Today I climbed Blencathra for the first time, in glorious
sunshine (I think I may have turned my clock back to September last weekend).
It’s a tricky little mountain, being deceptively steep and with a plethora of
sheep paths to deceive you (the Ordnance Survey map shows one main path going
in an arrow straight line – they lie). After the lower section you suddenly
emerge at the top, or close to it, and the ground almost disappears. Out of
nowhere ravines and crevices appear to the south and the Solway firth lies away
to the north (although I couldn’t see it because it was bathed in cloud, along
with the rest of the UK apparently).
On my way to the top I met a retired vicar and we sat to
chat for a good twenty minutes, he telling me about his trip to Bagdad and
charity cycle rides (both in the 11 years since he’d retired) and I telling him
about the joys of pushing kids out of their comfort zone, but mostly I just
listened to him. This was his first mountain climb since retiring (retired
vicars are often in demand for a whole range of roles apparently) and he was
making the most of it.
Later, at the top, I sat to eat my lunch in the quiet – that
stillness that only exists at the top of mountains – and watch the sunlight on
Thirlmere and Derwent Water. Also enjoying this moment was another man. After a
while we got chatting and on asking if he’d climbed Blencathra before he
revealed that today was his birthday and he was revisiting a moment from 30
years before when he climbed this mountain with his parents on his 18th.
We gazed and marvelled at the view and the incredible weather, and shortly
after parted to begin our descents, equally happy in our solitary expeditions.
I don’t know where my life will lead, but I could see myself
climbing Blencathra again in 30 or 50 years’ time, still in my element.
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