The Reluctant Rambler ~ Wainwright's latest recruit

Virgin on the cliff edge

Knocking on 50 and tipping 15 stone I hear the call of the wild. Some retired friends invite me on the regular Friday ramble; ‘Come for a walk in the lakes’. Yes, I need to get out, it’ll do me good. I’ve lived in the shadow of the fells for ten years and only ever scaled their peaks with a glance. Yes, I can do it. I can manage a gentle stroll.

What will I need? ‘A decent pair of boots and the proper kit – you know the modern breathable / wickable stuff. You’ll need a rucksack for your food and your water, a cap, something to sit on, your binoculars, camera, mobile ‘phone, and bring some extra layers. And some waterproof leggings. And you’ll need a pair of walking sticks.’ I was being laden like a Himalayan sherpa – a far cry from the Wainwrightian ideal of simple pleasures, the high moorland way. As was the next bit: ‘And don’t worry about a map and compass – we’ve got SatNav.’

No sooner were they out the door than my imagination roamed the fells with romantic abandon. I strode manfully along the perilous edge, leaping in one bound from summit to summit. Soon the roll call of trophies would be mine to name-drop; mighty Helvelyn, Great Gable, and Giant Haystacks. In years to come I’ll have bagged the Munros and the Corbetts as well as conquering Snowdonia, the Peak district and the North York Moors. But so far all I’ve climbed are the stairs to bed.

The Bank holiday finds four of us at St Bees reading Wainwright’s plaque marking the 200 mile Coast to Coast trek. ‘Looks easy enough’ I condescend. Immediately St Bees Head rises above the bay taunting me; ‘come on then, if you’re hard enough’.

The ascent soon takes its toll on thigh and lung. After a lifetime I ask if we are nearly there yet. Despite the iron band around the chest and the jelly legs I am told we have climbed just 50 metres. Thousands of pairs of eager feet have carved out multiple paths to the top and I take advantage to sidle off into the crawler lane. A backlog of 10 year olds flip-flop past. I eat their dust and inhale humiliation. But the rest provides the opportunity to savour the view; to feast with my eyes on a landscape out of the ordinary, to marvel at God’s own county.

I retackle the summit in renewed spirit, this time at a steadier pace with more modest strides. I’ve learned my first lesson – it is not a race, the journey is as wonderful as the destination. I take smaller steps and look round often at the retreating beach and the column of ants behind us. At the summit my pounding heart beats with pride before slowing with contentment and quiet satisfaction.

The descent starts well. But I discover that what went up slowly and painfully wants to come down quickly and painfully. Applying the brakes on every step is exhausting and when we reach the foothills with the end in sight I lose the will to check my progress. I have revenge for my earlier humiliation as a runaway juggernaut skittles the juvenile flip-floppers in an uncontrolled slew to the bottom.

I struggle to the car, foolish pride ferments my stagger into a swagger. With the zealotry of the convert I now plan assaults on the north face of the Eiger and the Matterhorn. K2 will be a breeze, Annapurna a piece of piste. Afterall, I am now a climber. It’s official – I’ve bagged St Bee.

JB