Who invented indoor soft play areas?

 Who invented indoor soft play areas? They are either a total genius or the devil incarnate. Absolute mayhem: wall to wall hysteria, screaming kids, some crying others laughing hysterically, all red faced and sweaty.
Is there any way we could hook these berserk bambino's up to the national grid and generate a little sustainable energy!??
To be fair these places apace been a blessing during the school holidays for parents. As recently we have experienced both extremes of the English weather from torrential downpours to mild drizzle.  It's difficult to decide which rainboots to put on somedays.

A Walk Up the Dragon's Spine

It's amazing how much jealousy one can feel, staring up and tiny figures silhouetted against the skyline. Especially, if those figures are people who are at the very top of a mountain that you are about  to climb.

It would be several hours before Phil and I would be where they were now.  The thought of it seemed to bother me more than Phil. My companion was a seasoned walker, who had  attempted the Yorkshire 3 Peaks Challenge two years earlier, but, foiled by severe knee pain, had to pull out on the descent of Whernside. He eyed the summit, now,with the grim determination of a man with a score to settle. He wasn't going to let the mountain beat him this time. Or was he?

For me, this was the first time I had attempted anything like this before and, with one climb  down, I was feeling fatigued from the excertion.

I think Phil picked up on this, as I must have started to drag my heels. "Try some of these". Phil handed me a couple of white pills. I looked at him suspiciously.

"What are they?" I asked.

"It's alright they're amino acids. They will help your body recover quicker."

"Really?" Ordinarily, I would not accept any pill from a bloke I'd only just known for a few hours. But in these circumstances, and in a relatively short time, I had built up a strong trust of Phil, based on... I don't know what, but it was profound and genuine.
So I popped the two pills.

I noticed Phil swallow another with a swig from the pipe that came out of his pack.

"Is that water?" I asked, noticing that, if it was water, it had a odd neon-glow about it.

"Yeah."

"Why is it yellow... and glowing? " I persisted in my inquiry.

"It's got some extras in". He smiled across me, with a such a curious twinkle in his eye, that it had a twinkle it it's eye.

Phil had already produced a range of performance enhancing items, including super boost jelly beans,  caramelised glucose packs and brightly coloured shot-drinks, which looked like the peal-and-pour milk containers you find in hotel rooms.  Phil had already shown me on this trek that he had prepared for every eventuality. So, as far as managing his body intake went, it didn't surprise me that he'd brought with him all that latest discoveries that medical science had to offer, to ensure he was continuously fuelled-up, if not, altogether buzzing.

"You better hope that that you don't have to give a urine sample at the end of all this." I joked. Phil chortled.

However, I made a point of taking a banana from my pack and peeled it deliberately  in front of him. I took a large bite and said with bulging cheeks,  '"sh'e natrer'ral. "

"My stuff is natural too. Kind of! Anyway, I'm sure it works," He hurumphed, "and anyway, you'll feel better in the morning for it. It helps the body recover faster." He was sounding a little defensive.

 The topic of what is and isn't  good for the body became the subject for discussion for the next few miles. It eventually turned into discussion about food. Phil was a trained chef with his own catering business. So, soon were in deep discussion about foods that made our mouths water and bellies tingle; succulent steak dinners, and lamb recipes and a roast chicken dinners that he described cooking with attention to every delicious detail. Phil shared with me a secret sauce recipe, that works beautifully for both fish and meat dishes that I swore I will take to the grave. And so I will.

It was the most we'd spoken in the entire day and it certainly helped take our minds off things. The miles passed quickly, as we followed the babbling, brown waters of Little Dale Beck, which flows into the the River Doe. The track took us to the starting point at the north-east foot of Whernside.

To my great relief and some generous folk had at some point in the past had the foresight to build steps of large, regularly placed, flat square stones up the steady rise to the summit. From where I stood they looked like huge exposed vertebra, running along the back of a colossal, slumbering dragon. I fantasied that the footfalls from one hundred weary walkers, up it's spine,might awaken the beast and we'd all be thrown 100s of feet down into the dales of perhaps chargrilled by flames from it's nostrils, perhaps with a little of Phil's secret peppercorn sauce?

Our ascent brought us close to a walker, perhaps in his 50's who, by the sounds of his rasping breath, was well overdue a sit sown and, perhaps, a totals reconsider. He looked enough like Boris Johnston, to warrant a second glance, but if it were, indeed, the man himself, I feared that London might soon be requiring another mayor.

