it. I can loop my frozen hand through its string and check the navigation to get us to the fine summit of Great Gable. My first ascent of this classic hill, we can see nothing but each other.

As we descend towards Sty Head so does our conversation. Five men out together is the cue to practise the art of political incorrectness. The weather picks up, the wind drops (apart from that caused by the two barrels of beer drunk the night before) and we can see peaks in the distance, now sat below the cloud. Snow and the sun conspire to draw our focus. We each take it in turns to halt the party to admire the view.

Having the breath sucked out of you, your face pummelled by wind and hail, tired and achy joints can so quickly be rewarded by a fine view. Then there’s the healthy glow and the hill camaraderie of the OTHC.

It’s the night of Halloween and my email has gone ping. Big John’s on the cyber line asking if I can lead this year’s main AGM walk. I’m flattered to feel trusted so I say yes straightaway then it hits me. I’ve never led a walk before. I’ve wandered into the hills around three hundred times yet never once been asked to lead.

I get out my 1:50,000 and survey the proposed line. A non-tourist route taking in Ullock Pike, Long Side, its brother Carl Side then the scree slopes to Skiddaw, the most northerly of the English three thousanders. John’s description then follows the fence down to Whitewater Dash but my maps don’t have a fence marked, apparently the 1:25,000 series does. My eyes drift north and spy a peak called Cockup. It’s all too probable so I email John to ask for some grid references of the fence from his 1:25,000. He replies that his map is 1:63,000. I thought they were older than the hills.

Not wishing to make Sunday’s news I drive to the Lake District a day early to practise the walk ahead of the Saturday. Arriving early evening in Keswick I seek out a modest hotel. I’m shown around and told breakfast is at eight thirty. I fancy extending my Friday practice walk to take in Little Man, Lonscale Fell and Sale How so ask if an eight o’clock breakfast would be possible. Well I might have well accused her of being a lady of ill repute. I hold my ground, needing the early start and get my way while being left in no doubt why the British tourist industry is struggling.

At 0900 on November 16^th I set off negotiating the hardest navigational part of any walk – the bit between the car and open ground. It’s where I normally get lost and lose the most time. At least I’ll be able to instil an early confidence into my troupe for the next day. I take in the staircase of climbs and straights on the way to Long Side. Making it in two hours I enjoy the sun glinting on the many inlets of Bassenthwaite Lake, but perhaps not so the distant wind farm. I’m then in the mist for the deviation to Carl Side then the long pull up Skiddaw and the walk along to its trig point. Here I get chatting with two older gents. One hands me a GPS, a gift from his son, “How do I use it?”

It’s the request you dread. I know with my model it takes about seven button presses to see the OS grid reference. The designers, having never set foot in the hills, do not know that all you want is the grid reference. Track logs, waypoints, memories all have to be scrolled through until you find the nugget that everybody is looking for. His model is not my model and the qualification of being younger does not help me discover how to use it. I think we both end up feeling embarrassed.

I back track and head south, picking up a fence that neatly guides me to the summit of Little Man. On route I pass four women, none of which smile back or says hello. Even their Jack Russell is trained in the art of feminism as it growls at me. The wind is quite strong here and I rue not bringing a map case as I’m in danger of losing the map clenched in my fist and undoubtedly I’d then be lost myself. Descending I pick up another fence line which acts as a handrail to the summit of Lonscale Fell. The mist briefly clears to offer a view for my efforts.

I descend to Jackson’s Fold and break out into the late afternoon sun. The views to the northeast make the day worthwhile and I hope the later afternoon sun is not too late as I’ve quite a walk out. I make it to Sale How then descend to the remote Skiddaw House, the long Landover track out to the road and the walk in the dark back to my car.

I don’t know if it was the fact I was leading or the weather that makes the walk I lead, on Saturday the 17^th, a small party of myself, Big John, David Handley and Dave Goddard. It made my practise of yesterday all but redundant. The notable variations from yesterday, other than taking in less hills, is that the first summit was reached twenty five minutes earlier, likely because we were blown along by the wind, and it rained on the descent.

Big John has me scrabbling for books and maps. His email tells me the AGM weekend big walk is ‘Glaramara’. I’m wondering if this is some foreign adventure, I’m used to the comfort of anglicised Lakeland names. But no, there it is amongst the pronounceable in my Nuttall’s guide to the English 2000ft mountains. A route taking in eleven mountain summits with Glaramara sat between Looking Steads (Lookout Place) and Combe Head (Valley Summit). Glaramara translates to ‘Hill with the Mountain Hut by a Chasm’. Well pardon me for not guessing that one; I can only assume that this contraction came at a time when the use of spoken words had some form of taxation levy. And believe me any computer programmer worth their salt would be proud of writing a compression algorithm that got ‘Hill with the Mountain Hut by a Chasm’ down to ‘Glaramara’.

John’s email becomes the catalyst to planning my weekend. Firstly my attention is drawn to North Wales and this is where I’d ask the non-peak baggers to look away for a moment. In May I completed the Welsh 2000ft mountains; all 190 of them taking me seven years of varying length holidays and scrambled weekends away. With that inner sense of achievement I rested my legs through the summer, casting around for the next challenge. Then on September 19^th news broke that Mynydd Graig Goch had been resurveyed and was found to be sticking its head above the 2000ft contour by a full six inches. There was nothing for it, it had to be bagged.

It’s the Thursday before the AGM and I’m headed to Caernarfon. I find a B&B negotiate a 0730 breakfast and at 0900 my car is becoming a distant object as I start the ascent. I need this fairly early start as North Wales to Derewentwater is still a fair drive and I attempt to buy more time by wearing light weight walking shoes instead of traditional heavy boots. The hype in TGO magazine has at least got me to give it a go, I intend to wear them for all the walking of the weekend to see if they’d be up to next May’s TGO.

The walk is a gentle incline, just a wall near the summit forming the greatest challenge before a celebratory apple at the summit – after all I have just finished the Welsh 2000ft summits for the second time.

I’m in cloud so I have no view to enjoy; the weather is warm, balmy for this time of year. My outer garment, a black fleece, has turned grey under a fine layer of water. I wipe my sleeve and grey turns to black like the scene in ‘The Good The Bad And The Ugly’ where a line of dust covered Union soldiers are mistaken for Confederates.

I’m at my car by lunchtime and setting off for Derwentwater. The four-hour drive is rewarded by the warm welcome of other members and the YHA staff. Sheet sleeping bags have now become fitted sheets and duvet covers. At last they realise the regulation way of fitting a sheet sleeping bag is never adopted and body against duvet has been a tradition since they replaced blankets. Another change is the personal alcohol restrictions and the reduced numbers of OTHC members making this weekend meet. Although I don’t drink (for a medical reason) I miss Waggy’s well organised barrels of beer and listen to the complaints of the hostel prices starting from £2.75 for a bottle of beer. As ever the OTHC members are up to the challenge and like a sixth form field trip beer, wine and whisky is smuggled in, hidden in packs, under jackets or secreted in large pockets. YHA soon becomes an acronym for Your Hidden Alcohol.

It’s 0900 on Saturday November 15^th and the intrepid high-level walkers are gathered outside the hostel, admiring the lake and high cloud; a good sign for the day ahead. In any organisation there’s an unwritten rule that the chairman should have the most expensive car. The OTHC is no exception as our eyes are cast to Graham’s five series BMW, unoccupied with the engine left running to warm it up for the short journey to Seathwaite. When Graham appears there is no mercy from his flock of members.

David and Ross offer me a lift, seconds later Big John chips in an offer and I explain I am already sorted. Fortunately I’m used to John’s humour as an uninitiated man, straying within a hundred yards, could be killed by the scowl.

At Seathwaite we pile out of assorted cars. Graham arrives, the only occupant of the BMW. He tries to plead that nobody took up his offer of a lift, but we are not having it. We take the unwritten rule that, in the absence of any legal representation, we’ll believe what we want to believe and the kangaroo court found him unanimously guilty of the root cause of the planets greenhouse gas problems.

We set off and, with my lightweight walking shoes, I manage to keep near the front of a sizeable group of OTHC members tackling this round. I’ve already explained to John that I wish to deviate from his route to take in Seathwaite Fell and its south top. For I’ve found my new challenge – the 253 English 2000ft mountains. However, I’m in two minds as it looks quite away over these two summits and I wonder if I’d be able to meet the rest of the group at Sprinkling Tarn after they’d followed the path around Styhead Tarn. John and I peer up towards Aaron Crags and spot a number of routes. I like the look of the third and John tells me to go for it. I climb quickly and steeply, it’s true that normal walking boots do weigh you down. Though the gradient gets steeper and I soon have to rest. It takes around half an hour to reach the 601m Wainwright summit, short of the elusive 2000ft marker that claims my interest. But I can see Wainwright’s point of view; from here is beautiful. The cloud shadowing the reds, greys and green of the hills before me with the sun spotlighting areas as the clouds swish with the winds. There’s a simple purity about the Lake District.

I carry on and bag every high point, using my GPS to confirm which are Seathwaite Fell and its south top. I realise that there is only a very short drop to Sprinkling Tarn, which means the rest of the party would have to ascend, over a longer distance, the same height as I’d just done. I mused whether I was ahead or behind the group. I decide to press on to find a good viewpoint where I can check the path both forward and astern. As I take the path through the shallows of the tarn fish break the water and dart away from my approach. In 2006 some 130,000 Vendace eggs were taken from Derwentwater to Sprinkling Tarn to establish a new habitat for this endangered breed of fish that date back to the Ice Age.

