A retrospectic report of a first day on Helvellyn.

This was the day after our walk in the clouds around Buttermere. Somehow I managed to hobble down to breakfast, but god knows how I was going to manage this walk after yesterday’s exertions. Well, as we left the B&B there was one bonus, the weather was clear and looked promising.

So it was, Mark and I set off from Glenridding and followed a recommended route that I’d picked up from some walking book. First we ascended through woods, then past Lanty’s Tarn and then up the shoulder all the way to the “Hole in the Wall”. It was just like being a kid and setting off to explore some new woods, but in this case it was a new mountain. There was a feeling of pride in both of us that stemmed from the fact that we were in charge and responsible entirely for our selves. In hindsight it is quite funny. We had a nominal amount of hill walking experience; we were still walking in jeans/cords and just about everyone else on the hill could have taught us a thing or two about hill walking. Either way we were confident about our limited abilities, the weather/visibility was great and although I still limped along a bit all was well with the world.

There it was in front of us. “Striding Edge” snaked its way up and down all the way to Helvellyn. In reality this was the reason that we had chosen this walk. The perception of danger crossing this great arête was immense (in reality it’s not that bad but there is plenty of risk for the unwary) and so great care was taken during the crossing. I seem to recall that both Mark and I kept the Boots photographic department in employment for some time as we appeared to take picture after picture of ourselves stood above the great declivities down either side. One other point that I noticed was the great number of folk on the hills. It was like Briggate on a Saturday afternoon. Over the next few years I couldn’t recall seeing so many folk around the summit of a Lakeland hill. Perhaps yesterday’s appalling weather had kept them off the hills until today’s sunshine had appeared. One final steep pull and there we were on top of Helvellyn where somehow we managed to find somewhere to sit down and scoff our snap. Mmm that smells good (no it wasn’t one of my infamous onion farts), but the bloke around the corner frying sausages had something to do with it. Talk about envy. Maybe in future we ought to try taking our gas burner and a pack of “Walls” with us.

“How do we get back I asked?” Mark’s response was that “we’d drop down to the tarn, go over Fairfield and then return over that ridge”. Well that sounded easy, so off we went. What I hadn’t realised was, that the climb to Fairfield was over 1,000 feet and then there was the gradual climb over St Sunday Crag. I was knackered but somehow had to keep going. If not what would I do? And would Mark ever stop giving me jip over my failings? Like with all struggles somehow you get over them and that’s just what happened as I hobbled big style back to the car.

If I thought that things had been bad so far I had something else coming. Not only did I struggle to get into the car, however after a twenty-minute drive I had all but seized up. I could only move one leg at once, struggled to climb the curb in the street and barely made it back to the B&B. As you could imagine Mark’s support was non-existant, he just made the most out of his opportunity to wind me up. And Succeeded. Even after a bath I still hobbled all the way to the pub. Imagine my dismay when Mark walked past the first pub we came to in favour of one further down the road.

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