Is this an adventure story?

Looking for adventure in the Lake District

The sun is shining when I pack for our weekend in the Lake District. After a long, dark winter and the wettest 18 months on record, it seems that spring is finally on its way. So instead of my winter woollies, I throw in my sunglasses and factor 50.

‘Have you got your sunglasses?’ I shout downstairs to Chris.

‘I’m wearing them,’ he shouts back.

We are both looking forward to a change of scenery and walking under some blue skies. But an hour into our journey, the sun disappears, and the world turns an ominous shade of grey.

When we stop at the services, there is a real chill in the air and the wind is whipping up.

‘There’s nothing spring-like about this. It’s more like February than April.’ I rub my hands together to stay warm. ‘I’ll probably need gloves. And a hat.’

‘Did you pack them?’ Chris asks.

‘No. Did you?’

‘I’ve got my gloves, woolly hat, and a cap,’ he says, looking quite pleased with himself.

‘You’re prepared,’ I say. ‘I’ve packed factor 50 sun cream.’

He laughs. ‘I love your optimism.’

The closer we get to the Lakes, the more I worry about what I have, or rather haven’t packed.

‘Why didn’t I bring warm clothes? What was I thinking?’

I am used to being outdoors. I run, walk and I’m always out with the horses. But I usually dress for the weather—layer upon layer of breathable fabrics, fleeces and waterproofs. Without the right attire, I’ll freeze.

As we drive into Windermere, rain spattering the windscreen, I realise there is nothing else for it but to dash to Regatta for an emergency shop. I buy two fleece jumpers, a hat and extreme weather gloves.

It’s April, I remind myself as we head to the hotel.

The manager greets us with a weather update. ‘It’s been raining all week,’ she tells us. ‘On Wednesday it poured and poured, and I didn’t think it would ever stop.’

‘It might ease off,’ I say, still hopeful that the sun will make an appearance.

‘It might,’ she says, but from the look on her face, she clearly thinks I am deluded.

We leave our case in the room, not bothering to unpack my spring clothes, and head for the pub. Now we know it’s going to be a wet weekend, we need to rethink our plans.

Chris takes a sip of his pint and relaxes into his chair. ‘It wouldn’t hurt us to do nothing.’

‘I know. But we came here for adventure.’

Since turning forty in 2019, I have been craving mountain adventures—well, the idea of them, anyway. At first, it was about proving to myself that I was still fit and strong. But then, with two years of lockdown living, I longed for the freedom of being anywhere other than Barnsley. The mountains offered that sense of adventure, of being in nature, and living life to the full. 

I just haven’t been near one yet. And at 44 and three-quarters, if I want tripping off to the mountains to be the ‘thing’ of my forties, much like running was the ‘thing’ of my thirties, and partying was the ‘thing’ of my twenties, I really should get started.

The only problem is that the thought of climbing a mountain makes my heart rate rocket. Being tall, my balance isn’t great, and I worry I’ll fall.

‘How are you going to manage a mountain if you can’t walk up a small hill without a meltdown?’ Chris will ask when we’re out walking.

‘That attitude doesn’t help,’ I’ll say, thinking he has a point.

To move past the fear, I’ve been reading books by women who refer to themselves as adventurers. Women who are bold and brave and take on ultra distances and extreme challenges, women who push themselves to the limit.

And I want to be like them, well, a diluted version maybe. And the only way to do that is to pick a mountain and get over it.

Our plan was to climb Catbells. It’s one of the lower fells in the Lake District and is supposed to be ideal as a first mountain. But in such wet conditions and in low cloud, it is highly likely that I’ll fall or get stuck and have to call on Mountain Rescue.

Chris takes another sip of his pint. ‘We can’t do Catbells in this weather.’

‘Definitely not.’ I can’t help feeling a sliver of disappointment, but also a great big portion of relief. ‘We can still have an adventure, though. Just on lower ground.’

So, the next day, we opt for a 10-mile walk around Derwent Water.

We arrive in Keswick for 10.30. The hills are completely in cloud and it’s drizzling.

Chris checks the weather app. ‘We have a couple of hours. The rain will be worse between 12 and 3pm.’