I press on and the good path soon takes me to the crossroads where a northeast branch leads to Allen Crags. I plan to wait here but it’s so cold and I’m not yet convinced that I’m ahead of the rest of the group. I make the summit and can see the path to Glaramara, absent of a large party of walkers. I duck down to gain shelter from a biting cold wind. I don jacket, scarf and gloves and comfortably settle in the lee of the summit for the rest of the party. I’d gotten twenty-five minutes ahead as John peers around my hood to check it is me. He pretends he doesn’t care about my whereabouts, nor that of the rest of the group but I often observe him keeping an eye out for his charges.

We all settle for lunch, having already eaten much of mine I just enjoy the views. I remark on the cute looking black faced, brown coated, sheep. I get some strange looks and sense some rapid shifting of immediate neighbours.

In all groups there comes a mutual sense of when it’s time to press on. One or two packs being fastened spreads amongst the group until, without a word being uttered, we are all standing and ready to take the challenges of the cold wind. For the rest of the group next is the ascent of Glaramara but between there are the summits of High House Tarn Top, Red Beck Top and Looking Steads. These are mere bumps off the main track but for anybody hooked on doing the English 2000ft Mountains these are important deviations. I gain some humour in the group for my sudden darting off. I think I realise that really these should be referred to as the 2000ft mountain summits, not each being a mountain in its own right. One has a bit of scrambling to reach the summit and on the descent I slip and ungraciously land heavily on my bottom and slide a few feet. Fortunately the group are a distance away and my embarrassment is spared.

At Glaramara there is an amicable split in the group with half wishing for a quick return to Seathwaite and the rest, including John, wishing to make use of the good walking weather to take in Rosthwaite Fell. I’m pleased for this as if the entire group had wished to descend I’d miss out on this and the three summits in between. So off I set again, darting off up Combe Head, then following the crags to the leftmost of the two rocky and grassy knolls; Combe Door Top. I catch the group before bagging Dovenest Top and catch them again at the pass to the right of Rosthwaite Fell. I branch up it and am initially presented with what appears to be an unscaleable group of rocks that form the summit. I traverse around and find a point where I can, with a few easy rock climbing moves, scramble to its summit.

I must have lost time here as I’m now along way behind the group. I make a pace and slowly reel them in on the lower slopes. It’s dusk as we return to the cars and a welcome return to the hostel where a shower and the annual dinner are very welcome.

So how did the lightweight walking shoes serve me? On the descent from my final Welsh summit I caught my left ankle on a rock and cut it. This would not have happened with full height boots; otherwise I did not miss the ankle support. I noticed my toes moved around more, which meant by the end of Saturday I was developing hot spots that would have eventually blistered. Though I am susceptible to blisters and covering the hot spots with plasters would have stopped them getting worse. On the plus side I was much quicker and the ascents much easier. In traditional boots I’d not have been able to do all the peaks in the Glaramara round and kept up with the group.

It’s Friday November 19^th and I’m battling my way through London to catch the 0930 Euston to Penrith. The automatic announcements are cajoling us to “Move right down the car”, the doors are shutting and I’m regretting my thermal top, fleece and gortex jacket. Oxford Circus is a good few stops so I venture beyond the vestibule and grip one of the balls that hang from the roof by springs.

With my arm raised I recall deodorant adverts and am now pleased to be wearing my jacket. Coupled with walking trousers, trail shoes and pack I’m conspicuous amongst the suits.

The man stood next to me, smart raincoat, neatly done hair, speaks, “Your spikes are flying all over the place.” I look behind me and figure this is not the time to point out that what is strapped to my pack are actually trekking poles. And if I’m not mistaken I’m detecting some irritation in his voice.

I swing my pack off, offer my apologies all round, the tube train jolts and I fly forward and smack him full in the chest.

“Sorry about that,” I say, “rather looks as if I’m flying all over the place too.” The quip doesn’t work, or if it did he has some issue with his facial muscles, so I add, “I had to let go of the strap to take the pack off.” This time I see that he is in full control of his facial muscles. I catch the eye of a seated female passenger, she smiles and I reckon she knows what trekking poles are for.

The train lurches from station to station, people join, people leave and I’m feeling more and more trapped in the middle of the car. At Baker Street I start to wonder if I should make my way to the vestibule, by Regent’s Park it’s beginning to feel like a necessity and as we next start to slow I survey whether the quickest exit will be to my left or to my right. It’s clearly to my right and I’ve clearly got to ask the man to allow me to pass.

“Excuse me, sorry,” I start, “I’ve got to…” But he’s an expert, parts the waves and I’m then edging myself closer to the doors. Like Crocodile Dundee in New York I ascertain who is getting off, who is staying on as I sidestep my way.

On the platform a waft of cool air clears my head and soothes my body. I find my way to the Victoria Line, board the waiting train and wait. And wait. An announcement comes over that there is a broken down train ahead. I check my watch. The minutes tick by. I’m sweating, plotting and finally running for the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road then the Northern Line to Euston whereupon one of my trekking poles decides to descend, catches the door lip and I fall into the carriage, just righting myself before I clatter into somebody else.

I catch my train at Euston and emerge some three hours later to Penrith basking in blue skies. The ruins of the sandstone castle perch over a neatly mown moat – the pride of any Tory MP. But it’s the McDonalds restaurant that catches my eye, not because it spares me crossing the road, not because there’s a crisp chill in the air but because I’m bloody starving; needs must and all that.

I enter and, being a vegetarian, I scan the menu of delicacies that do not involve the remains of bovine, ovine, porcine or piscine. Although some of it distinctly looks canine to my untrained eye. Failing dismally, and finding myself at the head of the queue, I ask the assistant (who on first impressions would appear to have sampled the entire menu, daily), “What can you do for a vegetarian?” Realising that my question has left me somewhat open I’m pleased when she points out a ‘Vegetable Deluxe Burger’. I order that, chips and we then go through the charade of ordering me a drink. This is where it gets more complicated for I’m waiting, like a hand paused on a fruit machine, for her to mention something that does not contain caffeine or lots of sugar.

“You can have Fanta, Sprite, Coke, 7UP, milk shakes, a fruit shot, coffee or tea.” At this point I’m looking her straight in the eye and she’s fazed by my impassive face. I can see she’s struggling, she’s running out of options, I doubt she’s ever had to get this far through the list before. I glance at the cabinet to my left and she follows my gaze. “Oh we have pure orange juice,” she says.

“That’ll be great,” I reply and she looks more relieved than me. The meal comes and I have to admit it’s rather tasty.

I take my time over the final morsels, allowing each chew to countdown to the bus departure time. I rejoin the coolness of the air and the blueness of the sky as I wander to the bus stop and check, double check and accept the safety in numbers of the correct stand.

The bus rattles to a standstill, the murmurings and stirrings of my compatriots signalled its arrival and a loose order of boarding is formed between perceived early birds, the elderly and mothers with young children. I pay my dues, perch my pack on my lap and take in the views as the bus, like an aeroplane on automatic pilot, wanders north and south of its route, the A66, collecting and depositing people as it goes.

As we near Keswick the mountains rise from the earth until they tower above the road. I don’t know their names and I pledge to walk them, to know them, to spend more time in the Lake District. I survey the russet brown of their lower slopes propping darkened upper reaches. I spy paths, routes and scrambles amongst their folds. It’s a day for surveying, a day for planning and if one is lucky a day to be basking on the ridges in this cool, clear winter day.

The bus reaches the outskirts of Keswick and I ask the aged, capped head, in the seat in front of me, if he could let me know where the centre is. He turns, gives me a rundown of all possible stops, their merits for different purchases, attractions and drinking hostelries. I notice his hands; aged tattoos of LOVE and HATE are engraved above his knuckles. I wonder if he ever glances at them, ponders at them and remembers the man he once was. But I accept the kindly old man, the man pleased to be offering advice, the man pleased to be asked.

I pick the best recommendation from many, accept his directions, thank the driver and step from the bus into the bustling hub of Keswick. I wander awhile, survey the market stalls, and make a donation to a man rattling a tin for mountain rescue. He’d spotted my poles, my pack and my jacket. “You look like a man that doesn’t need rescuing,” he said. The compliment worked and a sticker was added to my lapel to prove it.

It takes awhile to meander my way to the B5289, the route to Derwent Water Youth Hostel, the route to The ‘Over The Hill Club AGM’ weekend. There’s a nice path that sits on the lake side of the road. It wanders eagerly from shore to road, through dips and rises. Down the lake the view unfolds into a plethora of mountains, light heather, trees and snow are set back in ever increasing layers of beauty.

I sit awhile, time is on my side. Mesmerising waves pound the shore until they settle into gentle laps. A brown spaniel races ahead of its owner, its nose close to the ground sniffing past me as it climbs the rise behind me. Its owner follows on as the dog stands proud from its eyrie plotting her progress.

I take my cue to follow and stroll leisurely into the Youth Hostel. As ever I’m assigned a bunk in Room 1, the resting place of all males single. Graham Gledhill announces an ability to snore so I move further into the rooms reaches where the Daves (Skipp and Wilkinson) are making up their beds.

“Not good,” says the Wilkinson half of the pairing, “we tried a membership drive but have attracted no young blood.”