Red faced and sounding like he was making the most of a lifetime's supply of El Lung-Shredder cigars, I was honestly concerned for his condition. I considered the genuine possibility that our Boris had, only this morning, left a letter of fond-farewell for his wife on their kitchen table at home and was attempting to commit, what constituted, suicide-by-mountain.

To the man's credit he kept pace with us, sticking just behind Phil and I for a couple of miles, before Phil suggested we step things up a little. I think the constant sound, like someone continuously working bellows having attached party blowers to the end, was stating to grate on him. I agreed to moving on, but not without checking on the poor man's wellbeing  first. I couldn't bear to leave this man in the sate he was in, without saying something, " How you doing, mate? It's heavy going isn't it?"

With blood shot eyes, which were clearly struggling to focus on me, he gave me a yellow toothed grin. The dry, white patches, that bookended the corners of his mouth cracked audibly, as he spoke. " Arrghh.. beautiful isn't it?  Makes you feel lucky to be alive".

Lucky to be alive? I thought.  He would be lucky to be alive, if he made it off this mountain, without the need of a rescue helicopter. I bid him farewell and wished him the best of luck and meant every single word if it.

Close to the summit, we were rewarded with a most beautiful view of Winterscales Pasture and the dales beyond. Oh my God, but it was beautiful. Lush, green, wild and gloriously England. Down below we could see ant-like people, moving imperceptibly across the landscape, who were undoubtedly looking up and thinking , 'lucky bastards, up there,' just as we had done some hours earlier.

We were joined at of vantage point by Julie, from Liverpool,who had been separated from her colleagues. She had been persuaded to do the challenge by her work mates and had reluctantly agreed, but now she had been left behind as she was 'too slow'.

" I didn't even want to do this soddin' thing, but 'dey persuaded me, didn't dey? Now the buggers have pissed off and left me on me' own," she explained, in a wonderfully, broad Liverpudlian accent, which always makes me laugh, no matter how serious the subject matter. I can imagine courtrooms in Liverpool falling into chaos as defendants give their testimonies or witnesses recount harrowing details to rapturous laughter from the jury and perhaps even the judge.

 Julie joined us without invitation, as none was required on this sort of venture, because if you wanted the pleasure of someone's company, you simply took up pace with them and started a conversation, if not, you had the choice of stepping up the pace and leaving them behind or slowing down a touch and letting them pull away. Right now, it looked like Julie needed some company and despite Phil's grim expressions that suggested she might become a liability, or worse, very, very, annoying, we shared each others company in our approach to the summit.

Now, have you ever heard those who are familiar with the great outdoors, in particular those with experience with mountaineering say, something along the lines of, " The weather can change very quickly up there you know?"

Well, they are right and, what is more, it did.

Due to the shear height of Whernside, it had with it it's own micro climate, which was, at this very moment, a crown of thick, impenetrable cloud.  Combine this with the sudden drop in temperature and I knew this might be turning nasty. A large grey, stone wall ran alongside the track that we now followed. Right along the narrow ridge that defined the highest point.

In true British fashion, there were those who thought this might offer the perfect place to stop for a picnic. Several hardcore picnickers we're sat with their backs to the wall, Tupperware boxes propped precariously on their knees, tucking into soggy, cheese sandwiches and cups of luke-warm tea . Stoically, and to their great credit, they managed to smile and gave a very plausible impression that they were actually enjoying themselves. That was, until they pissed off the dragon through their provocatively, pious, picnicking and heavens really opened.

Without any warning it started to hail. I mean really hail. Nothing that I had ever experienced before prepared me for the ferocity of hail that travelled almost horizontally, as if it had been fired from a canon on the other side of the wall. People screamed and shrieked at the speed and violence of the downfall. With the hail, came an almighty wind which had everyone cowering for shelter in safety of the wall. So that's why the wall had been built . To stop people being blown off this thing.

The ice stones stung my hands and legs like a hundred razor nicks, but what was worse, what was much worse was the merciless cold. My body temperature seemed to plummet uncontrollably. All the walking and sweating I had done and now I was shivering, violently.

"We can't stop, we must keep going!" Phil shouted above the deafening crackle of the ice-fall.  He was right of course, as much as the natural impulse was to adopt the foetal position and pray, it made more sense to move.

I was suddenly aware of Julie's frame, curled up next to me, she grimaced and shouted something to me I couldn't make out

She tried again, this time at the top of her voice , "IS MY MASCARA RUNNING?"

I must have looked perplexed, but obliged honestly, "Yes, a little. Look we are going to push on are you coming?"

