Grit boulders on the summit of Great Whernside. Image from
Mountains, Snow and Rock
I have been very gently scolded by anticant - in the comments box of my previous post - for allowing my melancholic nature to obscure the fact that I live in one of the most beautiful parts of the country. He is absolutely right. I should spend more time in the hills, where the wind will surely blow the cobwebs away. I used to walk regularly in the fells. Sitting alone at the top of a hill is a wonderful way to feel your spirits soar. These days we are more likely to explore the countryside on our bikes: the children much prefer cycling to walking as speeding down a hill affords a frisson of excitement that is hard to capture on foot. But this weekend we are child-free, and we opted for a more sanguine climb up Great Whernside. I love to climb the fells. The gentle, rhythmic plodding of one foot after another becomes hypnotic after a while. It is more Pooh than Tigger, and I can be gently seduced into the here-and-now by the rhythm of my body. As we climbed high above Hag Dyke a great wind took up and pushed us up the final ascent. The view was breathtaking, with the mass of Buckden Pike and the
Our descent was helped by the great bear of a wind blowing up from the valley, supporting my weight as I pushed my way back down the fell. We had a pint of hand pulled bitter in Kettlewell and I slept all the way home.
Roasted vegetables and garlic with halloumi for supper, and a log fire to settle us into the evening. Life is sweet.
(And tomorrow, Guitar Hero….)