“The clue could be in the club title,” I add. I quickly rue my quip as evidently this has been discussed at length on Facebook.

I wipe away the condensation on the tall windows of Room 1, dry my hand against my fleece and peer at what was Friday’s mountain glory now hidden by the low cloud of the dawning Saturday morning.

The veggie cooked breakfast cheers me and the packed lunch, a first ever purchase for me, looks substantial. I wander to the car park, I need to bag a lift and Graham Gledhill comes up trumps with his shiny new VW Touran. Peter Goodwin joins us and Sue Oxley appears and joins a variety of vehicles carrying John a Jacquie Hutchison, Ann and Alvar Thorn, Dave Handley for a rendezvous at a car park below the Grisedale Pike Horseshoe.

There’s some confusion over the grid reference matching the visual description of the car park. Nobody dares to question Big John as he arrives and, after packs are sorted, boots donned and waterproofs pulled on we set off. I make a good pace, keeping up - I need to keep near the front as I’m planning a deviation to Hobcarton End. Sue and I take the lead up the cloud clad spine of Grisedale Pike and as I touch the summit we confirm mobile phone numbers and I head north for Hobcarton End. It’s a steep descent in scree and I fail to find a path on what should be a popular route. I stop and survey the surroundings. Unclaimed voices of distant walkers funnel eerily onto the slopes. To my left I reckon the land falls away, to my right, in the swirling mist, I fancy I can make out a ridge spur. I clamber to it and find a path which, over undulations and detours takes me to Hobcarton End. I motor back, reclaim Grisedale Pike and follow the south westerly path, with its steep drop into the valley below, around to Hobcarton Crag. I study the map and can’t understand why Hopegill Head does not count as a 2000 ft mountain. I survey further and conclude its list in another walk and, my tunnel vision of marking up a map, has let me down.

I descend to Coledale Hause and study map, compass and GPS to pick up the right path around to Crag Hill. I hear the distant sound of Sue’s voice rolling off the mountain with the mist. I wait, allowing my ears to pick up closing voices and figure the rest have taken in Hopegill Head. By chance I’m now ahead of them. They are a little surprised to see me standing in the mist on a junction of paths at 2000ft.

The wind has picked up and we head south until a culvert, with babbling stream, shelters us for lunch. Alvar’s ankle is playing him up and a debate about route ensues. He and Ann are adamant that we should not change are plans for them and point out the many ways off they could take. I pitch in for the route over Causey Pike as it’ll give me the seven peaks described in this round in the Nuttall’s guide to ‘The Mountains of England’.

I finish the Youth Hostel lunch, substantial and tasty, and we pull packs on, stretch legs and chat freely as we make Crag Hill. Ann and Alvar drop down into the valley as we take in Sail. An ever decreasing number of routes off, clearing cloud and the desire to stay high take us over the decaying waveforms of Scar Crags and Causey Pike. A minor piece of scrambling, requiring hand and footholds, has us bunching up, offering advice and taking it easy as we complete our round.

We all look back, whence we came and admire the terrific views. The sun that escapes through the cloud forms layers of tone on the side of the hill, mixed with the ever changing colours of the heather and peat it forms a colour wash that only an artist can understand yet the eyes of all admirers can appreciate.

We pick up the minor roads then paths that skirt us around Braithwaite and, in the fading light, find the cars and make our way back to the hostel for the AGM meal, merriment and, thankfully, for this evening no talk of changing the name of the club. Over the hill we have been. Over the hill we will become.

Friday 15^th April saw me visiting a customer on the outskirts of Liverpool; a carefully planned visit so my company paid the bulk of my mileage prior to a holiday in the Lake District with, hopefully, many peaks. The close proximity of four bank holidays (Easter, The Royal Wedding and the May bank holiday) means I have three weeks away for just eleven annual leave days.

Saturday the 16^th dawns with promising skies and a gentle cooling breeze wafting across an M6 service station with accompanying Travel Lodge. I make my way to the service area and the hopes of a breakfast. My diet has become tiresome, no wheat, no meat, no sugar and no alcohol. Not that an alcoholic beverage was on my agenda but an M6 service station is not so prepared for no wheat, no meat and no sugar. I plump for two fried eggs, beans and tomatoes. But that’s not where it stops, I now need a complex carbohydrate to go with the protein and the only option was bread, and bread contains wheat. So back in my room I devour a couple of rice cakes before the trip to bag a couple of mountains above Grasmere and to the west of Thirlmere.

The journey is little over an hour, punctuated by a number of stops to convince myself that I’d not left anything behind. I aim for a car park but they charge for it. Not that I mind paying but I have no change, so up and down the road I drive, kerbed by the waters of Thirlmere and a rock face. Each time I spy a pull-in I also spy a no parking sign until one pull-in, with abandoned track beyond, fails to have a note of deterrent. Then it’s to find a place to turn around and a delicate reverse manoeuvre, up a steep slope, to rest my tailgate against the gate with the nose of the car inches from the road.

I begin walking at 0955 through a gently rising track; grateful for its even ground and easy navigation. Trees fall away to my left and climb to my right. A stream gently gurgles below me as the sun dodges in and out of cloud as it cools and warms me. I navigate the track, drop down to a stream and pick up a path which, via a double gated break in a forest border fence, has me out onto the hillside.

The well marked path, on the map, is difficult to find and, by use of GPS and compass, I set a direct course for Low Saddle. The direct route becomes one of deviation as I navigate round knolls, streams and boggy ground. I rest often (I feel very unfit having injured my neck in January preventing me from properly exercising) but clamber the final few paces at a little after 1210. I munch on some food, eat a rice cake, sup water then make the half hour crossing to Ullscarf. This is a simple cairn, marking the highest point of its upland plateau. I return on the same route, saying hello to the same breed sheep I saw on the way up (grey or brown bodies with white faces), before dropping sharply east across Standing Crag. I make it slightly hard by having to gently lower myself down a steeply grassed and wet slope. Safely on gentler ground I slip, go flying and bum slide a few yards to the feeling of the penetrating wet across my behind and legs.

I return through the forest, following the same track as on my ascent, and return to the car four hours after I set out.

I wake in the Ambleside holiday cottage that I have taken for three weeks. It’s bijou, well thought out and rather lovely. I take my time getting up, there’s a Formula 1 race to watch before I head to the hills. A relaxing breakfast takes me through the build up and an exciting hour and a half sees me through the race. Then it’s a packed lunch to make, maps to check and the trip round to the start of Harter Fell.

I’m soon discovering the delights of Wrynose Pass, a cycling event and a stream of cars and motorcycles. The Wrynose links to the more famous Hardknott Pass but in itself is steep, narrow, tortuous and not adverse to having your left wheels running along a very sharp drop. Lots of starting and stopping and braking have me concerned. I’ve just had the car overhauled for the journey and it proved to be rather expensive. All four discs and associated pads had to be replaced and the bill came with an advisory note of “Avoid heavy braking for 500 miles.” When I read the note I thought of the accident claim form – “The reason I did not brake and chose to run into the back of your client was because my garage advised me to avoid heavy braking.” On the Wrynose Pass I’m thinking of my prophetic thoughts even more. But fortunately everybody is being sane, allowing room for the mass of cyclists to make their way through and even the motor bikes wait patiently for their turn as.

The start of the walk, requiring a short deviation down the Seathwaite road, is from a National Trust car park. I set off walking at 1135 and, rarely for me, have guidebook in hand as I make my way across a tracked bridge and turn left onto a riverside path. This is where guidebooks can let you down for they rarely tell you to avoid branching paths and you are left hoping that you are following the thought pattern, and the footsteps, of the authors.

I pass a mentioned farm house and dutifully turn right onto the track beyond and seek out the path to the left. On it I start to climb through the remnants of a felled conifer plantation. After a kilometre I glance down at my compass and realise that I am heading due north. This is not good; in fact any navigational direction without the word ‘west’ in it is not a good idea at this precise moment. And at this precise moment I’m puzzling over the map and see what path I think I am compared with what path I should be on. As the plantation has been felled I strike west over rough, steep ground.

I find this slow going and rest every few paces. I’d planned yesterday and today as easier walks, wanting to build up some fitness. It’s been a tough few years with my Dad’s parents dying in 2008 and 2009 then my last remaining grandparent just a month ago followed by his 103 year old brother last Sunday. These things fatigue you more than you realise and I certainly feel fatigued as I tread my way in the ripening sun.

I pass through rocky crags, using them a place markers or things to aim for and then the summit appears on my horizon; a castellated array of rocky crags forming the battlements of its summit. Sheep stand and stare as I ascend the grassy slopes and tread onto the first of the rocks. I master the slabs, say hello to a group of feasting people, and climb, with a few easy moves, what looks like the summit at 1355. The views all around are magnificent, the way I came, across to the Wrynose Pass and off out to sea. I drop down and rest by the trig point before climbing one of the lesser peaks of its battlements, just for the hell of it. A fellow walker asks for the trig point, I direct him but also tell him which the true summit is.

I wander between the jagged outcrops of rocks like a laird prowling the grounds of his estate. I take out map and guidebook but rule out the recommended way down. Too much planting has taken place since the route was worked out and I fear being able to find my way through the new trees.