"No, fuking way," was her immediate and unambiguous answer, and despite the severity of the situation, because it was delivered in the unmistakable scouse accent, it still made me grin.

   So, to a rousing chorus of Four Seasons in One Day,  which some comic had started singing and it soon caught on, we descended the Peak.

The downward trek was to prove more dangerous than the last. There was no 'yellow brick road' going down that had been constructed for going up and it certainly took it"s toll. Shingle and scree gave way easily underfoot. Even embedded stones were slippery and the muddy parts were slick. All of which meant that almost no footfall was guaranteed to stick securely.  I saw several people fall heavily.  One notable misfortunate, having chosen to go slightly off track, suddenly found himself sliding rapidly down a steep gradient on his bottom, like a child on his sledge.  He must have travelled 30feet before a sharp pinnacle of rock stunted his progress, as it defused to yield to his crotch.

Worse, however, was the sight of one of the fell runners who had passed me on Pen-y-Ghent and had so impressed me. I had called them mountain goats and had gaped in awe at their sure-footed skips down the steep gradients. The girl of the pair had clearly fallen heavily and was sat on a boulder being comforted by her partner. Her face was a mess; a dash of blood, which, on seeing, took my breath away.  As I said, he was unfortunate.

Thankfully, a Marshall was there to administer first aid. It was Bridge and I immediately felt reassured. I thought, if I had an accident anywhere on this mountain, I would be comforted to think Bridge was about to help. I'd  hardly met the woman by she had air of assured experience that demanded confidence from those around her.

"This is where my knee gave in last time and I was forced to pull out?" Phil look more darkly grim than I had seen him before. This, of course,  was his ultimate ordeal and self-confirmation.

"How's you knee holding up, now?" I asked.

"It's burning like hell, " his face confirmed the discomfort he was clearly feeling. Don't forget, there is another peak to climb after this, was the reply I stopped myself speaking, but it now occurred to me that I might be finishing this venture on my own.

The descent down the south side seemed to last for ever. My knees, too, were aching by now and I had every sympathy for Phil, as these joints had always been his Achilles heel. I presumed his actual Achilles heels were holding up fine.

Very gradually, but mercifully, the gradient levelled out and once again were were walking on the flat.

I reflected on my sudden bout of shivering that had given me such a fright at the summit. I was to read later that as many people can suffer hypothermia in relatively mild temperatures, as do in the more extreme if conditions.   The words of Sir Ranalph Fiennes rang true; "There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad preparation".

Eventually, we reached the last check point and it was time for another change of socks for Phil, he certainly came from the Sir Ranalph school of preparation. He offered me a glucose sachet, which, on this occasion, I gratefully accepted as I was utterly bushed, operating on fumes and willing to try anything. Phil smiled.

"Don't have it all at once and keep drinking plenty of water. " he warned. " or it will dry your insides out! " Phil was now sitting on a rock and  airing his pale, white and wrinkled feet.

I squeezed a small, dark-brown, slug-looking amount into my mouth. It was like treacle; very thick and sweet. I searched for my water bottle in my pack and took a couple of glugs, with the slugs.

 "Take that would you?" Phil handed me a clear, bag of white powder. Now this was serious drugs-ville. Phil had brought with him an array of lotion, pills and potions but this looked just like a illicit substance.

I know it sounds bad, but I was so tired. No really; I would have chewed on a badgers scrotum, given me by a witch-doctor, had I thought it might have the slightest chance of perking me up a little.

The powder looked like sherbert and I was certain it would be glucosey-sweet, if nothing else, and would probably offer me the boost of energy I needed right now. So, with my back turned to any onlookers, I tapped out a small pile of powder into the  palm of my hand. I stuck my tongue into it. It tasted terrible and chalky. The vile and unexpected taste made me inhale a little of the powder which, in turn, triggered a involuntary, convulsive cough. The remaining powder in my hand exploded in a cloud on white, completely covering my face.

"Jesus Christ, Rich! " Phil exclaimed, " What the hell are you doing with my foot powder?"

Sir Ranulph Funnies

Ringing my socks out whilst sitting on a stone wall in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales can be a sobering moment for a man. A man who thought that in hiking, he'd found his new passion in life, a recent raison d'être, that also offered heath benefits and fundraising opportunities for charity as a reward for his immense toil.

"You must always try and change your socks, at least, every 10 miles," Phil scolded me, father-like, whilst unwrapping, from crinkly plastic, a brand new pair of fluffy, warm, mega-tog, woollen socks.

