Piers sends me a salvo of emails about summer-time trips he'd like to slot in. I note a new word (to me) - Blencathra. I suspect it's way in the north of Scotland, and the trip will burn up several tanks of petrol. "No, it's the Lake District," he explains, "Near Skiddaw."
Marcin is supposed to be going with Piers, but pulls a tendon. Nathan is another in the party. And since I'm spending two weeks with him in India at the end of the summer, it's a good chance to take up the empty seat. I ask Piers if he's prepared to take on the liability I may represent.
The trip is planned for Friday, and Piers wants to make an early start - ideally soon after 6.00am. But, there's a weekly Friday morning ritual at precisely 6.00am. The Goodness Foods truck delivers the community FDC (Food Distribution Centre) grocery order. We pull three empty transit cages from round the side of the annex and rattle them down the drive, then drag the three full ones back up to the house. With all this in full swing, we're late getting away.
First stop involves picking up Roy from his place, close to Sheffield United's ground. He gives his characteristic Chinese grin, despite the persistent rain shower that means he's already damp on the outside. We share the back seat, and he gets travel sick on the Snake Pass. I've been dozing off, but Piers fires questions about Roy's dissertation from behind the steering wheel. "Ah; I am not pleased with my tutors. They have had my proposal for a week and have not to spoken to me. At home, I would have had it marked and given back the next day." Piers expresses amazement. It seems that New Labour targets and Coalition warm words have indeed failed to instill into the UK education system what three-and-a-half thousand years of deep respect for learning reflects in China. We get to the M60 and Piers tries to get Roy to say 'ring road'. Roy reports that in China this is called a 'loop road', and Beijing has ten of them!
At half past ten we park up at Scales, a hamlet on the A66 that sits under the looming slope of Blencathra Ridge. The rain is relentless; the visibility murky. Nevertheless Piers hopes we may hang around on the summit long enough for the cloud to lift. He assures us 2.00pm is the magic hour. Roy is travelling light. He has a pair of canvas shoes and small rucksack that only seems to hold a large bottle of boiled water. Piers lends him Marcin's waterproof. I pick up the walking pole that's been behind the back door at home, unclaimed since the Snowdon climb.
Piers sets a cracking pace. We reach the tarn, and I've been gasping all the way. Meanwhile, Nathan's been singing. "I'm not a good navigator," Piers admits as the turns the map round. "I guess we'll just slow down if we need to;" he throws over his shoulder, and he mounts the scree towards the main Sharp Edge ridge. Track gives way to bare rock, and I wonder where the promised slowing down went. We pick our way nervously round a sheep track. I slip, and my plastic glasses case shatters. The wind lashes the rain into our faces. It's looking impossible. Nathan disappears up the slippery rock face like a mountain goat. "Can't see a path," we just about catch. Piers calls for us to turn back.
Back at the tarn we chew on Piers' doorstep sandwiches, and meet two other parties. The larger group ignores Piers' assessment of the conditions: hardcore. The others opt for the alternate path we'll take to rejoin the main track. Then a lady appears and joins the conversation. She announces she's never managed to do the main ridge, even though last year she walked all Wainwright's 214 Lake District routes. Piers whistles. "Did you do anything else?"
The summit, at 868 metres, howls and soaks us in rain. Piers picks the more challenging eventual descent along the further Hall's Fell ridge. Again the track runs out. At this point a figure walks towards us. He's athletic, dressed in light gear and has hand-over-handed his way to Piers. He explains there's another 100 meters of sheer rock. It's a no-brainer that we should turn back. He passes me and waits for us to follow his route. A funny feeling creeps over me. Back at the summit he smiles. I thank him warmly, and aside to Nathan, "Have you ever seen an angel? Watch to see if he just disappears." Our guide jogs off at a pace and we lose sight of him. I study Nathan's face. "This happened when I was on an Atmos trip in Utrecht, and all the trains were delayed. The station announcements were in Dutch, and we were stuck. Then this guy appeared in a leather jacket, and told us to wait for the Amsterdam intercity. Next minute he disappeared - nowhere to be seen."
