Just when you thought your life was free at last from sixtyat60 posts, here I am again, like an aged phoenix rising creakily from the ashes. Yes, indeed, I'm afraid I can't resist sharing another story with you. Here's hoping you'll find it in your hearts to humour me one more time?
Cast your mind back, if you will, to a blog of mine posted in July 2016, in which I described the Hunot family's attempt to reach the summit of Snowdon. Ah yes....the mist, the murk, the epic downward somersault by yours truly, the RSC-level acting skills of a certain Italian greyhound who had us thinking his leg was fractured in multiple places. But in truth we had a lot of fun that day. So much so, that 14 months later, in September 2017, Andrew and I were to be found hauling ourselves up another mountain, this time Ben Nevis, accompanied by my brother Clive, to commemorate Clive's 60th birthday. Oh my goodness, the wind, the rain, the agony/ despair/struggles of said brother, the saint-like patience of our long-suffering guide Eve. But wow, what a sense of achievement when we finally arrived back at base camp nine and a half hours later.
Ninety minutes after our descent from Ben Nevis, Andrew, Clive and I were toasting our survival in a Fort William hostelry. My legs were like jelly, my joints were stiffer than a stiff board and my energy was utterly sapped. 'Never again' I thought to myself. But all of a sudden a little flurry of prosecco bubbles reached my bloodstream. My endorphins whooshed, my brain cells cast aside their inhibitions and my mouth opened. 'Wouldn't it be amazing to do the Third Peak....?' I heard myself say. Andrew took a large swig of beer, sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. Clive appeared not to hear me. 'Sooooo Clive, you on for Scafell Pike next year?' I asked with more than a touch of sibling sadism. 'Are you mad??' came the less than gracious response. But finally, on Christmas Day afternoon, with more than a few bevvies down the hatch, Clive threw his hat into the ring and agreed to join us. Yup, it was all systems go for our third-age Third Peak challenge.
By mid-March our Third Peak plans were shaping up nicely. With the Beast from the East about to show its icy claws across the UK, we decided to delay our ascent until early summer, thus minimising the risk of harsh weather conditions, not to mention caravan-loads of teeming tourists. With the date duly set for the beginning of June, we moved on to pondering over the route. The highly reliable Wasdale Mountain Rescue Team website informed us that the easiest track to the summit was from Wasdale Head. So without further ado, we booked ourselves into the nearest boutique hotel to Wasdale Head (the fabulous Westlakes Hotel in Gosforth, I can definitely recommend it). Mind you, Clive did put a case forward for staying in, if I may say, a somewhat basic local inn. 'It produces its own home-brewed beers', he announced excitedly. As if Clive. Fortunately Andrew cast the deciding vote in my favour, thus guaranteeing continued domestic bliss on the Hunot front.
We had one more key decision to make. Did we need a guide? After all, Eve had been indispensible on Ben Nevis. Would certain amongst us have reached the summit without her I wonder? That said, whilst Scafell Pike is known to have some challenging terrain, it doesn't boast the same proportions as the Ben. So after due consideration, we decided to take on the Pike guide-less. Following WMRT advice, we purchased a compass and local map to help us along the way (although I'll be honest, none of us had the slightest idea how to use the compass properly). WMRT recommended keeping a careful check on the summit weather via the Mountain Weather Information Service for a few days before our climb. I visited it with obsessional zeal. Their predictions were pretty promising. We kept our fingers tightly crossed.
Our Pike day dawned. I threw back the curtains and guess what, the weather was.......fab-u-lous. Blue skies, sunshine, gentle breeze. OK, so dehydration, sunstroke and insect bites beckoned. But such good conditions for visibility and scenic photos. We ate a ridiculously large breakfast (full English in accordance with WMRT advice), squeezed into our small car with our over-stuffed backpacks, and headed over to the National Trust carpark at Wasdale Head. To our surprise the car park was almost deserted. 'You're so lucky' the friendly National Trust volunteer told us.'Yesterday, there were over 200 people at the summit - today, you'll probably have it to yourselves!'