I pick a south easterly path and navigate carefully down, wanting an easy route off with no wrong turns and extended timings. I’ve misjudged my water supply, have run out and don a cap to break the heat from the sun. Opposite is Seathwaite Tarn and, from this distance, I think I make out a man made dam holding the waters back. There is loose small scree and I slip twice, slipping a few yards and jarring my body at the same time. I pick my way very carefully, feeling tired, a little wobbly and determined not to slip again.

I drop onto the track with a metaphoric thump, turn left and keep on it until I reach the car after another four hour walk.

Monday April 18^th and my ambitions have become loftier and, with the Langdale Pikes in mind, I pack my rucksack with food and water and make the short trip to Great Langdale. Fortunately this time I have change as the parking is £6.50 for the day and few other alternatives appear to exist.

I make a slow plod up the well made path, people overtake me, people roughly keep the same pace as me but I don’t get ahead of anybody. I feel tired, rest often, either perched on a slab in the path or laid out on the grass. A fast flowing stream allows me to drink back one of my one litre bottles of water then refill it. A path repair team are attempting to reposition a large boulder in the stream; a ratchet lift, metal poles and some brute force do little more than rock it on its foundations.

However, I’m grateful for the steps in the path for they lend me a pace that steep grassy slopes fail to. So instead of throwing myself to the ground for a rest, at every opportunity, I’m able to make a few minutes of progress at a time then rest awhile.

I arrive at Stickle Tarn at 1100, an hour and half into the walk. It’s a lovely tarn, some 400m long and in the shadow of Pavey Ark and Harrison Stickle. A walled dam restricts its draining back toward Great Langdale, its northern shore laps against the gentle slopes of my route to Codale Head. Its western shore sits blow the menacing peaks of Harrison Stickle and Pavey Ark.

I stagger my way north east then north west, following the dwindling path to the rocky peak of Sergeant Mann; not being a 2000ft summit in its own right I head east to Codale Head. In the great distance is High Raise but, it’s an illusion of the terrain as it takes me just twenty minutes to pace my way there. I’m pleased to be on the high ground, the steep climb is done and it looks now to be a pleasant walk around the seven summits. Despite the brilliant blue skyline the wind chills me and I don my jacket as I make my way south to Thunacar Knott

A dip and a rise and a minor scramble have me on Pavey Ark. I sit awhile, allowing the throngs of people to pass. I watch crows hover and call, seagulls call and I watch paragliders turn and swoop from Harrison Stickle. I look from whence I came, picking out Sergeant Mann, Codale Head and High Raise. Below me is a sharp drop back to Stickle Tarn, glistening blue in the afternoon light.

I try a direct route to Harrison Stickle but it has me negotiating rocky outcrops so I drop and pick up the path that leads me to its summit. This is tough going, taking me forty minutes in all.

There’s a cooling breeze that is welcome as I survey Stickle Tarn from yet another angle. To the west is Pike of Stickle, the route to it gets a little confusing with the best way appearing to be via a sharp descent of a rocky wall. I gingerly take easy steps before leaping the last few feet and balancing myself. It’s then a good drop before the ascent of Pike of Stickle starts. At the low point a grey sheep, with a white face, blocks the path. “Hello you,” I say and then realising my pun reiterate the joke. The sheep is not having it, not one twitch of a laugh or acknowledgement of my humour. It just stands there staring at me. I walk around and then start the ascent to the rocky climb that takes me to Pike of Stickle.

I rest awhile at the top, surveying the views, the late afternoon light playing off the mountains, the deep blues of the sky and the cool breeze remind me that it’s only April.

I make my way back, dropping down the rock face until I meet the path and, with my lack of fitness showing, take my time to Loft Crag. From here I navigate carefully, the 2000ft view down into Great Langdale looks a long way and I don’t fancy putting myself on a course that has me finding the road miles from my car. So I check compass and GPS at every twist and turn as the path takes me back to Great Langdale. It’s 1740 by the time I get there, just over an eight hour round, I don’t fancy cooking so pop into the Stickle Barn pup. I’m served by a monotone Scandinavian gentleman, likely Finnish by the sounds of him. As I dump my pack and trekking poles down I order jacket potato with cheese and a side order of chips.

After a rest day, regrettably using up another day of glorious sun, I feel fit enough to tackle a big round. I fancy the Bowfell group of mountains but decide to walk them in the reverse order of the guide book - the plan being, if I feel fit, to also take in the ten summits to the south. But first I have to contend with the car parking in Great Langdale. Misreading the starting point I pull up in the very same car park I’d used on Monday, pay my £6.50 and set off up the track. I then discover that I’m in the wrong place as the terrain does not match my map. Back at the car I drive further up Great Langdale, unable to spot the car park at the head I turn back and park at a midway car park. My heart sinks when I see that this one is operated by the National Trust and my ticket is for a car park belonging to the Parks Authority. I put a note in my window pretending to be ignorant saying, “Sorry I bought this ticket at your other car park, hope that’s okay.”

I take the track to Middle Fell Farm, a gentle stroll through fields, where I find the car park that I should have been in. I consider going back but think better of it and, at 0900, take the well made and gently rising Cumbria Way track.

I find it tough going, the sun is blazing down but as I rise I’m treated to great views of the Langdale Pikes that I climbed on Monday. Unbelievably some of the high folds of the mountains ahead have snow still in them.

I rest at the junction of tracks, to my right are Black Crags and to my left my intended route to Rossett Pike. I drink a litre of water and refill from the flowing stream.

The walk becomes a tortuous staircase of laid stone. Bags of rock, brought in by helicopter, line the edges. I look up, it’s a perfect sky, the ridge lines are rock sitting below the rich blues of the sky. My cap protects me from the blazing sun; my legs feel tired and heavy. I rest often and sup water. People pass then I pass them as we migrate our way up.

Just below Angle Tarn I branch off right and ascend Rossett Pike at 1150. I stand and admire the panoramic views with peaks dipping and undulating, great ridges connecting them. Some tops are great battlements with unclimbable faces spewing scree to the valley floor below.

I press on, pass the dark Angle Tarn and follow the track around to Esk Hause. Here I rest, couples sit and chat, families share a picnic, and a man fusses over his two dogs. It could be a city centre park on a mid-summers day, apart from the 2500ft views and the cool breeze of the mountain air now gently cooling me.

Pressing on I stagger my way up Esk Pike, through its boulder field until I pull myself onto its summit. A bit of cloud has formed in the sky, high, white and no danger. A distant paraglider catches my eye before two RAF trainer aircraft blast down the valley. They are single piston engine and propeller driven. Decorated in shiny black with yellow markings they make a beautiful sight and a lovely sound as their engines drone into the distance. Like with trains steam has a romance over diesel as propeller planes have the romance over jet.

I follow another boulder field and inadvertently come up between the two Bowfell mountains. I turn back to take in Bowfell North Top, the final leg being on crunchy dry grass, before the leg draining clamber to Bowfell, at 902m the highest point of the day. I survey, from a higher vantage point, my Monday’s walk before dropping south east to pick up the track back to Great Langdale. I help out a woman with a searing headache by giving her a couple of Ibuprofen. The descent is steep, tough on the legs and I take a good three hours over it. The last 2000ft is over the sharp nose of ‘The Band’ where the ground falls away so steeply, to the valley floor below, I’m glad of the path.

At the foot I get chatting to a couple of women, one of their husband’s has gone for their car and they offer me a lift to my car park. I gratefully accept, the sun is so hot and the heat is wafting from the tarmac. They drop me off, I’m grateful for not having received a parking fine. I then set off and realise I’m only a hundred or so yards from the first car park of the day. I could have just gone back there and saved the worry.

Due to my tiredness the 21^st becomes another rest day where I ambled in Ambelside, bought some DVDs, food and generally relaxed.

The 22^nd becomes my third trip down Great Langdale since Monday. This time I have the parking sussed and am walking at around 0915 for a day doing the ten tops of the Crinkle Crags round. The first peak entails a road walk and then a branch at a stream following a well trodden path. The weather is clear and the sun steadily warms me as I gain height. I carry 2kg of water but at every opportunity stop, drink a litre and refill from the flowing stream. I’m wondering if my struggles this week have partly been due to dehydration.

The first top is Pike of Bilsco, which I reach in two hours, where many people are gathered for its fine views. I then head for Great Knott but it’s not at great knots I’m travelling. The summit is a rise to the north of the path; here I’m alone as, unless you are setting out to bag every 2000ft top, the temptation is to head straight for Crinkle Crags. However, my path now deviates via Cold Pike, its west top and its far west top. Again the views are fantastic, the walk of Monday fully on view again and part of Wednesday’s appearing on the skyline. The extremity of the day is Little Stand where I use my GPS to confirm I have gone far enough.

It’s now a yomp across open ground, followed by a sharp rise, to the south top of Crinkle Crags. The wind is still until I reach the ridge and its many cairned summits. I climb them all and use GPS to confirm when I’m sat on Crinkle Crags, Shelter Crags then its north top; each time sitting on my map case to save it from the strong warm breeze. I’m tired and rest often, my legs a little shaky and my heart pounding in protest. I drop rapidly to the track I took off on Wednesday and make better going, reaching my car at 1740.

I visit the same pub that I visited on Monday and Wednesday and order the same food – jacket potato, cheese and chips with two pints of orange juice and lemonade. The same, head shaven, Czech Republic girl is serving as on Wednesday. Her colleague, the humourless Finn, takes my order – I don’t risk any jokes this time.