Kitted out in my new clothes, I’m not too bothered by the forecast. I’m convinced the rain will stop, and the sun will shine. 

The wind comes first, blowing off the lake with such force it takes my breath. People around us walk for a while, then turn back. We carry on, heads down into the wind, determined not to abort another challenge. 

Two miles in, the path disappears underwater. We tiptoe our way over rocks and branches at the edge of the lake, trying not to fall in. We make it to firmer ground, but then comes the next obstacle. A small climb.

This is the climb - it doesn’t look as terrifying on the photo!

‘I can’t do that.’ I glance around for another route, but unless we turn back, this is the only way.

The women in front of us are completely unfazed by the climb. I follow their lead. Where they plant their feet, I plant mine. I don’t look up or down, instead I focus on taking it one step at a time, scrambling my way to the top. 

Once there, I want to take a moment to celebrate. But there is no time for that because what goes up must come down.

‘I’m scared,’ I tell Chris, my voice wobbly. ‘There must be another way.’

Again, there isn’t. As the women hop from rock to rock, descending like mountain goats, I sit on my backside and slide down. This is what adventure is all about, I tell myself.

On the other side, progress is even slower as we traipse through mud and try to get round the flooded parts of the lake. ‘It’s like an assault course,’ one of the women says to me.

Eventually, we come to a standstill. The only way forward is to swim and I’m not doing that, so we take the road.

I’m much happier on tarmac and we walk quickly. I’m about to say that we’re doing okay with the weather when the drizzle becomes a downpour, hitting the ground so hard it bounces.

We arrive at Kettlewell car park in Borrowdale, and stand in front of the map, wondering which way to go.

‘Are you okay?’ A woman approaches. ‘I’m from The National Trust.’

‘Where are we?’ I ask, trying but failing to see the ‘You Are Here’ arrow that will be on the map somewhere.

She taps the board. ‘Here. And where do you need to be?’

‘Keswick,’ Chris says.

‘Usually, you could cross here.’ She points to another section on the map. ‘But the footbridge has flooded, so you’ll have to take a detour into Grange.’

‘Is it a long way?’ I say, thinking it looks a long way, especially when it’s pummelling down with rain.

She nods. ‘Please don’t try to cross the bridge. I’ve seen a man getting into trouble this morning in only knee-high water. It’s surprising what reaction the cold-water can cause.’

I don’t need telling twice. Years ago, I did some PR for an academic whose specialism was cold water shock. ‘If you fall into cold water,’ he’d told me. ‘The shock will kill you.’

It’s stayed with me.

‘Where’s the nearest café?’ I ask, intending to stay as warm and dry as possible.

‘Cafés here,’ she points on the board. ‘Toilets here. And the buses are running if you need them.’

We thank her and get on our way. We reach Lodore Falls, and instead of turning across the bridge, continue the two extra miles into Grange, circling back to Derwent Water through Manesty Park, and on to the start of the Catbells climb.

Chris smiles. ‘Should we do it?’  

‘Not now!’ Instead, we head for the tea van. I munch a honeycomb chocolate crunch and sip my hot tea, staring up at the mountain. Even for a low fell, it’s frightening. But with a little preparation, the right clothing and in better weather, I can do it. I know I can.

‘We’ll come back,’ I say. ‘Soon.’

By the time we stagger into Keswick, we are soaked to the skin. My walking trousers cling to my legs and the chafing has started. But it’s been fun.

We pass a teenager, walking with his mum. ‘This is the worst day of my life,’ he says.

‘Give it thirty years,’ I say. ‘And this will feel like an adventure.’

We’ve done 12-miles, nine of them in torrential rain, but the second we get back to the car, the clouds part and the sun shines.

‘I knew we’d need our sunglasses.’ I reach into my bag, pleased that I’m prepared, but they’re not there. I’ve left them at the hotel.

---

If you enjoyed this piece then the greatest help for me would be if you could share it, like it, or leave a comment. Thank you. xx

If you would like video recordings of me reading my work, a monthly Q&A, discounts on my coaching services, and more, why not upgrade for just £3.33, the cost of a coffee, a month. It shows me you enjoy my work and want me to continue.

Thanks so much for your support. It means such a lot to me. Liz xx