So far so splendid. But I'm not going to lie, I was feeling a tight knot of anxiety in my stomach as we set off from the car park. How on earth would we be able to find our way up the mountain if there were no fellow walkers to mull over the route with? Would Clive develop a serious episode of heatstroke, since he'd forgotten to bring his sunhat and was wearing a thick woolly beanie to protect his bonce? Was I going to get bitten to hell and back by horseflies/mosquitoes/midges? Why oh why hadn't I packed the insect repellent? And would Andrew re-activate the heated argument we'd been having with Clive over whether Queen's Park Rangers really was in the Premier League in the 2013/14 season?*
As the older statesman of our team, and as such, the self-confessed least nimble on their pins, Andrew nominated himself as front-man. We promptly nicknamed him Squadron Leader, a title that I think he rather revelled in. Squadron Leader Andrew squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest and led the way forward up the first section of Scarfell Pike, called Lingmell Gill. Some stunning views began to reveal themselves. My thoughts became less catastrophic. Maybe it wasn't such a mad idea to be taking on this third peak lark....
I spotted some grafitti on one of Lingmell Gill's beautifully honed steps. I was sad and very annoyed in equal measure. Does anyone know Pauline and Steve Pugh? If so, please could you tell them to stop destroying the countryside?
We reached the top of Lingmell Gill, where, lo and behold, there was a fork in the path. We had a crucial decision to make. Left or right? Or in more technical terms, West or East? Whilst we consulted various printouts/pics and our shiny new map, the rejected compass continued to dangle a little sulkily on Andrew's front like a St Christopher's pendant.
The map indicated that we should take the left fork. We started to head upwards in a westerly direction. 'Are you sure we're on the right path?' fretted Andrew every two minutes. Thankfully we caught up with a couple of fellow walkers (hurrah, so we weren't alone on the Pike after all), who assured us that we had chosen wisely. Andrew visibly relaxed. Clive chomped hard on a Marathon bar. Sheep stared balefully at us. The sun continued to shine hazily in the sky.
We were on a section of the climb called Hollowstones. Large stone cairns guided us along our route, but the path itself was steep, rocky and slippy. 'If you're finding it tricky going up, how are you going to cope on the descent...'whispered a small voice inside my head. 'Poli poli' pronounced Squadron Leader sagely, memories of his recent Kilimanjaro trek reactivated. Clive wiped his brow, adjusted his beanie and sucked noisily on a sweet.
We zigzagged our way over countless boulders and stones until finally we reached a key landmark called Lingmell Col. By now we'd been climbing unrelentingly upwards for three hours and we were all feeling a little jaded. A small trickle of fitter, stronger and mostly younger folk started to pass us on their descent from the summit. 'Is it much further?' we asked each one wistfully. 'Ooh, it's quite a way yet guys, another hour at least' said one, a grimace crossing his face. 'It's just round the corner, no more than 20 mins' said another cheerful chap. 'I've been timing it and it's taken us 31 mins from the top' said a third, after consulting carefully with his state of the art Fitbit. His female companion rolled her eyes.
It turned out that the cheerful chap had provided us with the most accurate assessment. Twenty minutes later, we were at the summit. And the weather was just as predicted on the MWIS website - fine, hazy and just a few degrees cooler than base. Here's the evidence we really made it to the top. Apologies about my choice of head attire. Rocking the Benny Hill look me.
.
After fortifying ourselves with a round or two of Cumbrian door-stopper sandwiches, we took a collective deep breath and started heading downward, memories of those previous devilish descents foremost in our minds. Clive wielded his shiny new poles with grim determination. Squadron Leader muttered 'poli poli' under his breath at regular intervals. And I tried to resist the temptation to whip out my camera every 5 minutes to take yet another photo of a sheep. Although I didn't entirely succeed, here's another one.
Three hours later, guess what? We were back at base camp car park without having experienced a single slip, trip or tumble between us. Mini miracle or what. And we completed the whole expedition in six hours, which we thought was reasonably respectable for a trio of wrinklies. There were no crowds welcoming us back, no marshalls with blankets and energy drinks, no officials waiting to put Three Peaks Challenge medals round our necks. Well, after all, it had taken us sixty two weeks to complete the challenge, rather than 36 hours. But nevertheless Andrew and I were pretty chuffed with ourselves. And what about that younger brother of mine? Well, he says (and I quote) 'I was hugely relieved not to let the side down this time'. You definitely proved your worth bro - do you fancy booking yourself onto a compass handling course before next time?
Hold on, did I just say 'next time'?Surely I've put away the walking boots, Craighopper trews and Benny Hill hat for good? Not on your nelly guys - it's Carrauntoohil in Southern Ireland next!
