Another year goes by and we’re
all another year wiser. I think not. Humanity is still intent on finding fault with itself and hell-bent on self-destruction.
Anyhoo, on we go.
Apparently there’s a winter sports
condition referred to as ‘half term syndrome’ wherein thirty and forty-something parents whisk their offspring
to an Alp for a dose of recreational downhill suicide at half-term. The sudden activity levels and use of limbs and muscles
that only get used occasionally result in breakages, stresses and strains, hence the term, half-term syndrome.
There’s also a condition called
Christmas Crackers. This involves the consumption of copious levels of alcohol over several days and exposure to immediate
family members for a period of more than ninety seconds. After a couple of days, usually toward the end of Boxing Day evening
the weakest crack and devise an excursion to exorcise the demonic presence that is family and food and drink. A plan is borne
to inject a healthy antidote: a walk in the Dales.
After scurrying round for an hour trying
to find the missing left boot, the woolly hat and the emergency flares they’re into the car and off. Dashing through
the snow with a ho, ho, ho and a relief to be unleashed from the constraints of four walls and the acerbic wit of Auntie Eileen
they dash to the glorious Dales. The men are wearing gaiters fit for an assault on the marshlands of Middle Earth and the
right sort of outdoor jacket to generate a healthy level of respect from alpine mountaineers. This level of male professionalism
is counterbalanced by their wives’ desire to retain a modicum of fashion sense, so no dowdy cords or trainers for them,
dignity must be preserved on the fells. After ensuring their backpack contains the flask and sandwiches they’re off
with a purposeful stride and a steely glint in the eye.
Two minutes later the column of hikers
shudders to a halt to allow the removal of at least two layers of clothing. The steam can be seen rising from their heads
as the fleeces come off and bodies accustomed to walking between the car and the supermarket generate an infra-red signature
hot enough to cause a panic in the control room at Fylingdales early warning station.
The route is without question; obviously
it’s basically up, and up, and up. The path is a little vague here and there but it’s fairly obvious which is
the correct route; just follow everyone else. Actually it’s best to check. “Is this the way to Simon’s Seat?”
Good, we were right in the first place. On we go. By now the men have become designated Sherpa’s as the women peel off
layer after layer of apparel and stuff it into the swelling backpack.
Finally a major junction crawls into
view begging the question no one wanted to ask, which way now? Maps can be so misleading and anyway surely the best way to
experience the outdoors is in the raw, taking chances and challenging nature. Best to break out the flask and wait for the
following group to catch up, they’ll probably know. The next party has a map depicting the landscape straddling the
equatorial regions of Venus and hieroglyphics written by the aliens that helped the Egyptians build the pyramids. That clump
of rocks to the left must be the right direction, the animated gesturing of fellow walkers either means they’ve been
attacked by wolves or they’ve run out of chocolate. Either way there are human beings out there so it must be worth
going. Herd mentality. The mere several million tons of rock that assumes the title of ‘the summit’ is somewhat
crowded as annoyed husbands attempt to first propel their wives to the highest rock and then grunt under the strain as they
skitter and slither back down.
The next decision is fairly simple, descend
back toward the valley but after all that cavorting on the summit it’s easy to get disorientated. Does anyone know the
number of the RAF rescue helicpter?