Phil was a seasoned walker and frankly, in comparison, I wasn't. He'd clearly enjoyed the angle of mentoring me through the art of hiking, whilst we tramped the first 9 miles of the three peaks challenge. And, until now, I'd felt I'd benefitted from his experience and learned a great deal. But right now, with cold, wet feet and the prospect of 16 more miles of squelchy hell in wet socks in front of me, I did not. His advice felt far too condescending for my liking.

Through gritted teeth, I asked, "Don't suppose you have a spare pair you can lend me?"

"I'd love to mate, but I need those for the last 10 miles. You can wear those if you want?" He pointed down at his recently discarded pair, that lay curled like grey, woollen snails, steaming in the cold air. The sight of them was too comical for words. We both laughed suddenly and heartily, after which I felt much better.

  Thank god we British can laugh at ourselves.  It's not a gift that's only associated with the British, of course, but we do it so well. Rarely are there times, when things are looking really dire and grim that a good one liner can't perk-up the spirits and turn everything on it's head. The British seem to have an innate ability to recognise the absurdity of a situation one finds oneself in and laugh hysterically about it and about themselves. It is a wonderful 'human' trait that sets us apart from the animal kingdom, the insects and Victoria Beckham.


I once met Sir Ranulph Fiennes, the 'worlds greatest living explorer', a title bestowed to him by the Guinness Book of Records. He was conducting a book signing, in Brighton. I was there for a conference and was enthralled by his pre-signing lecture when he gave a packed auditorium an awe-inspiring account of his adventures around the globe.  He beguiled the audience with an anecdote of his first venture across the arctic wastelands in the 1970s. He travelled with his friend and companion, 'Charlie'. Together they faced months of great hardships in the frozen tundra. By the time they had reached the South Pole Charlie had suffered the worst of it, losing all the skin on his fingers and feet to frost bite. Despite suffering excruciating and unrelenting pain, Charlie valiantly marched onwards.

Finally, Fiennes described the moment when, on hitting his head against a rock, Charlie's eyeballs filled with blood. On seeing yet another tragedy befall his calamitous comrade Sir Ranulph turned to him and said, "You're not going to start winging now are you?"    At this, the two off them, reportedly fell into hysterics - right there and then - in the middle of the South Pole and hundreds of miles away from another living soul.  

Is it just me, or is that not bloody marvellous? That's it, right there; humour and cahones personified. Can there be any greater qualities required in a world-class explorer? Qualities shared, no doubt, with histories greatest explorers; Sir Edmund Hillary, Roald Amundsen, James Cook and Amy Johnson...yes, even Amy Johnson had the sort of cahones that her husband could be proud of.

Yes, laughter would be a great weapon for me; my greatest weapon, in the face of disaster,  disheartenment, discomfort and any other words associated with the negativity of the dis-  prefix.  Perhaps, with the exception of the word 'disco'. That word is too fun and one which we must endeavour to take back into the light. Although, it's probably an abbreviation for 'discoordinated' and not, as many foolishly believe, 'discotheque'.  Let's face it, it sums up the standard of the majority of dancers that have ever gyrated like a demented jelly fish to anything by the Sissor Sisters, in a public place. Is it any wonder that every nightclub, planning on people actually turning up for a boogie,  insists on selling alcohol?

Anyway, I digress as I am prone to do. I fear it will soon take as long to read these blogs about my three peaks challenge trek, as it was to walk the bloody thing.

So back to our intrepid travellers who, after a short respite at check point two, were back on the Yorkshire trail.

The land had flattened out considerably and walking became easier as we followed walls and tracks to a most impressive feat of Victorian engineering; the Ribblehead viaduct.

The Ribblehead viaduct is undoubtedly the most impressive structure on the Settle-Carlisle Railway. Known affectionately, locally, as  Batty Moss viaduct, it boasts 24 massive stone arches, 104 feet above the moor. Tragically however, with its construction came atrocious loss of life. Hundreds of "navvies"(railway builders) lost their lives building the line, from a combination of accidents, fights, and smallpox outbreaks. So much so, in fact, that the railway paid for an expansion of the local graveyard.


Our paths took us parallel to the structure and gave us plenty of time to admire it's splendour. Several diesel trains passed along it's length and I pictured in my mind's eye what an illustrious sight it would be to see a steam engine, chuffing across its back, leaving a trail of plumes of billowy white.

Happily, lost in an antiquated railway fantasy we marched on until things suddenly became significantly darker. Looking up I could see the viaduct was now dwarfed by a much larger structure and one carved not by the hand of man, but by millions of years of grinding glaciers. Whernside stood tall and dark like a Goliath about us.