One closing thought. Taking on Scafell Pike served to remind me how much it meant to me to complete the sixtyat60 challenge 2 years ago. And I know that Caroline Britton, who took the baton from me, had an equally special experience. It would be truly amazing if someone else were to feel the urge to pick up the baton from us. Ooh I feel another blog coming on to promote it.....
* OK, you win Clive, QPR did play in the Premier League in 2013/14, dammit. Didn't last long there though did they 😛
Cast your mind back, if you will, to a blog of mine posted in July 2016, in which I described the Hunot family's attempt to reach the summit of Snowdon. Ah yes....the mist, the murk, the epic downward somersault by yours truly, the RSC-level acting skills of a certain Italian greyhound who had us thinking his leg was fractured in multiple places. But in truth we had a lot of fun that day. So much so, that 14 months later, in September 2017, Andrew and I were to be found hauling ourselves up another mountain, this time Ben Nevis, accompanied by my brother Clive, to commemorate Clive's 60th birthday. Oh my goodness, the wind, the rain, the agony/ despair/struggles of said brother, the saint-like patience of our long-suffering guide Eve. But wow, what a sense of achievement when we finally arrived back at base camp nine and a half hours later.
Ninety minutes after our descent from Ben Nevis, Andrew, Clive and I were toasting our survival in a Fort William hostelry. My legs were like jelly, my joints were stiffer than a stiff board and my energy was utterly sapped. 'Never again' I thought to myself. But all of a sudden a little flurry of prosecco bubbles reached my bloodstream. My endorphins whooshed, my brain cells cast aside their inhibitions and my mouth opened. 'Wouldn't it be amazing to do the Third Peak....?' I heard myself say. Andrew took a large swig of beer, sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. Clive appeared not to hear me. 'Sooooo Clive, you on for Scafell Pike next year?' I asked with more than a touch of sibling sadism. 'Are you mad??' came the less than gracious response. But finally, on Christmas Day afternoon, with more than a few bevvies down the hatch, Clive threw his hat into the ring and agreed to join us. Yup, it was all systems go for our third-age Third Peak challenge.
By mid-March our Third Peak plans were shaping up nicely. With the Beast from the East about to show its icy claws across the UK, we decided to delay our ascent until early summer, thus minimising the risk of harsh weather conditions, not to mention caravan-loads of teeming tourists. With the date duly set for the beginning of June, we moved on to pondering over the route. The highly reliable Wasdale Mountain Rescue Team website informed us that the easiest track to the summit was from Wasdale Head. So without further ado, we booked ourselves into the nearest boutique hotel to Wasdale Head (the fabulous Westlakes Hotel in Gosforth, I can definitely recommend it). Mind you, Clive did put a case forward for staying in, if I may say, a somewhat basic local inn. 'It produces its own home-brewed beers', he announced excitedly. As if Clive. Fortunately Andrew cast the deciding vote in my favour, thus guaranteeing continued domestic bliss on the Hunot front.
We had one more key decision to make. Did we need a guide? After all, Eve had been indispensible on Ben Nevis. Would certain amongst us have reached the summit without her I wonder? That said, whilst Scafell Pike is known to have some challenging terrain, it doesn't boast the same proportions as the Ben. So after due consideration, we decided to take on the Pike guide-less. Following WMRT advice, we purchased a compass and local map to help us along the way (although I'll be honest, none of us had the slightest idea how to use the compass properly). WMRT recommended keeping a careful check on the summit weather via the Mountain Weather Information Service for a few days before our climb. I visited it with obsessional zeal. Their predictions were pretty promising. We kept our fingers tightly crossed.
Our Pike day dawned. I threw back the curtains and guess what, the weather was.......fab-u-lous. Blue skies, sunshine, gentle breeze. OK, so dehydration, sunstroke and insect bites beckoned. But such good conditions for visibility and scenic photos. We ate a ridiculously large breakfast (full English in accordance with WMRT advice), squeezed into our small car with our over-stuffed backpacks, and headed over to the National Trust carpark at Wasdale Head. To our surprise the car park was almost deserted. 'You're so lucky' the friendly National Trust volunteer told us.'Yesterday, there were over 200 people at the summit - today, you'll probably have it to yourselves!'
