Back Monday afternoon from a very blustery, wet weekend in the Lakes (Derwent Water, near Keswick). A surprising number of folk did not let the weather put them off, and like ourselves, braved Cat Bells on Sunday to get the views from the ridge top, clinging on when we emerged from the lee side of the hill into the (dis)-gusting winds. There was an age range represented of over 70 years, from myself to a baby snuggled (?) in a papoose carrier. So, that’s from a bit too old to very much too young!
The previous day we had walked/sloshed/waded near Castlerigg stone circle, Keswick’s mini-Stonehenge, leading me to write a Lakeland lament.
Daft Old Hills
Our walking weekend’s always been tried and trusted,
but not anymore, ‘cos my glasses have rusted.
We’ve tramped and we’ve trudged whilst the hill sheep all sheltered
and the wind lashed the trees and down the rain pelted.
We’ve squished and we’ve squelched and we’ve queued up for stiles
and repressed the impulse to ask, “How many miles
before we get back to HF’s haven and showers,
though there’s basil in the gin and it’s a bit Fawlty Towers?”
My specs don’t have wipers, so the views were all blurred
and without hearing aids, all the chat went unheard.
In St. John’s-in-the-Vale, we ate lunch and were warm.
Well, what’s that old saying? “Any porch in a storm!”
Please don’t get the impression I’ve not had a good time.
I’m a natural moaner, especially in rhyme.
Our walk leaders were brilliant, that’s Colin and Rose.
No-one got lost, no-one drowned and few came to blows.
Morale stayed quite high. There was real esprit-de corps.
If the sun shows its face, we’ll be back out for more.