Phil must have noticed my slack-jawed gawk, as he said with a half-smile, "Yup. That's where we're going"

For more, catch my blog on http://richard-cano.blogspot.com/

Dangerous Derrière

Four hard hours in and one peak down, Phil and I maintained a steady jaunt into the wetlands that surrounded the grandest of the Yorkshire peaks.  

The spring of 2012 will go down in history as the wettest that the British people have ever had to endure and , believe me, we've had more than our fair share of seasonal washouts. April to June alone was the wettest since records began in 1910


The aftermath that this appalling spell of weather had had of this expanse of Yorkshire countryside was clear to see.   The terrain undulated markedly, with islands of spongy, mossy turf dispersed over a sea of sodden, peat soil.

Footfalls now had a audible squelch to them and in the worst places, to avoid our boots sinking into subaqueous depths, we had to pick out tufts of grass and skip between them like stepping stones.

Our precarious descent from Pen y Gent had required careful foot placement to avoid slips on loose scree and slippery mud. Now, concentration was heightened as we selected firm, foot-sized, patches of ground to step on and, as a result, all chatter soon ceased. This was my first experience of serious marshland. This was Horton Moor.

Suddenly, Phil's wide brimmed hat popped up and he interrogated the area around us with squinting eyes.
"This wasn't the way we came last time I was here". He looked puzzled.
"Are you certain? It all looks the bloody same to me," I suggested.
" Yeah, I'm sure." He raised a walking stick and pointed away to the north. " We went that way, toward Plover Hill then east, to High Bickwith. It was all like this; really nasty, boggy stuff!"

"We've changed the route," came an eloquent voice from behind. It had more than a trace of authority about it that commanded our attention.

It was a marshall dressed in a bright, yellow jacket, with matching pack cover. A tall, well built woman in her late 40's strode up beside us. "We usually run it to the north of here and then round to the Cam Fell, but the ground is treacherous over there. We couldn't risk it.

The lady had a regimental, almost officer-like, air about her and I guessed she must have served in the forces. " The landowner has lost three cows in the last two weeks".

"Where did they go?" I asked naively.

She threw me a sideways look. "Straight down! They were sucked down into the bog."

"Bridge is the name", Phil and I introduced ourselves and forgo the need for handshakes. This was a probably a blessing, as I could imagine that Bridge, had a vicelike crushing grip, which would have left me whimpering like a big girl's blouse. I guessed 'Bridge' was short for Bridget, but it might have easily been a nickname, perhaps earned during her army days, for her formidable reputation and robust stature. Or, perhaps it was her unique ability to straddle deep crevasses and allow articulated lorries and tanks to ride over her back.

She was not attractive, in the classic sense. She wore a black bandana, pulled tight over greying, dark, shoulder-length hair. Under this a deep, scar forked down her forehead and created a flash of white in her left eyebrow.

With a long, loping gait, Bridge pulled ahead of me. Despite a sizeable burden, of what I assumed was medical and /or first aid supplies, by the green cross emblem on the back. Head held high, back straight, her arms swung rhythmically in pseudo parade style, I had to work hard to keep up with her. However, my eyes were, suddenly, distracted by motions further south.

Black, lightweight trousers covered her long legs and, above, the focus of my attention, was a prodigious, immense posterior. Like two undulating medicine balls, her imposing buttocks moved majestically under the stretched, black fabric. In my meagre defence, it was simply arresting.

It immediately occurred to me, as my mind works in such ways, that Phil and I might have eaten well, for the next mile or so, simply by tossing an assortment of nuts into the vice-like, crack-percussions and catching the debris that would be expelled. It would, not only, be a fun and nutritious game, but it would help break the monotony of our marshy march.

Seriously now, the movement was absorbing, captivating, almost hypnotic. The remarkable rump morphed into alternating yIng and yang shapes, yIng...yang...yIng....yang...here come the ying again...and now, the yang...

So, it served me right, that at that precise moment, that I be dispatched a very important lesson, which might be remembered, from that day forth with the wise words,  a distracting derriere precedes a fall, or, perhaps, fear the rear if thou should see not what is near ,which, just about sums it up. As whilst my attention was taken on that dynamic display, my feet had blundered their way, knee-deep , into a quagmire.

Phil guffawed with amusement. "You were too busy looking at her arse weren't you?"

"I was not!" I protested, feebly and reassured myself, that Bridge was already well out of ear-shot, or my embarrassment would be been augmented ten-fold.