So far so splendid. But I'm not going to lie, I was feeling a tight knot of anxiety in my stomach as we set off from the car park. How on earth would we be able to find our way up the mountain if there were no fellow walkers to mull over the route with? Would Clive develop a serious episode of heatstroke, since he'd forgotten to bring his sunhat and was wearing a thick woolly beanie to protect his bonce? Was I going to get bitten to hell and back by horseflies/mosquitoes/midges? Why oh why hadn't I packed the insect repellent? And would Andrew re-activate the heated argument we'd been having with Clive over whether Queen's Park Rangers really was in the Premier League in the 2013/14 season?*
As the older statesman of our team, and as such, the self-confessed least nimble on their pins, Andrew nominated himself as front-man. We promptly nicknamed him Squadron Leader, a title that I think he rather revelled in. Squadron Leader Andrew squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest and led the way forward up the first section of Scarfell Pike, called Lingmell Gill. Some stunning views began to reveal themselves. My thoughts became less catastrophic. Maybe it wasn't such a mad idea to be taking on this third peak lark....
I spotted some grafitti on one of Lingmell Gill's beautifully honed steps. I was sad and very annoyed in equal measure. Does anyone know Pauline and Steve Pugh? If so, please could you tell them to stop destroying the countryside?
We reached the top of Lingmell Gill, where, lo and behold, there was a fork in the path. We had a crucial decision to make. Left or right? Or in more technical terms, West or East? Whilst we consulted various printouts/pics and our shiny new map, the rejected compass continued to dangle a little sulkily on Andrew's front like a St Christopher's pendant.
The map indicated that we should take the left fork. We started to head upwards in a westerly direction. 'Are you sure we're on the right path?' fretted Andrew every two minutes. Thankfully we caught up with a couple of fellow walkers (hurrah, so we weren't alone on the Pike after all), who assured us that we had chosen wisely. Andrew visibly relaxed. Clive chomped hard on a Marathon bar. Sheep stared balefully at us. The sun continued to shine hazily in the sky.
We were on a section of the climb called Hollowstones. Large stone cairns guided us along our route, but the path itself was steep, rocky and slippy. 'If you're finding it tricky going up, how are you going to cope on the descent...'whispered a small voice inside my head. 'Poli poli' pronounced Squadron Leader sagely, memories of his recent Kilimanjaro trek reactivated. Clive wiped his brow, adjusted his beanie and sucked noisily on a sweet.
We zigzagged our way over countless boulders and stones until finally we reached a key landmark called Lingmell Col. By now we'd been climbing unrelentingly upwards for three hours and we were all feeling a little jaded. A small trickle of fitter, stronger and mostly younger folk started to pass us on their descent from the summit. 'Is it much further?' we asked each one wistfully. 'Ooh, it's quite a way yet guys, another hour at least' said one, a grimace crossing his face. 'It's just round the corner, no more than 20 mins' said another cheerful chap. 'I've been timing it and it's taken us 31 mins from the top' said a third, after consulting carefully with his state of the art Fitbit. His female companion rolled her eyes.
It turned out that the cheerful chap had provided us with the most accurate assessment. Twenty minutes later, we were at the summit. And the weather was just as predicted on the MWIS website - fine, hazy and just a few degrees cooler than base. Here's the evidence we really made it to the top. Apologies about my choice of head attire. Rocking the Benny Hill look me.
Three hours later, guess what? We were back at base camp car park without having experienced a single slip, trip or tumble between us. Mini miracle or what. And we completed the whole expedition in six hours, which we thought was reasonably respectable for a trio of wrinklies. There were no crowds welcoming us back, no marshalls with blankets and energy drinks, no officials waiting to put Three Peaks Challenge medals round our necks. Well, after all, it had taken us sixty two weeks to complete the challenge, rather than 36 hours. But nevertheless Andrew and I were pretty chuffed with ourselves. And what about that younger brother of mine? Well, he says (and I quote) 'I was hugely relieved not to let the side down this time'. You definitely proved your worth bro - do you fancy booking yourself onto a compass handling course before next time?
Hold on, did I just say 'next time'?Surely I've put away the walking boots, Craighopper trews and Benny Hill hat for good? Not on your nelly guys - it's Carrauntoohil in Southern Ireland next!
One closing thought. Taking on Scafell Pike served to remind me how much it meant to me to complete the sixtyat60 challenge 2 years ago. And I know that Caroline Britton, who took the baton from me, had an equally special experience. It would be truly amazing if someone else were to feel the urge to pick up the baton from us. Ooh I feel another blog coming on to promote it.....
* OK, you win Clive, QPR did play in the Premier League in 2013/14, dammit. Didn't last long there though did they 😛
