The end of April, I have heard from several people this week, is one of the best times of year to visit the Lake district. It certainly seemed so this year, when I encountered four days of dry, sunny weather, pleasant but not too hot temperatures, and modest but not overwhelming numbers of visitors.
Four days, four wonderful, varied walks, all within a few miles of Keswick. My favourite was probably what turned out to be a twelve circuit around Rosthwaite in Borrowdale, renowned as the wettest place in England, but also one of the most beautiful- and not a drop of rain last Wednesday anyway.
The walk included a short, sharp climb up Castle Crag, which, while a mere 290 metres up and the most diminutive of the ‘Wainwrights’, offers views as good if not better then many a higher peak.
Similarly, a walk up Walla Crag, also a smaller fell, gives more magnificent views, this time from the east of Derwent water.
But what will stay in my memory as long if not longer than any of these experiences, is an unexpected incident which occurred on my climb up Skiddaw, a 930 metre behemoth which dominates the landscape north of Keswick. Above all, what happened brought home to me the affinity and supportiveness of fellow walkers and how random acts of kindness by complete strangers can help give confidence in the overwhelming goodness of human nature.
After a long enjoyable walk towards Skiddaw’s summit via Ullock Pike, Longside Edge and Carl Side- to many the most beautiful approach to Skiddaw, largely in the company of Rose, a fellow walker I met on the way up, I faced the stiff, steep, bleak scree slope to Skiddaw’s summit. Back on my own again, suddenly, 830 metres up, a mere 100 metres in height from the top, I just lost it.
Feeling I was going to topple, I started scrambling, and then just stopped. A little precariously perched on the path , I turned around to face away from the mountain, and I began to realise just how difficult it was going to be for me to regain my confidence and stability to walk safely down the five or ten minute walk back to the little plateau of Carl Side.
I saw a couple ascending and they asked if I needed help. Of course that was exactly what I did need, and Julie and Neil, who turned out both to have been trained in mountain rescue, couldn’t have been kinder and more helpful if they tried. They calmed me down, stayed with me, gave me a sugar boost from Lucozade, and contacted their colleagues by phone to get someone to help me back down the relatively short stretch back to where I would feel safe again,
A couple of phone calls later, and more people arrived, both ascending and descending. These included Phil and his partner going down, and an athletic anaesthetist going up. (I only wish I could remember all their names). All, without a moment’s hesitation, offered to help. Between them they lifted me back on my feet and supported me back down to Carl Side, carrying my rucksack for good measure. Apart from their overwhelming act of kindness, they couldn’t seem to accept that what they were doing was anything other than something anyone would do, and didn’t seem to the least bit daunted by helping support a 58 year old man down what I had considered to be quite a dangerous looking undertaking just carrying myself.
What those people did and said I will never forget. They not only got me out of a tricky situation, they helped give me confidence that what I’d had was little more than a moment of panic, and that it shouldn’t put me off heading for the hills again. Which is exactly what I did for the next couple of days, albeit at lower height!
Across the Alps to the Adriatic 