"SEE YOU AT GROUSE BUTTS!" Bridge called out without looking back.

Buts?? Oh my God, now I am mortified!

"This is why I wear gaiters." Clearly enjoying the moment, Phil leaned sideways against his walking sticks. "And I always carry spare pair of socks".

"Is there anything you don't have in your bloody pack?" I couldn't help but be spiky with him.

"Yeah, I had to leave half my kit back at home", he said, as if it had been a difficult decision making process. I imagine he would have completed several risk assessment documents in the process.

"It must have pained you to leave behind your flare gun." I gibed, sarcastically.

"No, I've packed that". If he was joking, his face didn't give it away.


"Come on, mate! We need to crack on. " He offered me his hand to me and with a raspy suck-slurp we managed to extract my clay-clad feet from the mire.

My feet and shins were saturated and, for the next half an hour, each step brought with it a discernible squelching of water between my toes. Mercifully, Bridge and her rear distractions had now disappeared over the next fold in the land.


For more, catch my blog on http://richard-cano.blogspot.com/

Mountain Goats on Speed

 A panorama like none other I'd seen before. A long sweeping, lush green valley with a small scattering of buildings like discarded Lego bricks. An immense, brooding sky crowned the view, with billowy, grey clouds that looked like the heavy brush strokes of an em-passionate painter. The sheer space. The air. The land. It was awe inspiring.

"Good innit?"  It was Phil, stopping alongside me to share the vista.

"Wow!" was all I could say, but it seemed to some it all up.

Isn't it great that we have so many small words we can draw upon, like 'Wow! ' , 'Oh my God', 'Yes!' and 'Geronimo' to sum up our most mighty feelings of awe, thrill and sheer ecstasy! Who the hell was Geronimo anyway and why does my wife hate it so much when I yell it when we are in the throws of passion?

Phil interjected again, "But this is nothing to views on top of Whernside.  Now that's something you want to see!"

There's better to come? Bring it on, I thought.


Over and between huge, dark, clammy boulders we trudged up to the top of Pen y Ghent. It was a tough couple of hours of plod, plod, plod, before the terrain, mercifully, flattened out toward the summit. Phil and I were able to march side by side and as soon as we were able to catch our breath we got chatting.

It turned out that my latest, ramble-buddy was a chef by trade, with his own catering business. For Phil, walking was his escape from the stresses of the kitchen. His excursions from his home, just outside Hull, often took in the wilds of Yorkshire, darkest Derbyshire and the romance of the splendour of the Lake District.
It was a family business that he ran with his wife, with whom he had a young daughter.

"Pick up a stone!" Phil surprisingly instructed. The hint of urgency in his voice intrigued me  enough to stoop for fist-sized, grey pebble. Phil had a similar rock in his hand. Surely we weren't going to take a pot-shot at the nearest rabbit or grazing sheep? Was Phil looking to impressive me with a demonstration of his cookings skills out in the wild. I pictured him whipping a gas stove out of his pack,then felling, skinning and braising a rabbit with fast, skilled hands, before tearing handfuls of natural, green herbs from the greenery at our feet and shredding it on top.
So it was, with equal amounts of relief and disappointment, that I saw him he toss his stone onto a man-sized pile that stood at the side of the path.

'Go on then!' He indicated for me to follow suit. So I did, hoping to God that I would not be made to endure 9 hours of pick up stone, put down stone, with 'fun-guy' Phil. Did he really think that is was a good way to pass the time?

I had to ask,"So, what did we do that for?"

He told me that the pile of stones was a Cairn. It was a marker, like a waypoint for hikers. "If everyone who passes a cairn adds one stone it maintains  it. When it snows they poke out and guide walkers," Phill added. I was impressed. Later I was to discover that Cairns have been around for 1,000s of year and are found, not just here, but in North America and Northern Europe. At regular intervals, a series of cairns can be used to indicate a path across stony or barren terrain, even across glaciers.

Phil enjoyed passing on his knowledge to one as green as I, just as much as I enjoyed learning from him.

"If the trail is unclear, it shows people the way and sometimes there're used to warn people  of a danger spot. "
"How can you tell the difference between a come here! one and a don't come here! one?" I asked.
"You can't. You just have to be careful" Phil shrugged.
The thought of  some poor bastard, staggering his way, blindly, through a blizzard, following the cairn's direction, only to find himself plummeting down an unseen drop, made me shudder.

