Walking days

WE’RE IN the Geriatrics’ Corner, along with the Friday crowd, and we’re discussing with Dick Gobble the joys and sometimes the pains of fell walking, of which he’s an ardent practitioner.

He’s just been on a longish walk over the north western fells of the Lake District, beginning at Buttermere. “Buttermere,” I remark, “my favourite lake. The jewel of the Lakeland crown!” He agrees. He sketches out the route he took last weekend over the tops towards Wastdale.

Some of his companions, however, were not as experienced at fell walking as Dick. And the weather, always a little unpredictable, changed from sunshine to slashing rain and wind in the space of a few minutes.

“It caught us so quickly we barely had time to put our waterproofs on. And one woman was wearing jeans; she had no waterproofs with her at all. She got absolutely soaked!” Dick shakes his head at the folly of it.

But I’m put in mind of our fell walking days, that of My Good Lady and myself, when we first lived in Cumbria. We’d often go out for a day or half a day, out towards Grasmere or Coniston or Hawkshead. Simple, happy pleasures.

All in the past now, of course; my old fell boots now serve as gardening footwear, my rucksack has long since been retired to the back of the wardrobe. I still have my Wainwright guides on the shelf along with all the old Ordnance Survey maps, but they remain undisturbed.

I can still enjoy Dick’s walking days vicariously, though.