Breaking the Barrier

I love walking. I don't care what the weather's like, I just love walking. If I see a footpath, I want to follow it. Walking is very therapeutic. I am able to think, solve problems, burn off calories.....

Last year, i walked up Croagh Patrick. Not a massively challenging feat but one which set me thinking about a more purposeful walk. Almost a year later, I decided that I would walk across the UK. Not the usual coast-to-coast, St Bees to Robin Hoods Bay, but a less obvious route: the White Cliffs of Dover to Lands End....along the coast as much as possible. I decided I would set off in March 2010.

Well, a walk such as this would be an achievement on its own but perhaps also a wasted opportunity. I should use the walk to achieve some purpose too, some fundraising. But just how do you organise a fundraising event? How do you publicise it, get sponsors? And how do you choose the charities.

I run my own specialist autism consultancy, Asteroids. I didn't want to raise funds for that but I thought it would be good to use the walk to raise awareness of autism. I searched the internet for suitable autism-related charities who might welcome some money. I decided against the obvious ones. I wanted a smaller charity, one which would really 'use' the money. I knew I would be raising thousands of pounds and I didn't want my measly attempt to just get swallowed up in administration costs. In the end, I found a small local charity which provides surf schools for children with autism and learning difficulties. This was ideal: local and coast related. Now what do I do?

Having decided that March was the right time to start this walk, I began to gather maps together and plan a route. However, a few family members began to express concern about the starting date: short days, cold nights etc. Huh....pathetic excuses! Still, clearly my husband was not going to allow me to set off from Dover on 1st March! Also, for promotion and publicity reasons, I needed a key starting date, something which tied in with the purpose of the walk, something to grab people's attention. A little research and I found the answer: 2nd April: World Autism Awareness Day. There, what could be more suitable than that?

Armed with a basic map of the south coast and a starting date for the walk, I emailed Lifeworks, the local charity I wanted to raise funds for. They were delighted and rapidly set up an initial meeting to discuss the walk. And, suddenly, there I was.....standing outside a hotel in Totnes, waiting to meet someone with absolutely no idea what she looked like. I didn't want to draw attention to myself by asking every single woman if she was my appointment. I tried to hang around at the hotel entrance without looking too conspicuous. My husband, who had come along for the day out, looked even more suspicious! Knowing that my appointment would be looking for a single woman, we didn't want to confuse her by standing together. So hubby stood across the road....then around the corner.....then at another entrance......

Finally, a woman approached me and asked my name. Yes, the right person. Phew! I called my husband over and the three of us went inside for a much needed drink. At least the walk would be easier than this!

I was amazed at the enthusiasm from Lifeworks. They were ready to provide support and publicity. Could I come along to the next surf event? They could organise a photo shoot and get some initial publicity information out to parents and volunteers at the event. Could we share the fundraising with a national charity to increase support? How about the RNLI? They would be a link with the coast and surf theme. By the time the meeting was over, my head was buzzing with ideas.

Once home, I emailed the RNLI. Yes, they would be keen to get involved. That was it then. No going back. I'd best start training!

So...how should I start training for this mammoth walk? Well, seeing as it's mainly coastal paths in southern England, I think I'll start with a trip up Ben Nevis.

I have climbed Ben Nevis once: about four years ago. When I say 'climbed', I really mean 'walked' because there isn't any actual climbing involved. On that day, the weather was dreadful: gale force winds, driving rain....Accompanied by my daughter, we very sensibly donned waterproof cagoules and walking boots. However, by the time we reached the halfway lake, we were totally soaked through. We sat and ate some soggy sandwiches and I asked my daughter if she wanted to go on or turn back. I dreaded her response. I had already decided that we were going on and didn't particularly want a major 'mother/daughter' scene half way up a mountain in a Force 10 storm. To my relief (and amazement), she agreed to go on so we pulled our hoods up and continued our struggle against the elements.