An hour later we had signed in a the first check point and were greeted warmly by some Macmillan volunteers, who were acting as marshals for the day. Many fellow walkers took the opportunity to take a break, but Phil insisted we push on. "We'll take a break at the second check point, before we reach Whernside."
He'd clearly been planning this for months. My feet and legs felt strong, so I was happy to keep going.

"Try some of these". From one of his many zipped pouches in his back-pack he produce a small, plastic pot of, what looked like, multicoloured pills. Phil must have read the concerned look of my face. " It's alright, they're jellybean's, but they've got extra glucose and shit in them, so they'll keep you going." I tried some. They were sugary sweet.

Phil washed his down with a slurp from a clear pipe that clipped into his shoulder strap and the back into his pack. "Time saver". I must say, i was increasingly impressed with his gear.

Coming down from Pen y Gent was tough on the body. It's amazing how the muscles we use to walk down a steep descent feel entirely different to those we use to climb up.

"Argh!" Phil yawped, " This is the first real test for my knees".

Trying to pick out firm footings on the embedded stone islands that poked through the slippery wet mud and loose scree, took focussed concentration. The strain of slowing ones downward  momentum to a steady and manageable pace, plus the inevitable frequent foot slips, made my knees burn. I sympathised with Phil.

In two flashes, one of neon pink and the other green, two fell runners skipped between Phil and I. With the sure footing of mountain goats on speed, the young couple bounded down the steep incline. I stood in utter awe and admiration and watched a long, brunet ponytail, pulled through the back of a cap, dance snake-like over the next lip and out of sight.
I was overcome by the display of balance, agility, fitness and plain-old, balls-out, thrill-seeking bravery, that I had just witnessed.

Unkindly and unfairly, however, it suddenly left me feeling aged, feeble and rather faint hearted . But I wasn't having any of it! I gritted my teeth and picked up the pace, passing between  a group of walkers we'd had been tracking for sometime. Unsurprisingly, Phil was doing exactly the same.

The Shell-Endowed Turtle

Like brightly coloured beads on a string necklace, dropped carelessly by some Yorkshire Colossus, the walkers snaked their way up the craggy faces of Pen y Ghent. Like sheep, we followed, one by one, or in my case two by two as I now had a walking buddy.

'I'll bloody do it today, or break my arse trying", Phil Smith was steely and determined. He had attempted the three peaks two years earlier with his father-in-law. Only to fall at the final peak when severe pains in his knee had become unbearable.

"It's not the going up that does it", he told me. "It's the going down. Yer knees take all the impact".

He was certainly dressed like he meant business ; waterproof coat, lightweight trousers, gaiters and two telescopic walking sticks ( although I'm sure they must have a sexier name) and a rucksack that, by the looks of it, contained crampons, ice axes and a life raft (just in case, like).


In comparison, I looked like I'd popped out to the corner shop for the Radio Times and a packet of Digestive Hob-Knobs. His must of thought of me as a bit of a novice, though he was probably too polite to say so.

"So I take it you're a bit of a novice to this sort of lark are you?"
I knew it!
"Is it that obvious?" I replied.
"A bit".
"Do you think I'm lacking a bit of kit?" I nodded at his backpack. Packed to the gills, it made him look like a shell-endowed turtle.


"Well, the gear is only part of the preparation." He countered and suddenly went all distant and wise, like a father instructing his son, " Yeh, your body can let you down alright, but it's in here you got to be strong". He tapped the side of his head and fixed me with a glare.

At times like this Phil looked a lot older than his 34 years. His weathered features and stocky build added to his robust air. If I was going to make this journey to the end there was no better person to be hooked up with, I thought. This trek was no laughing matter. It would be hard and gruelling. Now, I had the experienced guidance of a man who had given it his all...and failed. Now he was back. Arnie-style.  And fixated on nothing but success. One way or another we would reach the end together, whether it was him carrying me or .... Well, it would probably have to be him carrying me, to be honest.

We started the clamber up east side of Pen y Ghent. So many walkers made it seem almost as if it were people climbing people. Perhaps a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster, where flood waters are rising and hundreds of survivors are desperately,trying to scrabble up to higher ground.

It would prove, for me, a wake up call for what i'd let myself in for. But for some it was proving a little too much already.

Two ladies with Macmillan T-shirts stretched tightly over their significant frames, like ceiling netting straining to holding back balloons at New Year's Eve party, were leaning against the side a huge boulder, red-faced and blowing hard.

 It was probably Brenda and Sue from the office, I guessed, who were  coaxed into coming along by their work colleagues, without being told, or fully appreciating, exactly what they were letting themselves in for.

