Over breakfast, the huge metal kettle spouting steam, we decided to climb Loughrigg - Wainwright praised the fell unreservedly - I gazed with shining eyes at his beautiful line drawings and delicate maps - I relished his quirky apercus -
We bought some Snickers bars in the camp site reception - it was always warm and cheery there - smiling brawny girls greeted new arrivals, directing them to their pitches - gnarled walkers stocked up on Kendal Mint Cake - I resisted the temptation to ask for Kendal Old Drop -
We parked just before the bridge at Clappersgate - an icy river swept over stones, flowing into a deep gleaming pool - a wooded islet was full of shadows -
We crossed the bridge, and dodged sleek Qashqais on the A593 heading for Ambleside - I could see expressionless faces behind windscreens -
We climbed up a steep path, between two high drystone walls - tree roots writhed beneath our boots, forming irregular steps - I thought of the short story by H G Wells - perhaps we would find a green door, set in the mossy wall - there might be panthers, with warm silky flesh, waiting to nuzzle us -
We went up, higher and higher, under tall, dripping, trees, then through waist high bracken - we could see the lake, nearby fells - a small plane flew low in the moist air -
Once upon the approaches to the summit, we were soon lost - we looked in vain for Lily Tarn - I remembered, too late, what Wainwright had said of the final phase of ascent - the maze of paths needs careful unravelling -
Climbing Loughrigg was a metaphor for living your life, I thought - all those paths, all those promises of beautiful vistas -
But if you disregarded the need to reach the summit, what joy you felt, in just being above the world, reading secrets in the clouds -
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