The Great Outdoors
Now that the cricket season has finally washed itself away until next Spring there is ample time to seek other pursuits to occupy mind and body for the winter months; and so it was that my mate, Lynton, suggested that a “leisurely” trek up one of the Three Peaks, in this case, Ingleborough, as a good way to spend a Saturday. Given that there was the promise of a pint or two at the end of the stroll I had no hesitation in accepting the invite oblivious to what was ahead as the notion of the great outdoors to me remained a cricket or football field.
I am a little ashamed to confess that this was my first visit to the Three Peaks area having had a lifetime of year-round competitive sport. I know plenty of people I would hardly describe as athletes that have done the entire challenge and, no offence intended, I did not consider this would be more than a jaunt especially as the “yoof” were joining us. Up for the challenge were Lynton’s son Adam plus friends Mossy and Matty; I assumed Lynton and I were there to amuse the youngsters but I was sure we could lead the way.
I regularly go mountain biking with Adam and Matty who we nickname Racing Snake for his uncanny ability to fly up hills, whilst leaving the odd 49 year old gasping for breath in his wake; pointing out that I played football with his Dad gains no sympathy. Sadly Mossy, whilst once a promising fast bowler, seems to spend his life stuck to his lap-top with an alleged obsession with tennis or more to the point, all things Sharapova. He had made one concession in agreeing that doing Ingleborough in his Dunlop Green Flash trainers was not a good idea but thirty quid in the Go Outdoors “seconds” selection box looked like a painful afternoon ahead.
Whilst I was later told that it had been a lovely day in Bradford, let me tell you that at the foot of the peak we were about to attack, all we could see was a swirling mist, driving rain and several brightly coloured specks way in the distance representing other fellow climbers; Mossy looked white as he peered into the distance and looked down at the brown clogs on his feet.
Adam had also turned up oblivious to what lay ahead having been somewhat rushed as Lynton arrived for the agreed pick up time; he had set the alarm for PM instead of AM and so arrived dressed out of the Top Man catalogue with gillet, trendy sweat top and designer jeans clearly thinking he was off out for a leisurely pint. Sensing what lay ahead even I had covered up the legs, knowing that shorts were definitely not a good idea today and ditching the Factor 40 as excess weight.
The walk starts with a trek across fields crossing a path of huge stone slabs that not even the most determined of thief could contemplate removing, many as much as four inches thick. Straddling the more boggy areas via a series of wooden pontoons of a slightly higher quality than B&Q decking, gradually the long ascent starts. Already Adam was looking a very sodden designer trekker whilst Mossy seemed to be looking around for a bench to have a quick sit down with his feet already steaming; and this was not even close to the real climb.
Looking up it seemed almost vertical in places – where was the cable car, I wondered – as we watched several people having already reached the summit, cautiously descending, step by step, almost all of them with the aid of climbing poles. What the bloody hell were we doing I thought, surely we could have gone straight to the pub? There I was, a few hours fresh from my lovely warm bed, clinging to slimy, wet rocks and realising – once again – that I remain terrified of heights. If ever Bear Grylls were to come seeking a travelling partner I am definitely not his man.
Somehow, I made it but the inescapable truth – what goes up must come down – made the promised beer look a distant prospect. After about half an hour, Mossy’s head, preceded by a few clouds of gasping breath, finally popped up at the summit dispelling thoughts that he had plunged to a sad end and which meant that I could stop cuddling the Racing Snake in an unseemly looking attempt to keep warm despite having five layers on. Adam tried to look cool as if he really was on a photo shoot – the photo really says “I am frozen to death” – and we headed off to the summit with Mossy labouring on behind his best days well past him at the age of 25.
It was clear that unless there was a Go Outdoors store at the summit, none of us were equipped to make the trek back down the same route. When we got there it was good to see someone else already there who actually looked like a proper climber. Unfortunately we had just met Mr All the Gear No Idea, fresh from spending his birthday money on gear he would never wear again and whose dog, George, seemed the most likely of any of us to actually make it back down alive. Huddled against piles of rock I assumed were graves we considered our fate whilst George scampered around excitedly.
“Which way’s Bradford mate?” I asked hoping he would know a way back down that did not require ropes, crampons, oxygen for Mossy and the nearest Sea King scrambling.
“No idea, it’s the first time I’ve done this…let me have a look at the map” If looks could kill!
Map? It was not as if we were looking for the next motorway junction and when he tried to read it upside down it was clear that our best chance was to sling him over the edge, build a fire with the map and Mossy’s boots and eat George. I made a note instructing my mum where my will was and prepared to face my destiny. I knew I should have paid more attention on the outward bound team building course that Barclays once sent me on.
As we discussed our next move with a nervous fellow traveller ushering George away, despite the temptation of my sweaty ham and cheese buttie as bait, I decided to try to take a leak in spit of the swirling gale. Strangely, Racing Snake followed me closely and I was beginning to think that he had read a bit too much into our heat seeking embrace; fortunately he actually thought I said I was off to take a peek at the view. Apparently you can see Morecambe Bay and Blackpool Tower from the peak – so what – but today I could barely see my nose; taking a leak was a disaster and after several attempts I gave in and slowly enjoyed the seeping warmth escaping under my trousers; the smile in the photo says it all! Nurse!!!
As tour promoter and guide – that’s another fine mess you’ve got us into – Lynton suggested we follow the path along a ridge that suggested a gentler decline. As we set off we were passed by two guys in shorts and vests running up to the summit; if ever you felt unworthy it was now and, dressed like Michelin Man, I wondered what I had been doing in the gym all these years as the two iron-men whizzed by.
After almost an hour of being battered by the wind and rain we gave in and opted for the direct route and set off across the fields only to find these were bogs in disguise. Our feet were soaking and Mossy took a tumble that any Manchester United player would have been proud of were it inside the penalty box. Even the nearest sheep seemed to bleat “never touched him…he must have tripped up over those shitty boots!”
Eventually, after clambering over several barbed wire fences that suggested that only the sheep should really be here, we found ourselves wet, cold and tired in the most dangerous area so far. Acres of limestone plates, fractured over thousands of years separated us from that still distant pint. Closer inspection of these left us in no doubt that extreme caution was required; one slip between the cracks and it was a guest slot on Helicopter Heroes coming up. I think I preferred the climbing option on reflection.
We had spent some three hours out on our expedition so it was cold comfort to read the plaque, in the sanctity of the pub at last, which records the winning times of past winners of the Three Peaks Challenge. It seems that in the time we were out, there are people that would have done all three and still made the pub before us although I doubt they would have looked as chic as Adam. Apparently Lynton thinks we should do it again some time as this was the “baby” climb…at least I will know to leave the shorts at home.
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