Sample chapter from "Walking it Through: An asthmatic’s walking diary" by Stephen P. Smith

ISBN: 979-8845944085 Available on Amazon

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April 2011 - English Nuttalls

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Friday 15th April sees me visiting a customer on the outskirts of Liverpool followed by a holiday in the Lake District, bagging 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.

 

With my company kindly paying my mileage to Liverpool and back, I emerge on Saturday the 16th from a Travelodge, feeling that so far this has been very efficient. The dawn skies look promising and a gentle cooling breeze wafts across the M6 service station. I make my way to the service area with the hopes of a hearty breakfast.

 

My diet has become tiresome: no wheat (due to a digestive issue), no meat, no sugar or alcohol (both of which dump me in a low mood). Not that an alcoholic beverage is on my agenda but I soon realise that an M6 service station is not prepared for no wheat, no meat and nothing sweet. I plump for two fried eggs, beans and tomatoes. Back in my room I devour a couple of rice cakes for my carbohydrate.

 

I then set off on the drive over to bag a couple of mountains above Grasmere and to the west of Thirlmere. It takes just over an hour, punctuated by a number of stops to convince myself that I'd not left anything behind in the hotel. Arriving at the car park I find there's a charge for it, but I'm without any 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.

 

I begin walking 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, cooling and warming 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 – having injured my neck in January I've been unable to exercise. After two and a quarter hours I clamber the final few paces to the summit.

 

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 of sheep I saw on the way up (grey or brown bodies with white faces), before dropping sharply east across Standing Crag. The going becomes hard when I have to lower myself down a steep grassy wet slope. Safely on gentler ground I slip, go flying and bum slide a few yards with wet penetrating my backside and legs.

 

I return through the forest, following the same track as on my ascent, and return to the car in a total of four hours.

 

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 soon discover the delights of the Wrynose Pass. Being one of the steepest roads in England, linking to the more famous Hardknott Pass, it is narrow, tortuous and not averse to having your left wheels running along a very sharp drop.

 

There's lots of starting and stopping and braking to do, not aided by getting entangled in a cycling event with a stream of cars and motorcycles. Having just had all four discs and pads replaced the rather substantial bill came with an advisory note of "Avoid heavy braking for 500 miles." I don't know if lots of braking constitutes heavy braking, but my foot is more often than not wedded to the pedal.

 

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.

 

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 11:35 and, rarely for me, have the guidebook in my hand as I make my way across a tracked bridge and turn left onto a riverside path. There are a series of paths branching off, not mentioned in the guidebook. I view each in turn, wondering if I should be taking it. I press on, hoping I'm following the footsteps of the authors.

 

Relieved to pass a farm house mentioned in the guidebook, I dutifully turn right onto the track beyond then seek out the path to the left. It's now a 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. 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 treading my way in the ripening sun.

 

I pass through rocky crags, using them as place markers or things to aim for. Then the summit appears on my horizon: a castellated array of rocky crags. Sheep stand and stare while 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 13:55. The views all around are magnificent. I track my route up then gaze out across to the Wrynose Pass and to the sea beyond.

 

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 his estate. I take out map and guidebook and rule out the recommended way down: too much tree planting has taken place since the route was worked out.

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Picking a south-easterly path, I navigate carefully down, hoping for an easy route off with no wrong turns and extended timings. I run out of water and do the only thing I can do to help my thirst – donning a cap to break the heat from the sun. Opposite is Seathwaite Tarn, its distant waters teasing my thirst.

 

There is loose small scree and I stumble 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.

 

On Monday April 18th my ambitions have become loftier and, with the Langdale Pikes in mind, I pack my rucksack with food and water then 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, some people overtake, others roughly keep the same pace as me but I don't get ahead of anybody. Feeling tired, I rest often, either perched on a slab on the path or laid out on the grass. I slug back a litre of water then refill my bottle from a fast-flowing stream. 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.

 

I'm grateful to the path builders for this stepped path. It gives me an even pace that the steep grassy slopes, where I frequently slump to the ground for a rest, fail to.

 

 

I arrive at Stickle Tarn at 11:00, an hour and a 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 below 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 distance is High Raise but it's an illusion of the terrain – 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 too. Paragliders turn and swoop from Harrison Stickle. Looking back, from whence I came, I pick 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. Instead, I drop and pick up the path that leads me to the summit. This is tough going, taking me forty minutes in all.