Saturday 23^rd I wake early, feeling fit enough to string two days into a row. A visit to the bathroom proves otherwise – my feet ache where the ball of the foot meets the arch. I return to bed, doze, wake, breakfast and inspect my trail shoes. They’d both cracked across my pain line so I wander into Ambelside to look for new ones.

I’m never a good shopper, need to feel good about a shop even before going in. Then when I’m in the simplest of things can put me off, have me heading for the door. I look in a few windows, wander in a few shops, wander out. Then I find Millets, the vibe is good, I wander in. Footwear upstairs. The assistant is helping a chap. I feel all the shoes for weight, turning the lightest towards me as placeholders. She finishes with him, smiles cheerily and asks how she can help.

“Well size ten or eleven in any of these.” I’d picked a price range of £28.99, £64.99 and £104.99.

Only the £64.99 and £104.99 were in stock and then only at size eleven. I try them both and, would you believe it, only the £104.99 ones fit properly.

In the evening I go to the cinema and see the very funny ‘Submarine’; though I’m equally amused by the screen advertising. The first advert is for the Advertising Standards Authority – saying if you see an advert that is not accurate you should complain. A later advert is for ‘Visit Scotland’ which says ‘You will get a warm welcome, a very warm welcome.’ Well not if you are a single English bloke you won’t – frequently downright hostile I’d say.

Sunday 24^th (Easter Sunday) dawns as beautiful as any day this week. I manage to get myself out of bed early as I fancy the Coniston Fells and, at 11.5 miles 4400 feet of ascent, I’m set for a big day.

I get to Consiton around 0730, the guidebook saying I need to find the Old Station car park. I find Station Road but there’s no sign of an old station let alone an accompanying car park. I decide that guidebook writers are the estate agents of the walking fraternity! They are necessary, never give you the full detail that you want, miss things out and you are handing them power that you feel quite uncomfortable about. One thing, I believe, where guidebook writers go wrong is not to get walks independently tested.

Anyhow I set off at 0750 after finding parking on the road to the Copper Mines and Youth Hostel. My new walking shoes are a nice fit, I’m feeling fit and I make good progress towards Wetherlam. The disused mines and the Youth Hostel come into view but I branch north west and take the path through the curves and undulations. I hear voices below and my gaze spots them as a group of wild campers; their voices carrying high up the mountain. A sheep with its newborn black lamb blocks my path. It’s the first lamb I’ve seen this year. I pause until it moves, the wobbly legged youngster keeping close to its mum. A fell runner passes me before I make Wetherlam at 1015. Coniston Water glitters in the morning sun and I recall its dark history, Donald Cambell and his Bluebird boat. Opposite is The Old Man of Coniston – a peak for later in the day.

The visibility is excellent, there’s little haze and much of my walk, around the twisting ridges and their peaks, is on show.

I make the easy walk to Black Sails, arriving at 1045, then, via a rocky scramble, the summit of Swirl How at 1135. Here I chat to a woman, only the fifth person I’ve met so far, who started from Keswick a few days ago with backpack, tent and faithful collie called Pluto.

The walk round to Great Carrs is simple but tinged with sadness as I come across a cairn built around the remains of the undercarriage of a Halifax Bomber. It marks the site of the crash on October 22^nd 1944. I survey the area and see that there are the remains of molten metal where it caught fires and, tragically, that the aircraft would have only needed to be a few meters higher to have made it over the ridge.

I take in Great Carrs, the drop off is steep into the valley below. A cool breeze cools me as I take in the surrounding mountain vista.

I take the drop and ascent to Grey Friar where I stop for lunch, relaxing with my back to a rock and surveying the sweeping mountainside, the sharp fall away, round to The Old Man of Coniston.

I retrace my steps then take the contour like path around to Brim Fell (with its ancient cairn) before the long pull up The Old Man. Here I’m on the beaten track and there is quite a crowd at the summit. The views over Coniston and its water are just so beautiful, sail boats are out as birds gently swoop for tourist titbits. Many from here will head straight back down but for me I have the walk around to Dow Crag, Walna Scar and White Maiden.

Dow Crag, at 1445, has an unnerving exposed scramble to its summit. I pause only briefly, patting the summit, then return to safety.

The pull over to Walna Scar and White Maiden feels like a remote corner of this walk. I’m glad for the stunning weather as, if in wind, rain or mist, I could imagine being uncertain about such a spur from the beaten track. Even with the good visibility I make a navigational error and find myself having overshot onto the lesser summit of White Pike. Either side there are views into the valleys below.

My legs feel very tired, I feel very drained, as I retrace my steps to meet the path between Walna Scar and Dow Crag. Here I turn right and drop quickly on the good path. As I get closer to Consiton four mountain bikes shriek by and I notice how many cars have driven up the track for their occupants to free camp.

A woman opens a gate to allow her partners BMW 3 series cabriolet through. “Thanks for opening the gate for me,” I quip.

I grab the opportunity, a ride in an open top car on a lovely day and the saving of about a mile road walking.

The 25^th brings a cooler, cloudier start to the day but I wake feeling fit enough for another walk. I start to look slightly further a field and fancy Great Dodd and its surrounding hills.

After finding the minor road to cut me across to the A592 I park at High Row and am off walking at 0815. Firstly it’s a walk down a metalled road to the farm at Dowthwaitehead and a chat with a farmer about the pleasures of the day. Then it’s an embarrassing root around his farmyard while I look for the path onto the hills. Path found, and my eyes averted from any checking by the farmer, I make my way across the heavy, boggy grass slopes. I miss the paths of the last few days as my legs feel heavy and tired. I make a navigational error and have to correct myself to find the stone wall that climbs near to the top of Birket Fall. This is not a true 2000ft summit but it’s a nice perch, although blustery, from which to rest. I check for phone signal, put on my fleece, and call my parents, it rings awhile but I assume 1000 is not too early. Mum answers.

“No, Firket Bell,” I correct her (I’m known for mixing the first letters of successive words), then correct myself with, “No, I mean Birket Fell,” while thanking my lucky stars it’s not called ‘Hirkett Fell’.

I cross to the true peak of Hart Side then drop to the col and climb the beckoning Green Side before the short sharp ascent of Stybarrow Dodd. I note fell runners around, I get chatting to one (while I inspect the footings of an ancient derelict wall). They are on an Easter egg trail, running from peak to peak seeking out clues.

I have a good wander around, taking in all the cairns before the grand sweep and rise round to Great Dodd. I rest at Watson’s Dodd at 1150 and take an early lunch to have some energy before the end of the day.

I arrive on Great Dodd at 1230, it feels like a real mountain, there are drop offs all round with accompanying views. There’s also an ancient shelter.

I drop, on the ridge, to Calfhow Pike before the quick pull up to Clough Head and its trig point made of local stone. There are great views of the higher mountains to the north west and the long and winding ‘Old Coach Road’ (my return route to High Row) snakes through the valley floor below.

I drop rapidly, making my own zig zag path, before climbing over an ancient wire fence and picking up the coach road. A mountain bike approaches; it, and its rider, are both heavily laden. I comment on this, the reply is a pure Glaswegian accent so consequently I don’t understand a word of it.

It’s now a route march back to the car with an undulating track, and tired legs, to keep me company. I arrive back at 1455.

As I drive over “The Struggle” from Ambleside to Glenridding I notice the lower temperature and how low the cloud is hanging. I’m second to arrive at the car park and part with £7 to park for the day. I collect my ticket and the credit card receipt for the previous payee – being a good citizen I tuck it under their wiper.

I’m off walking at 0805 but it’s ‘same old, same old’ with the guide book as I look for the ladder style with ‘Helvellyn via Greenside Mine and Red Tarn’. What’s confusing is that this requires some other ‘Helvellyn vias’ to be taken first but, as the guidebook mentions only ‘Helvellyn via Greenside Mine and Red Tarn’ I’m left thinking that I am on the wrong track. Only pouring over the map and checking GPS give me the confidence to pick my way through until I eventually do find a sign saying ‘Helvellyn via Greenside Mine and Red Tarn’. A guidebook really needs to mention all the signposts you are likely to come across and tell you which way to go at each; otherwise it’s just educated guessing.

I take the good track towards Red Tarn, steadily climbing and, in low mist, turn up the dinosaur like, spine ridge to Catseye Cam. I don fleece, bandana around my ears and gloves to take away the sting of the cold.

As I approach the top I keep away from the sharp drop off to the right. I make the summit at 1030, feeling very healthy. Through the swirling mist I can make out Red Tarn and the path to Helvellyn Lower Man. I drop down to the col before climbing the path through the rocks which appears to hang like a rickety cartoon staircase. I climb carefully, the drop to the left being a steep fall off. I place foot and hands carefully until I reach a steep grassy slope which has a series of useful footholds which lead me to the summit plateau. Before me is a trig point and I realise that I’ve inadvertently strayed onto the summit of Helvellyn (which was due to be part of another round connecting the mountains to the south). I tag the trig point and stroll the short distance to the summit cairn. The cloud has lifted and the views are a stunning array of encircling peaks with criss-cross paths stretching between each.

I walk around to Helvellyn Lower Man and appreciate what a fine, conical, mountain Catseye Cam is. From the Lower Man I drop towards the col. I briefly chat with a chap before the most piercing freezing wind hits from the east. Despite my fleece it rips the heat out of me so I’m grateful to make the col where the wind is gentle. I ascend White Side where I fancy breaking for lunch. However the summit is adorned with some human waste so I press on to Raise and its impressive cairn. It’s now 1210 and I’m very pleased with my progress so I duck below the cairn, out of the wind, and eat my lunch.