"Where're the rest of them, Bren?" one puffed.
"They've gone on ahead, Sooz,"came the unsurprising news.
"Blimey, I could do with a ciggie, Bren"
"Me too!" Sue pulled out a pack and offered her friend a fag. Both keen to get some smoke down them, before anymore of that fresh air crap got in.

I was blowing a little, too and hot enough to take my coat off. It was clear that the first climb of the day would filter out the Brendas and Sues of this world, but soon I was to realise that the challenge was about to take no prisoners.

The Ribble Runs

Settle station was opened in 1876 and is one of the Derby Gothic Style station types and at this unholy hour of the morning, it was all mine. So peaceful. I could have curled up on one of it's benches and fallen straight back to sleep. To dream, perhaps of a blueberry mountain and a huge, bald-headed falcon perched on its summit, staring scornfully down, ready to swoop on any poor, unsuspecting lost sheep (reference to previous posts). ' That would be me, ' I found myself saying audibly, not that anyone as around to hear it.
The distant clacketty-clack was the early signal of a train's approach and soon I was one of the handful of bleary-eyed passengers making their was along a very significant track line.

The Settle to Carlisle line, spans 72 mile of the most picturesque and stunning Yorkshire countryside. This journey was only made possible by the guile and expertise of the Victorians engineers. In all, on this amazing journey, the train descends through 14 tunnels and travels over 17 major viaducts spanning ravines, making the train the perfect place from which to admire views of a rich variance of stunning landscape.
However, for me, on this particular day, I would not have the opportunity to see this as, at the very next stop, I was off. Horton-in-Ribblesdale and don't you just love the name?

I was late for my rendezvous with 300 mad, macmillan charity walkers. It couldn't be helped, I had caught the first train of the day.

From a high vantage point, at the station gates, I look down into the small, sleeping village. A cluster of cars parked at the edge of a field and the muffled, fractured sounds of a man speaking on a tanoy system told me where I needed to be.

As I approached the field a stream of wired walkers were filing out. Feeling like a salmon, trying to make it's way up stream and against the flow, I navigated my way into a small marquee, just inside the stone gateway. Tea, coffee and a crate load of bananas, piled high on tables filled one corner and in the other was a cheerful-looking man sporting sporty shades and a tuft of gel-spiked hair on a severely, receding hair line.

Why do some guys do this? There comes a time when most men have to accept that the bountiful, bouffant of hair they once cherished, sculptured and preened is waving goodbye to them.   One has to admire the dogged, no nonsense chaps who will would rather shave the whole lot off, rather than have it slowly, sinking over the horizon of their northern hemisphere.

However, there are a few disillusioned blokes who will stubbornly stick to their old styles. Some are determined to keep it long despite having so little. Now they have a choice, either comb it over, or create Terry Nutkins-like mullet (front side for business, back for partying). This, in my humble... looks ridiculous.

The chap before me had a similar thing going on. His philosophy was clear; no matter how far back my hair retreats goes, I will still look cool! Yes, the hair is going, but if I keep it long and gel it so it sticks right up, I will still be able to see it when I look in the mirror. The only flaw in his plan is, so will everyone else!
God, I'm such a bitch. Sorry.
Like I said, he welcomed me,' Dude, your just in time. Do you have your declaration form?'
I gave him the form and signed the register. He gave me a tag on a lime-green ribbon, ' you need to fill this in and hang it round your neck. Keep it with you at all times'.
'What is it ?' I asked.
It's your next of kin details. If we find you at the bottom of a cliff face or down a pothole. We know who to call. ' He grinned, white and wide. He'd probably used the same line for all the other walkers who had asked the same question. I wondered if the colour had drained from my face any quicker than theirs.

 I accepted the invitation to take a couple of bananas for the journey, but I was keen to get going.

I joined the long line of walkers. Keen groups of people talked excitedly about the challenges to come and what they thought their chances would be of making it all the way.

We walked over a large stone bridge which spanned the treacle-coloured waters of the River Ribble, which churned in white flashes. Crossing at The Golden Lion we passed a beautiful little primary school. All grey stone of course. And then we were up and over a wall and off-road.

I' d only just noticed the chap walking in front of me with a large-brimmed, navy hat, and bulging rucksack when he suddenly turned to face me and held out an open hand. ' Are you walking on your own?'
'Yes' I replied.
' Do you want to walk together. It' ll be much easier'.
I hadn't counted on taking on this challenge with anyone else, but Lady Fortune had deemed that Phil Smith, from Hull, and I, would be facing all the grim challenges of the Yorkshire Peaks, together.