 

A welcome cooling breeze fans me as I survey Stickle Tarn from yet another angle. I head west towards Pike of Stickle. The route gets a little confusing with the best I can find to be via a sharp descent of a rocky wall. I gingerly take steps before leaping the last few feet and steadying myself as I land. 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. It just stands there staring at me. I walk around and begin the rocky climb which takes me to the summit.

 

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.

 

On my way back, I drop 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'm mindful of getting my bearings wrong and joining 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. After just over eight hours in the hills, I arrive at 17:40. I don't fancy cooking so pop into the Stickle Barn pub. 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.

 

"Will you be eating inside or outside?" he asks

"Inside," I reply, "I'm not really the outdoorsy type."

My humour is lost.

 

After a rest day, using up another day of glorious sun, I feel fit enough to tackle the Bowfell group of mountains – a big day in the hills. I plan a route in the reverse order of the guide book so, if I feel fit, I can 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 and, 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 09:00, take the well-made and gently-rising track of the Cumbria Way.

 

It's 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.

 

Below Angle Tarn I branch off right and ascend Rossett Pike, reaching the summit just before noon. 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 amongst couples sitting and chatting, families sharing a picnic and a man fussing over his two dogs. It could be a city centre park on a mid-summer’s 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, negotiating my way through its boulder field until I pull myself onto the summit. A bit of cloud has formed in the sky, high, white and no danger. A distant paraglider catches my eye before two single engine propeller driven RAF trainer aircraft blast down the valley. Decorated in shiny black with yellow markings they make a beautiful sight and a lovely sound as their piston engines drone into the distance. Like steam trains have the romantic advantage over diesel, propeller planes do so over jet.

 

Following another boulder field, I 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. From a higher vantage point, I survey 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 husbands 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 21st becomes another rest day where I amble in Ambleside, buy some DVDs, food and generally relax.

 

The 22nd becomes my third trip down Great Langdale since Monday. This time I have the parking sussed and am walking at around 09:15 for a day doing the ten tops of the Crinkle Crags round. The first peak entails a road walk before I branch off at a stream then follow a well- trodden path. The weather is clear and the sun steadily warms me. 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 Blisco, which I reach in two hours. Many people are gathered here 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, Cold Pike West Top and Cold Pike Far West Top. Again the views are fantastic: Monday's walk is fully on view again and part of Wednesday's appears 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 Crinkle Crags South Top. 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 Shelter Crags 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. Dropping rapidly to the track I took on Wednesday I make good going, reaching my car at 17:40.

 

 

I visit the same pub I visited on Monday and Wednesday, ordering 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 23rd I wake early, feeling fit enough for another day in the hills. 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've both cracked across my pain line so I wander into Ambleside 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 another 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 say, pointing to those I'd picked out in a price range of £28.99, £64.99 and £104.99.

 

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

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In the evening I go to the cinema and see the very funny film, 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.' In my humble experience, not if you are a single English bloke you won't – frequently downright hostile I'd say.

 

Sunday 24th (Easter Sunday) dawns as beautiful as any day this week. I manage to get myself out of bed early. I fancy the Coniston Fells. At eleven and a half miles coupled with 4400 feet of ascent, I'm set for a big day.

 

Arriving in Coniston around 07:30 I consult the guidebook. Apparently 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.

 

Setting off at 07:50, after finding parking on the road to the Copper Mines and Youth Hostel, I find my new walking shoes are a nice fit. I feel fit and make good progress towards Wetherlam. The disused mines and the Youth Hostel come into view but I branch north-west, taking the path through the curves and undulations. I hear voices below and my gaze spots a group of wild campers; their voices carrying high up the mountain. A sheep with its new born 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 10:15. Coniston Water glitters in the morning sun and I recall its dark history, Donald Campbell and his Bluebird boat. Opposite is The Old Man of Coniston – a peak for later in the day. There's a little haze through which I can make out much of my walk, around the twisting ridges and their peaks.

 

I make the easy half-hour walk to Black Sails, arriving at 10:45, then, via a rocky scramble, the summit of Swirl How some fifty minutes later. 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 22nd 1944. I survey the area and see that there are the remains of molten metal where it caught fire. The aircraft would have only needed to be a few metres higher to have made it over the ridge.