I line up Sheffield Pike by compass bearing. It involves a drop to Sticks Pass then an easterly turn. Here I note the optimistic ski lift on the north side of Raise. I wonder how many people make the walk out to it as this would be a remote spot on a winter’s day.

Sheffield Pike requires a detour from the main path and a sharp pull across an energy sapping grassed slope. After briefly speaking with a family tackling the Wainwrights I make the summit at 1340.

The path from the top is a steep easterly descent and I backtrack a few times as I find paths that I do not fancy. Eventually I manage to pick my way down, keeping my nerve against the sharp drops and returning to the car at 1450.

April the 27^th, dawning without a cloud in the sky, has me aiming to complete the Scafell group of mountains. It’s a bit of a hike over, requiring travel across the Wrynose and Hardknott passes. I take much in first gear as the bonnet rises above my nose or sinks beneath my knees. As my sat nav constantly revises my arrival time the temperature gauge remains rock solid. I’m thankful for modern cars and imagine the scene in the 1960s with overheating cars parked up on each bend.

At a shade before 0900 I’m parked at the top of Wast Water, grateful for one of the last remaining free parking spaces, and am off walking. The day follows the regular pattern as I guess the bits the guidebook writers ignored. After one backtrack I’m climbing the steep slopes towards Lingmell.

From high up Wast Water glistens behind me, I hear the cattle grid rattle with each new vehicle coming up the valley and watch as the final free parking place is swallowed up.

In the hot weather I find it very tough going, taking me an hour and a half to conquer the steepest part of the path before two distinct raises become part of the trail. As I sit, studying the view in surreal still and quietness, I ponder my pace; yesterday I was so fast in cool weather and rock and slab paths. But on grass or scree, combined with the sun, I slow right down.

I long for some wind to cool me, sometimes he’s your friend, sometimes your enemy, right now I want a gentle breeze to cool me. My prayer is answered on the higher slopes where, on slipping off my pack and map case, the soft wind cools my dripping wet torso.

I make the summit at a little after 1115, a few people are already there, a few people join me. Great End and Great Gable stand proud either side of a valley. Birds dive from their tops and hang still in the air as they study the ground below. For me I study the map, and set the compass for the next one. However, I can’t see the one beyond so drop to the col where I see that what I thought to be the next is actually the one after, my next summit having been out of sight from Lingmell.

Middleboot Knotts and Round How are really knolls nestled, with the prerequisite height and drops, amongst the grander mountains adorning the main ridge. I pass over the sharp falling stream of Piers Gill before dropping and ascending the two. On Round How, which was a heavy legged, energy sapping sharp pull to attain, I stop and eat lunch and survey the view in the peace of my own company.

I drop to the Corridor Route and join the masses heading to Scafell Pike; too many people for pleasantries as everybody passes with barely an acknowledgement. I’m pretty sure I climbed it from this route in 1990 when I found it equally tough going. I rest often, sitting on the polished rocks, as people pass. A multitude of cairns claim the way before the boulder strewn summit appears and, after careful steps, I make the summit for the third time.

Next are Symonds Knott and Sca Fell. A daunting rock face appears to block the path, I check the guidebook and it advises almost getting to the face then descending three hundred feet before a rock strewn gully climb through the stream of Foxes Gill. As I approach the rock face it all feels very serious, I see climbers working their way up as others discuss the best routes. For me I’m following the guidebook, actually it’s now my best friend as I descend through the steep scree to the route up. I chat with a few people, everybody is taking it steady as eerie echoes and clatters fill the scree ridden cauldron.

The pull up the gully is thick with fallen boulders, trickling water and ringing wet moss. I take a few steps at a time, careful not to dislodge anything to the path below and listening carefully should anybody be dislodging anything on to me. I rest and study the guidebook; Symonds Knott and Sca Fell are both above 3000ft. I flick through and work out that these are the last two English 3000ft mountains I’ve left to do. It takes me just a second to realise that I’m about to complete all the 3000ft mountains of Great Britain (308 in all). This gives me a new spring as I clamber over, squeeze beside or avoid large boulders. At Foxes Tarn, no more than a puddle, I turn right to the pull to the ridge. I take in Symonds Knot. A few people are already there, peacefully surveying the view. It feels so different to Scafell Pike where the tourists sat, chattered and made endless mobile phone calls. Here is more serious.

The views are outstanding, back across to the Pike, the valleys and mountains behind and the sea out to the west. I cross to Sca Fell and have a private celebration of my sudden 3000ft achievement. I then explain to a couple so they know why I want my photo taken.

The day becomes longer than I ever anticipated. The walk back to the car is on gruesome scree and steep slopes. It takes me until 1745 and I mess up my navigation on the drive back, not arriving back in Ambleside until way after 2000.

April 28^th brings another day of continuous sunshine and it begins to dawn on me how lucky I am seeing the mountains of the lakes, and their waters, in the bright sunshine of an English spring. With thoughts like those I do my usual trick of badly navigating my way across to Swindale to take in the not oft visited Sleddale Fells.

At 0905 I have to start further back than the guidebook recommendation as a ‘no parking beyond this point’ blocks my way. The sun catches the back of my neck as I walk the undulating tar sealed road to Swindale Head and branch right up the gruesomely steep twisting path. On a frequent rest I conclude that air temperature, gradient and terrain can conspire to all but bring me to a halt and this, without exception, is such an occasion – studying the map I see it’s called ‘The Old Corpse Road’ so I quip to myself that it could soon become ‘The New Corpse Road.’ The sun is brutal, right on me as I try to swing my way around to Selside Pike.

I make the top and sink into its summit shelter, releasing what feels like a heavy pack and raising my tired legs onto a rock. I rest awhile before the brief descent and ascent of Branstree North East Top before a drop down to a rather spectacular pillar – which, according to the guide book, was used for surveying.

Branstree is gained by following a fence, with its predecessor at its feet lying dead in the grass, to a fine wall. Here I cross the fence and make my way to a small cairn (the least impressive summit cairn I’ve ever seen) and a more interesting ground level circular structure that has the hallmarks of Ordnance Survey about it. Shortly to the north east are two more impressive cairns but, below the summit line, I wonder what the motives were for building them.

It’s 1155 and, after taking in the fine views down to Haweswater I park myself on the south side of the wall and eat my now familiar lunch of cold jacket potato and cheese. An older chap has followed the fence up from the south east and clearly wants to chat; I’m a man that clearly does not want to chat. I answer his questions, am friendly but ask him none in return. He moves on and I’m grateful for the peace.

At 1410 I make the fourth summit of the day, Tarn Crag, which is adorned by another of the interesting pillars, standing proud over the valley below. Next to it is a peaty bog where sawn timber, likely from the structure, is being preserved as bog wood.

I make my way over to Grey Crag and turn north east to Harrop Pike. This is a remote corner and I touch the summit, cross the fence and admire the cairn - a stack sitting on a level rock.

I drop back drop and cross a ridge and descend to the bothy of Mosedale Cottage, taking in the views of my walk from earlier in the day. I find it a depressing place and all my thoughts of having, perhaps, found a bothy I’d like to revisit for a few days are ended.

At Swindale Head I get lost amongst the farm buildings, navigating myself amongst farm vehicles and gates a dog calls my presence. I’m glad to be back on the road for the plod back to the car. Arriving at 1640 I set off back, getting very lost on the myriad of lanes until I eventually find my way back to the main road.

Getting lost is the theme of my Saturday April 30^th trip round to Kentmere to meet with Sue Oxley. We plan to do the Kentmere Fells, starting at 0800, and I just make the trip, which should have taken just half an hour, in just under an hour.

It’s a warm day but a stiff breeze in the air has me setting off wearing my fleece and bandana wrapped about my neck. Sue and her dog, Molly, are in fine walking form and I’m glad for the pace as we shoot up Yoke. I think to myself ‘This is great, we’ll have these seven hills ticked off in no time.’

Towards the top of Yoke the blustery wind, under a perfect blue sky, turns to a persistent wind attack. We fight to stay on the path, Sue fights to keep one trekking pole on the ground as she clutches Molly’s lead in the other hand. I brace myself with two trekking poles.

A man wheeling a mountain bike passes us and, after we pass over Ill Bell and Froswick, he struggles his way up Thornthwaite Crag as his mountain bike takes off as he holds it parallel to the ground.

I push on and catch up with Sue in the col before the ascent. We can barely stand up in the 75mph winds. Sue had previously mentioned a drop into the valley to the west. As I catch her I ask if she wants to take it.

It’s a long drop before the wind abates. We meet two older chaps, one with a blister. We sort him out with some Compeed I’m carrying. They want to press on for an ambitious day as Sue and I drop to the more settled confines of the valley floor.

We rest behind a wall to eat before the tough re-ascent, well south and lower than Yoke, to return to Kentmere.

May Day brings a rest day and a catch up with Kate Wilson, her family and friends. It’s almost ten years (July 2001) since I met Kate when she came along as a ‘friend of a friend’ to climb my last Munro with me.

May 2^nd and I’m back to the hills with the plan to do the Hartsop (or heart stop as I call it) horseshoe and two of the hills that were abandoned on Saturday.

