High pressure at Easter usually means heading north for high hills, but in 2019 I was heading south, to Oxfordshire for a niece’s wedding. The weather was looking good for the big day, but I wanted to take advantage too so I broke the journey in Cumbria. Blencathra is the first high hill that comes into view west of the M6, so I aimed for that. It is an impressive hulk of a hill, with a pleasing profile and a row of parallel ridges above the road. I expected it to be busy and it was, but my afternoon start meant it never felt crowded. I had missed the rush hours and had the uphill lane to myself. I counted 41 adults on their way down, accompanied by eleven children and seven dogs.
A fragment of conversation caught my ear as I passed by. ‘Imagine grandma on that’, said a young girl to her adult, looking across to the sharp profile of the cannily-named Sharp Edge. I suspected I was older than the grandma in question, but didn’t mention I was thinking of coming down that way. I was in a good mood but they did not need me to intrude.
My mood was even better when I reached the summit. The hazy view was all right, but the highlights were no people and no cairn. It was my lucky day. I had one every decade. I set up my equipment on a low pole by the summit outcrop, a few metres from the pristine concrete ring left recently by OS surveyors.
Several minutes passed before the first interlopers appeared. Sam, Laura, Dylan and Reef were good company for a few minutes, full of youthful enthusiasm. Sam enquired about the height of Blencathra and was pleased to learn it was only 110m lower than Scafell Pike. Seven-year-old Dylan was interested too. ‘I’m going to climb them all’, he announced, while jumping up and down on one leg. By ‘all’ he meant three, for he was referring to the highest hill in England, in Scotland and in Wales. I didn’t tell him there were over a thousand high hills. He could learn about that later. Sam wanted to know though. He had lived in St Andrews for a few years but confessed that he had never climbed a single hill in Scotland. ‘No shame in that’, I said, ‘when I was your age I had hardly climbed any either’. His excuses were better than mine. Two of them were running around on the rocks and having fun in the sun. Summits in the Monadhliath were never like this. Even an old grump who liked solitude had to concede that it was a pleasure to observe.
Before the family left, I asked whether they would mind being mentioned if I ever wrote an account of Blencathra. It is unlikely they will read it, but it seemed courteous to check. The only other person who appeared on top during my summit patrol was a wizened runner who stayed for the few seconds it took to answer ‘57 minutes and 30 seconds’ to my question about his time, then he turned around and retraced his strides. Now that was more like the Highlands.
I was not sure that I had been to Gategill Fell Top, so I wandered over to eliminate it from my enquiries. This was the other side of the saddle that gave the hill its distinctive profile and alternative name of Saddleback, now rarely used. Its cliff-edge summit was high enough to be eligible but its 18m drop left it 1.4m short of qualification. Few of those reaching the main summit seemed to bother with it. I then disgraced myself by surveying a summit with under 15m drop, because I knew the result would be of interest to some. Knowe Crags looked the way it sounded. By the time I returned to the main summit, Emma had been there and left a stone on top of the OS ring, inscribed with her name. I decided that other people did not need to know that and despatched the new deposit to a less obtrusive location a stone’s throw away.
After thinking about the imagined grandma getting into difficulties on Sharp Edge, I realised I had little desire to join her, as I had been that way before. Instead, I indulged my lazy self by returning the way I had gone up, descending entirely in daylight, then relaxing with a pint outside the White Horse Inn. It all felt so civilised around here, with well-behaved children, real paths, real sunshine, real ale and real enjoyment. It was far removed from my usual experience of hillwalking in Scotland. I could see why so many people were drawn to the area and could feel the seductive allure of this land of little lakes.
As I changed socks and footwear while waiting for vegetable curry to appear on the rustic table by the rustic wall overlooking the rustic road, I thought I could easily get used to this relaxed lifestyle. It would be like joining a large, comfortable cult. A few sips of the local brew revived my rationality and I reminded myself that the area was far too small, far too busy and had far too few high hills for my taste. It was pleasant to visit these parts occasionally, but the Highlands and islands were my home ground, for at least 974 reasons.