 

It reminds me of an old chap, Jack Taylor, I met in Canada who'd lost his brother, Robert William Taylor, in a Halifax Bomber during the war. He mentioned he'd wished he'd visited his grave in England, but now felt too old. Back home I contacted The Commonwealth War Graves Commission and they were able to tell me where he was buried. I went and took some photos and researched the circumstances of the crash. Next time I was in Canada I caught up with Jack and gave him the photographs and details of the crash.

 

I take in Great Carrs. The drop off is steep into the valley below and I'm cooled by a breeze 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 Coniston Old Man.

 

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 fellow walkers head straight back down but for me I have the walk around to Dow Crag, Walna Scar and White Maiden.

  

 

 

Dow Crag 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 – in wind, rain or mist, I could imagine being uncertain about taking such a spur from the well-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 and I feel 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 Coniston, 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.

"Would you like a ride into Coniston?"

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 25th brings a cooler, cloudier start to the day but I feel fit enough for another walk. I start to look slightly further afield 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 08:15. 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 Birkett Fell. 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 10:00 is not too early. Mum answers.

 

"Hello."

"Hi, Mum, it's me."

"Who?"

"Steve."

"Where are you?"

"Birkett Fell."

"Birkett Bell?" she replies (Mum is known for her mishearing).

"No, Firket Bell," I correct her (I'm known for mixing the first letters of successive words), then correct myself with, "No, I mean Birkett 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 shyly 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. At Watson's Dodd I rest. It's 11:50 and I take an early lunch to have some energy before the end of the day.

 

I arrive on Great Dodd at 12:30, 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.

 

As I drive over 'The Struggle' from Ambleside to Glenridding I notice a drop in temperature and low hanging cloud. 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 and tuck it under their wiper.

 

At just after 08:00 I'm off walking and struggle as I look for the guidebook's recommendation of a ladder stile with a sign for 'Helvellyn via Greenside Mine and Red Tarn'. By poring over the map and checking GPS, I pick my way through a series of other 'Helvellyn via' signs to find the 'Helvellyn via Greenside Mine and Red Tarn' sign. I make a mental note, if I ever write a guidebook I need 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.

 

The steadily climbing track towards Red Tarn is good. In low mist I turn up the dinosaur-like, spine ridge to Catstye 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 10:30, 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 appear to hang like a rickety cartoon staircase. I climb cautiously, the drop to the left being a steep fall off. Placing foot and hands carefully, 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 Catstye 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 12:10 and, very pleased with my progress, 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 13:40.

 

From the top it's a steep easterly descent. I backtrack a few times as I pick my way down, keeping my nerve against the sharp drops before returning to the car.

 

April the 27th dawns without a cloud in the sky. A good day to try and 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 of it in first gear while the bonnet rises above my nose or sinks beneath my knees. As my Sat Nav constantly revises my arrival time the car's 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 09:00 I'm parked at the top of Wast Water, grateful for one of the last remaining free parking spaces. The day starts with the regular chore of getting into the mind-set of the writers of the guidebook: working out which unmentioned bits on the ground to ignore. After one backtrack I'm on course and 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. Sat, studying the view in surreal still and quietness, I ponder my pace; yesterday I was so fast in cool weather on rock and slab paths. But on grass or scree, combined with the sun, I slow right down.

 

I long for some wind, sometimes it'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 Lingmell's summit at a little after 11:15. A few people are already here, enjoying the views. Others 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. I study the map, and set the compass for the next top. However, I can't see the one beyond so drop to the col where I see what I thought to be the next is actually the one after.

 

 

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. The route feels familiar – 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 Scafell. A daunting rock face appears to block the path. I check the guidebook and it advises almost getting to the face then a three hundred feet descent before a rock-strewn gully climb through the stream of Foxes Gill. As I approach the rock face it all feels very serious. Climbers work their way up. 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. Eerie echoes and clatters fill the scree-ridden cauldron. I chat with a few people, everybody is taking it steady.

 

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 listen carefully should anybody be dislodging anything on to me.

 

I rest, studying the guidebook: Symonds Knott and Scafell are both above 3000ft and are my last two English 3000ft mountains. 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 squeeze past, clamber over 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 it feels 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 Scafell and have a private celebration of my sudden 3000ft achievement. I explain to a couple and ask them to take my photo.

 

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 17:45 and I mess up my navigation on the drive back, not arriving back in Ambleside until way after 20:00.

 

 

April 28th 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 these, I take my mind off navigating my car across to Swindale, to take in the not oft visited Sleddale Fells, and get lost.