The drive over ‘The Struggle’ from Ambelside to Hartsop village is stunning in the early morning light. The radio is playing out the news of the deaths of Henry Cooper and Osama Bin Laden. Again there’s not a cloud in sight and when I’ve parked I’m glad for the cooling breeze but am concerned what it’ll be like on the summits.

I make an early navigational error and find myself too far up Pasture Beck. I cut steeply, across rough ground, north west to regain the steep path up Hartsop Dodd. Wind catches me and I worry it’s going to be like Saturday but as I reach the path it abates.

I find it a hard pull, resting often but I’m glad for the cooler conditions as, although I’m slow, I’m not ground to a virtual standstill. The sun is directly in my eyes which gives a morale boost by stopping me from directly viewing the ascent. To the north I’m able to view the Kirkstone Pass and Ulswater in the distance – a rich blue that snuggles into the lower contours of the hills.

At the summit I chat to a husband and wife pair who clearly are avid hill goers – as fellow Munroists we chat about mountains climbed and those to be climbed.

I let them set off first then follow on to Stony Cove Pike then north east, on steep path and scree, to the impressive summit beacon of Thornthwaite Crag. Here I am on the same ridge that Sue and I turned back from on Saturday. Again the wind hits hard and I duck below the wall to rest.

I break from the guidebook to take in the previously abandoned High Street. High Street is both the name of the summit and the Roman road that graces this ridge. It’s an easy walk and the wind, although very blustery, is manageable. Like many other people out today I use the confines of the wall, leading to the summit, to eat my lunch. From here I branch to the furthest point in the day by dropping around 240 metres before the simple rise to Rough Crag. The drop is through a twisting entertaining ridge path with rock, grass, steps and fantastic views. To my right is the tarn of Blea Water, rippling in the wind. Ahead of me the waters of Haweswater Reservoir have dropped leaving a white ring that defines the shore like a contour on a map.

I’m pleased to find the re-ascent to High Street easier than expected - the twisting ridge allowing me natural points at which to catch my breath. I head back to Thornthwaite Crag before taking the long north ridge spur to Gray Crag. The wind is now bashing me hard but I notice as I drop below the High Street ridge line I am protected and the wind dies down.

It feels along way out before I reach the summit. I stand and survey the views, the walk of the morning and the steep descent ahead of me. I make my way down, trying to be gentle on my painful knees before arriving back at the car at 1610 – eight hours since I started.

Tuesday May 3^rd and I wake early but very tired. I lie in for an hour then drag myself up, breakfast, pack lunch, pack gear and a drive round to Patterdale to take in Place Fell, High Rise and five other surrounding peaks. I’m following a walk described in the guidebook but elect to start it from Rooking instead of the recommended Martindale Church.

I start at 0825 following first a delightful walled track with sun glimmering through the trees then a river bank with birds chirping in the fine weather.

The ascent is long and tough as I begin the lower flanks of Place Fell. I have my usual thoughts of ‘why am I doing this’ and ‘why not turn back if it hurts this much’. It’s really tempting and I’m sure one day I will and that’ll be it. But, for now, as ever I push on, stumble and rest, press on until I make the summit at 1020; just under two hours, a typical timing for my Lakeland ascents.

I survey the walk ahead, it looks massive. The walk over to Rest Dodd looks far enough but the swing round to Loadpot Hill looks a very long way.

It’s a sharp drop then another climb until, at 1150, I get to very pretty Angle Tarn with its little islands, with trees away from the sheep, peninsulas and coves.

I drop to a slow pace to work my way up Rest Dodd. Slowly I place one foot in front of the other and only look at the ground on which I tread. I feel tired, slow and annoyed. I look back and see the snaking path that drops from Place Fell and pick out my route past Angle Tarn until my eyes run up to where I stand.

It’s 1250 by the time I get to the summit where I eat my lunch before tackling a cruel drop and a 600ft ascent to Rampsgill Head. This takes an hour and as I survey the six mile round trip to Loadpot Head I realise that it and Wether Hill will have to be for another day. I find relief with that decision made and it makes the closer summits of Kidsty Pike (at 1400) and High Raise more achievable. Pressing on beyond would take me into a late evening to finish and spoil any enjoyment – ten years ago I’d have done it.

At High Raise I hear the distant voices of other hill going folk being carried by the wind. I make out the odd word, the odd phrase but seldom does a conversation hold across the open ground.

It’s a route march back, mainly descent but the odd rise in the path has my legs complaining. I pass Angle Tarn at 1510 where Canada Geese protest my intrusion as they swim across the tarn. From there I take the direct paths to Patterdale with my chatterbox mind annoying me about every topic it can think of. It’s about 1730 when I wearily reach the car, dump my pack and head to the local Inn for food and orange juice.

I wake early on May 4^th feeling very tired and it’s 1000 before I’m navigating the car through the muddle of single track roads and farm tracks to Hallow Bank, north east of Kentmere. My plan is to finish the final two of the horseshoe that Sue Oxley and I tackled, and were driven off by the high winds, on Saturday.

I make steady progress until just after 1100 I sink into the grass and survey the view below. The flatlands of the valley floors, either side of the ridge, are a rich green of walled fields; a wall runs the line of the ridge before me like a resin beaded trouser crease. The mountains rise either side of the fields, the lush green merging into army camouflage before rocky outcrops steer the eye to their ridges and summits. In the distance is the sea, glimmering through the light haze of a lovely spring day.

I pass the summit cairn and trig point of Kentmere Pike before the easy ridge walk out to Harter Fell, arriving at 1215. I sit with my back to the iron fence post spiked summit cairn and survey the vista before me – the familiar Haweswater Reservoir glimmering and High Street (with the dots of moving walkers) to my left. I rest until my back feels uncomfortable against the rocks, I say hello to a few passing walkers then set off back to my car, returning at 1400.

The weather forecast proves correct and the end of the unprecedented sunny, dry weather is at an end. I fancy taking in the Helvellyn circuit which includes the notorious Striding Edge.

I set off, from Patterdale, at 0820 with an overcast sky, a few dots of rain in the air, and the welcome result of only having to carry one litre of water instead of the two required for hot weather. The first peak is Birkhouse Moor and I miss the track and, after inspecting the map, realise I can keep on this track and break from it at 490m back onto the one I wanted. By 510m I’ve not found the branching path, look back and see it. I descend, picking up the right path, cross a wall which I follow to near the summit. I branch off to visit the non-summit cairn before backtracking and crossing over the real summit.

I survey the bowl around which the summits of Striding Edge and Helvellyn sit. Before me sits the ridge that connects Striding Edge to Helvellyn; a series of humpbacks with, reportedly, steep drops to either side. I make my way up, pack away my trekking poles, and elect to take the easier path to the right of the ridge. However, curiosity gets the better of me and part way through I get onto the ridge. It is exposed but nothing like what I’ve experienced in Scotland.

There are two separate couples and a middle aged lady and her student aged son also on the ridge. We pass each other, they re-pass as we call encouragement and find a comradeship in the shared objective. The final part, before the steep scramble to the summit, requires the descent of a chimney. I lower myself down and try and give guidance to a couple.

So I take my pack off and clamber half way up the chimney. I’m then passed Lotte, a small cute wee thing who is lowered towards me with her four paws dangling below her and a look of sheer terror in her small black eyes. I take her close to my chest, offer words of comfort, stroke her as I make my way down to safe ground. She struggles a little and I hush her reassurances as I rub her back. On safe ground I make a fuss of her before returning for the second dog. By now the lady of the partnership is able to pass her man and the other dog is lowered to her, saving me from a repeat experience of things being a ‘little hairy’ on the ridge.

The next section is a steep scramble to the summit of Helvellyn. A multitude of paths and scree have been created and the group of us work our way up taking it easy not to dislodge anything. I take it in short bursts, resting often. Lotte takes it gingerly, a couple of times refusing her owner’s preferred route and instead making her way across to me.

I follow the woman with her son, she complains that all the bending means her bottom is sticking out. Fine by me I can assure you.

Finally we meet the summit ridge, its shelter, memorials, cairn and a cold, chill biting wind. It’s noon, my second visit and I sit in the windbreak shelter and eat my lunch before the easy walks to the plateau of Nethermost Pike and Dollywaggon Pike. I can’t get one of my trekking poles to re-engage, the shaft turns endlessly with nothing to bite against. It’s a considerable drop and a demoralising re-ascent to take in Seat Sandal and my knees complain with just the one pole to support them. I’m now overlooking Grisedale Tarn and study the map hard to ensure that I don’t accidentally climb Fairfield. This is a 2000ft peak but is included in another round. The Nuttall’s guidebook does allocate the peaks into well thought out day walks but it means that, when in the vicinity of other peaks, not to be tempted by them.

I make the drop to just above the tarn before the path that takes a glancing blow up the side of St Sunday Crag. I rest in a hollow, surveying what I’ve done and keeping out the wind. I manage to get the second trekking pole to bite so I can extend and lock it. I now make better progress across the series of false summits to make the top of St Sunday Crag.

I lose height again before the trek across Birks and a sharp drop, in persistent drizzle, back to Patterdale. At 1710 I’m sat in my car as the rains close in.

Friday dawns with persistent rain so I bring my walking holiday to an end and make use of the day updating my diaries, washing and taking it easy before the drive back on the Saturday.