We head back. On an easy bit of the track I miss my footing and roll down the grass. I slither and barely manage to stop, or then climb back. Nathan encourages me. "You picked the best place to do that." I am a liability. Back on the M6 we chat about doing some fundraising for music equipment hire for a couple of concerts planned while on the India trip. The car steams up the whole way home, and Roy travels without his trousers. My boots take two days to dry out. I'd like to have another go on a fine day.
Marcin is supposed to be going with Piers, but pulls a tendon. Nathan is another in the party. And since I'm spending two weeks with him in India at the end of the summer, it's a good chance to take up the empty seat. I ask Piers if he's prepared to take on the liability I may represent.
The trip is planned for Friday, and Piers wants to make an early start - ideally soon after 6.00am. But, there's a weekly Friday morning ritual at precisely 6.00am. The Goodness Foods truck delivers the community FDC (Food Distribution Centre) grocery order. We pull three empty transit cages from round the side of the annex and rattle them down the drive, then drag the three full ones back up to the house. With all this in full swing, we're late getting away.
First stop involves picking up Roy from his place, close to Sheffield United's ground. He gives his characteristic Chinese grin, despite the persistent rain shower that means he's already damp on the outside. We share the back seat, and he gets travel sick on the Snake Pass. I've been dozing off, but Piers fires questions about Roy's dissertation from behind the steering wheel. "Ah; I am not pleased with my tutors. They have had my proposal for a week and have not to spoken to me. At home, I would have had it marked and given back the next day." Piers expresses amazement. It seems that New Labour targets and Coalition warm words have indeed failed to instill into the UK education system what three-and-a-half thousand years of deep respect for learning reflects in China. We get to the M60 and Piers tries to get Roy to say 'ring road'. Roy reports that in China this is called a 'loop road', and Beijing has ten of them!
At half past ten we park up at Scales, a hamlet on the A66 that sits under the looming slope of Blencathra Ridge. The rain is relentless; the visibility murky. Nevertheless Piers hopes we may hang around on the summit long enough for the cloud to lift. He assures us 2.00pm is the magic hour. Roy is travelling light. He has a pair of canvas shoes and small rucksack that only seems to hold a large bottle of boiled water. Piers lends him Marcin's waterproof. I pick up the walking pole that's been behind the back door at home, unclaimed since the Snowdon climb.
Piers sets a cracking pace. We reach the tarn, and I've been gasping all the way. Meanwhile, Nathan's been singing. "I'm not a good navigator," Piers admits as the turns the map round. "I guess we'll just slow down if we need to;" he throws over his shoulder, and he mounts the scree towards the main Sharp Edge ridge. Track gives way to bare rock, and I wonder where the promised slowing down went. We pick our way nervously round a sheep track. I slip, and my plastic glasses case shatters. The wind lashes the rain into our faces. It's looking impossible. Nathan disappears up the slippery rock face like a mountain goat. "Can't see a path," we just about catch. Piers calls for us to turn back.
Back at the tarn we chew on Piers' doorstep sandwiches, and meet two other parties. The larger group ignores Piers' assessment of the conditions: hardcore. The others opt for the alternate path we'll take to rejoin the main track. Then a lady appears and joins the conversation. She announces she's never managed to do the main ridge, even though last year she walked all Wainwright's 214 Lake District routes. Piers whistles. "Did you do anything else?"
We head back. On an easy bit of the track I miss my footing and roll down the grass. I slither and barely manage to stop, or then climb back. Nathan encourages me. "You picked the best place to do that." I am a liability. Back on the M6 we chat about doing some fundraising for music equipment hire for a couple of concerts planned while on the India trip. The car steams up the whole way home, and Roy travels without his trousers. My boots take two days to dry out. I'd like to have another go on a fine day.
1 comment:
Piers' legendary death-defying exploits. Welcome to to the club of those with near-death tales to swap!
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