 

Back on track I approach the recommended parking area at around 09:00, only to be thwarted by a sign saying, 'No parking beyond this point'. So I start further back with the sun catching the back of my neck as I walk the undulating tar-sealed road to Swindale Head.

 

At Swindale Head I 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, sink into its summit shelter, slip off what feels like a heavy pack and raise 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. Where the fence meets a fine wall I cross 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 just before noon 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, who followed the fence up from the south-east, 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 14:10 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 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. As I navigate myself amongst farm vehicles and gates my stress levels are heightened by a dog calling my presence. When I get to the road I'm grateful for the straightforward plod back to the car. Arriving at 16:40, I set off and get very lost on the myriad of lanes which lead to the main road.

 

Getting lost is the theme of my Saturday April 30th trip round to Kentmere to meet with Sue Oxley. We plan to do the Kentmere Fells, starting at 08:00. I make the drive over, which should have taken 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 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. At one point his mountain bike takes off and we watch him struggle to hold it parallel to the ground.

 

Sue gets ahead and I catch up with her 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 not going to get any better," I say.

"Are you sure that's okay?" she asks.

"Yes, this is supposed to be a holiday."

 

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 plan 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, keeping well away from 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 joined mutual friends on my last Munro.

 

May 2nd 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 Ambleside 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. However, I 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 on reaching 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 make progress. 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 Ullswater 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 a 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 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, as I drop below the High Street ridge line, I find some protection.

 

It feels a long way out to the summit. I stand and survey the views, my walk up 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 eight hours since I started.

 

Tuesday May 3rd 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. The guidebook recommends starting from Martindale Church, instead I elect to start it from Rooking.

 

I set off at 08:25 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 in 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 11:50, I get to the very pretty Angle Tarn. It has peninsulas, coves and small islands where trees grow, free from nibbling sheep.

 

The ascent of Rest Dodd is steep. I feel tired, slow and annoyed. I place one foot in front of the other, keeping my head down. On a break I look back and see the snaking path that drops from Place Fell. I pick out my route past Angle Tarn until my eyes run up to where I stand.

 

It takes an hour to the summit where I eat my lunch before tackling a cruel drop and a 600ft ascent to Rampsgill Head. This takes a further hour and as I survey the six-mile round trip to Loadpot Hill I realise that it and Wether Hill will have to be for another day. I find relief with a decision made, and it makes the closer summits of Kidsty Pike and High Raise more achievable. Pressing on 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 carried on 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 15:10, Canada Geese protest my intrusion and swim across the tarn. From here I take the direct paths to Patterdale with my chatterbox mind annoying me about every topic it can think of. It's about 17:30 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 4th feeling very tired, and it's 10:00 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 two mountains of the horseshoe Sue Oxley and I tackled on Saturday. I hope the high winds will have abated.

 

I make steady progress until, just after 11:00, I sink into the grass and survey the view. 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 sharp 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 12:15. Sat with my back to the iron fencepost spiked summit cairn I 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.

 

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

 

I set off, from Patterdale, at 08:20 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.

 

I follow a track for the first summit of the day, Birkhouse Moor. After missing a turning around the 300m contour, I stop to inspect the map. Instead of backtracking, I figure I can continue and break off at the 490m contour to get onto the track for the summit. At 510m I stop and look back. I've overshot. After a quick descent I pick up the right path, cross a wall which I follow to near the summit. I branch off to visit a cairn, not marking the actual summit, before backtracking and crossing over the real summit.

 

The area is a mountainous bowl around which the summits of Striding Edge and Helvellyn sit. Before me is the ridge connecting 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.

 

"We've got two dogs with us," they say.

I'd not noticed this before.

"Can I help?" I ask (comradeship feeling rather high).

"Yes, can you take one?"

 

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 – I hush her reassurances and 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 slip by 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.

 

"She's made a friend," laughs her owners. Lotte looks back with an expression I can only describe as, 'I'm sorted, thank you very much.'

 

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 to Helvellyn and I sit in the windbreak shelter and eat my lunch before the easy walk to the plateau of Nethermost Pike then on to Dollywaggon Pike. Here 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 – my knees complain with just the one pole to support them. With Grisedale Tarn below me, I orientate 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, I have to resist being 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. Resting in a hollow, I keep out of the wind and survey what I've done. I manage to get the second trekking pole to bite so I can extend and lock it. Now I make better progress across the series of false summits to 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 17:10 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.

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