With the annual Over The Hill Club AGM approaching, the traditional email from Big John Hutchison arrives with details of the club walk for Saturday November 19^th. I reach for my Nuttall’s guide to the mountains of England; thumb the pages in the proximity of the walk and see what else I can take in.

Thursday 17^th I drop a friend in Manchester for the weekend and seek out the Travel Lodge at Kendal. I love its anonymity, nobody I’ve never met before to make polite conversation with, no problem parking and no fuss about the room. I spread my kit out, load my pack for tomorrow including one of the three packed lunches I’d prepared for the weekend, lie on the bed, enjoy the memories of egg and chips at an M6 service station and click on the TV.

Having managed without a telly for the last year this feels like a new experience; TV, for me, now has been relegated to Crimewatch and Formula 1 on iPlayer. I flick up to the radio channels. It’s grim, no Radio 4 and I begin to wonder if I fall into the target market for this establishment. I flick around looking for something that is not pop culture, dodgy or sensationalist news. I finally plump for an ancient repeat of ‘On The Buses’. Memories of the 1970s come flooding back. Did we really find this funny? Still it was on ITV in its heyday and I recall my mother’s shock when, returning from babysitting for a neighbour, she announced she’d discovered the most dreadful piece of information about them – the ITV button was pressed in on their TV set. Believe me, that kept neighbourhood tittle-tattle going for quite awhile; what went on behind the net curtains of 1970s suburbia was nobody’s business.

The Friday dawns and I make a slow start. Breakfast is peanuts and rice bread, the drink is my own Rooibos and I again wonder if I fall in the category of the Travel Lodge target market; they clearly think I do judging by the succession of emails they send throughout the year offering cheap weekend breaks.

I head for Outhgill to take in the four fells that lie to its east. Navigation proves a problem before I even get out of the car. My cunning plan, of locating the nearest post code and using my Sat Nag to get me there, is a dismal failure as I end up at some hotel to the north. I use cunning and stealth and drive at five miles per hour, annoying everybody behind me, until I spot Outhgill. In true determined tradition I try to drive as far as I can up the hill I’m about to climb. This peters out after two hundred yards at a narrow dead end and farm gate. Now farm gates don’t move, narrow lanes don’t get wider and ditches do not suddenly fill themselves in. And steep gradients are not for reversing down. I ponder my stupidity while holding the handbrake with all my might. To my left is a bungalow with a large gravel frontage and a big shiny RAC van. I imagine the conversation (no really, I do imagine this):

“No,” and I hang up, knock the bungalow’s door, explain I am a member, explain my predicament and the RAC man, in true sarcastic tones, agrees that I truly am a member.

I give up on the idea and gingerly edge the car around with as much anonymity that a noisy power steering pump will allow.

I roll the car down to the village, park on a little green area, swing the pack through my arms, extend the trekking poles and ascend the track I’d just rolled down. I cross open ground, follow a stream before the steep terrain through Mallerstang Edge, through boggy ground to the highest summit of the day, High Seat.

It’s 1135 and I survey the view – absolutely bugger all; the mist is down, good and thick.

I close navigate to Archy Styrigg, making use of the GPS to avoid following a path that descends the mountain. It’s a windswept plateau which the wind is still busy sweeping. I drop my pack to rest at its summit, munch on some peanuts and yelp as I swing the pack back onto my shoulders; a trapped nerve in my upper left arm is the new ailment of middle-age. It recently gave me maximum embarrassment when I had to ask my eldest friend, at the age of 78, to help me on with my coat.

I follow fences, bogs, bits of cairns across Hugh Seat to Little Fell, arriving at 1330. I am dry but my feet are soaked so, coupled with not wishing to still be high at dusk, the lofty ideas of retracing my route are abandoned. I take the quickest route off the mountains and pick up the B road for a lengthy, boring walk back to Outhgill.

At 1545 I’m driving to Dufton, it takes about an hour but I take considerably longer with a spot of navigation problems. It’s a beautiful village with the Youth Hostel bordering the upper slope of the village green and an idyllic pub, with farm buildings behind, adorning the lower slope.

I make my way to the village hall and meet with friends from the club, make my way back, check in and am pleased to be put in a room with just two others. I can start to put Derewentwater Youth Hostel, with its infamous, spacious and snorer ridden Room 1 behind me.

Supper is served in the Youth Hostel, very tasty and I elect not to attend the annual club slide show and make my way to bed. I drift off and barely hear Sam Hackett and Dave Handley come in to bed. Until the snoring starts that is. But, now realising I snore too, I’m more understanding, switch my radio on and put in the ear pieces. When the snoring outdoes the radio I turn up the volume, if the volume outdoes my ability to sleep I turn it down until the point at which the snoring bothers me.

In the early hours I roll over, the radio comes adrift from the ear piece lead; falls downs the gap between the bed and wall and clobbers Sam in the bunk below. I peer over the edge and an arm hands the radio back.

The morning comes and with it the hostel breakfast. There is confusion after the round of juice, cereal and fruit. Is there a cooked breakfast? Somebody is sent to investigate. All doors are locked and we wonder how long we should remain in the dining area with eyes full of hope.

Watches are inspected, stomachs rumble and eyes gaze to the day outside. The odd non-resident club member can be seen in the car park, nobody wants to miss a cooked breakfast; nobody wants to look a fool. Our patience is rewarded with the clanking wheels of a mobile cafeteria. The smells waft our way, it’s a full-English and in true English style nobody wants to be first in the queue. Apart from me whose stomach overrides all social graces.

The food is lovely, so much so I, encouraged by fellow diners, and feeling a bit shy, in true Olive Twist fashion ask for some more. My tail drops between my legs as the server thinks not everybody is down yet. I return to the table, plate empty and sit it out. I am rewarded when I’m called across for seconds.

Dave Skipp gives a few of us a lift round to Kirkland where a party of twenty four, in various cars, gather for the walk up Cross Fell. I start, at 1000, with Big John and Sue Oxley, keep their pace for about forty-five minutes before dropping successively back until I’m walking and chatting with those at the rear.

The sky is a rich winter blue and the hills are their greens, greys and russet browns. The path and its crocodile of walkers winds its way into the mist and crosses stone flagged paths and boggy ground. I sink below my right knee in bog and, instinctively, throw my left knee to the ground to protect myself which in turn flicks a large lump of mud into my left eye. I extract myself as the creature from the bog. Immediate concern from my fellow walkers switches quickly to gentle mickey taking.

A boulder field takes us to the summit of Cross Fell, we pause at its windbreak shelter and trig point. I, for some reason that completely baffles me, am entrusted with taking the compass bearing to pick up the Pennine Way track to Little Dun Fell. In the distance Great Dun Fell, with its bizarre arrangement of communications equipment, is literally topped by the most enormous looking golf ball.

The path is well defined, well made and we make Great Dun Fell in steady time. With our backs to its barbed wire fences, and our eyes from its view, we look into the valley below.

A short excursion onto it newly metalled access road takes us to the track leading up Knock Fell. By now my legs are tired and I feel chilled in the winter air. The ascent is easy and we gather at the summit for a group photo.

On Knock Fell. I’m in the bright red jacket with poles. Note the golf ball on top of Great Dun Fell in the distance. (Photo John Hutchison)

It’s now a long walk back to the Youth Hostel, descending amongst streams, rocks and gullies. It’s easier to chat without gasping for the air of ascent. Years are caught up with; plans for 2012 discussed and the evening meal looked forward to.

We cross through a particularly boggy farmyard where we cling to its outer reaches to avoid the preverbal mess that cows make. Our boots and shoes are covered in it and we employ ingenious counter methods in long grass, puddles and shallow streams to rid ourselves.

We get into Dufton at 1630, dusk has descended. Villages walk their dogs for the final stroll of the day; the lights of the pub and hostel beckon us through our final few hundred yards.

I shower and relax in the lounge. I chat to fellow club members as Sam Hackett limps in in a sorry condition. He’s strained his knee and ankle on a solo walk in the hills. He starts to slip into some form of shock; an ambulance is called, its blue light flashes ghostly shadows through the glass frontage of the hostel. He’s taken off amongst concerned looks of his compatriots.

The evening meal is a grand affair, organised, cooked and prepared by Ann and Alvar Thorn. They sacrificed a day in the hills for us and it was an amazing evening.

Tiredness prevents me from the later revelries and I slip out of the classic village hall into the night air of Dufton. There’s a good fire raging behind the pub. I think it’s a bit late for bonfire night but this is up north, clearly they do things differently here. As I approach I start to think that it’s a bit ambitious for a Guy Fawkes Night affair. And all the crackling, fizzing and popping and aren’t those flames higher than the pub? I remember the farm buildings behind the pub and the old farmers saying of “Red sky at night, barns on fire.”

Indeed it is; a group of villagers and I gather. The fire brigade have been called and we can hear distant sirens as the engines steer their way across the twisting and undulating roads.

Discussions are had about where the farmer might be. Cows bellow in distress as the wind steers the flames in a rotating dance above the roof of the pub.

We stay and watch until the brigade arrives. It’s a big job, they empty one tender; another arrives as the first shoots off to the nearest hydrant.

Come morning the fire is still smouldering, the brigade are still in attendance and the talk over breakfast is of nothing else as I slip myself an extra egg and veggie sausage.

My trip home is interrupted by a walk up Great Knoutberry Hill where, after emptying my trail shoes of yesterday’s mud and, through thick fog, following an easy walk from my car, I’m treated to a temperature inversion and fantastic views.