When we finally reached the summit, the visibility was so poor, we couldn't see anything. The celebratory summit photos simply didn't do the effort any justice: two miserable souls with water dripping off noses and chins. The descent wasn't much better. Just getting back to the path was difficult enough and the walk back down was no better as we were soaked to the skin with water-filled boots. We walked silently, listening to the mountain rescue helicopter in the distance, occasionally talking to some crazy people as they passed us on their ascent. The following day, we stretched our tired and aching legs in Glasgow. Realising that our 'waterproof' clothing wasn't.....we ventured into an outdoor kit shop to investigate the cost of 'real' waterproofs, for next time.

Okay, so I reached the summit of Britain's highest mountain. Did I feel elated? No! Instead, I felt disappointed that I had not been able to enjoy the views across Western Scotland and beyond. So, with a few free weeks and the promise of a 'barbecue summer', the obvious destination was Ben Nevis. Perhaps this time the sun would shine.

Our plan (hubby and I) was simple: drive from Cornwall to the Lake District and climb Helvellyn. Drive to Scotland for Ben Nevis, then across to the east coast and down to York to call in on an elderly relative before heading back home. Ten days and two mountains....and two tents.

Why two tents? Was our marriage that bad? Does my hubby snore? Neither. The two tents are to allow for the British weather. We have a normal tent, the blue one, which is spacious enough for us to sit upright and store all of our stuff. It's waterproof but not windproof, as we found out in Ireland last year. It didn't actually blow away but a gust of wind was enough to partially flatten the tent. Hence the second tent, the green one. This is a tiny backpacker's tent: enough space for two people to lie down. Not exactly luxury but it's geodesic design means it will withstand the strongest gales.

So, having packed for the full force of a British summer, we left a sunny Cornwall early in the morning and headed towards Exeter and the motorway. The weather was glorious....until we passed Gloucestershire. From then on, it rained: not just light showers, but huge drops of rain which fell so fast the windscreen wipers couldn't clear them quickly enough. The roads soon resembled streams and we were relieved to exit the motorway and head off towards Kendal. The stunning scenery of the Lakes never disappoints but I was beginning to regret the decision to camp. We arrived in Ullswater at around 5.30pm and the rain was still falling. We found our campsite and waded across the mud to the farmhouse. At this point, I realised that heavy jeans, socks and Crocs were completely unsuitable. Within minutes, my socks were soaked with muddy water and I wished we'd packed wellingtons. At the farmhouse, we were greeted by an elderly lady who apologised for the weather and told us not to pay anything until the following morning. "Do a night and see how you get on".

We drove down to the field, parked the car and went in search of a suitable place to pitch the tent. There were quite a few tents there and we surmised that their inhabitants had already picked the best spots. After some deliberation, we chose our spot. It required a bit of a leap over a rapidly developing stream across the site but it was relatively flat and didn't squelch when we stood on it. Which tent? We settled for the blue tent. The rain had stopped. We changed into walking boots and full waterproofs and managed to get the tent pitched before the heavens opened once again. With no desperate desire to attempt cooking, we headed for the pub.

The rain continued overnight and we awoke to yet more mud. I carefully picked my way across the field to the Ladies washroom. There, a group of teenage girls queued noisily for the two showers. Dressed in pyjamas and fluffy slippers, they discussed their first night under canvas. "I hate camping. I'm cold, I'm covered in mud and I didn't sleep at all."

"Did you bring your hairdryer?"

"Yeah."

"Think I'll wash my hair then."

Judging by the colour of the sky, neither a shower nor a hairdryer would be necessary. Just wait for the right moment and add shampoo!

I quickly washed and left them to their grumbling. I had a mountain to climb.

(to be read in an Alfred Wainwright accent).

This was to be my first ascent of Helvellyn and I was determined to achieve it via Striding Edge, an adventurous and exhilarating route apparently.

Setting off from Patterdale, the going was easy at first. We crossed the bridge over Grisedale Beck and, soon, the path began to ascend and the rain began to fall. We stopped briefly to put on waterproof jackets and trousers, admiring a couple ahead of us, bravely using umbrellas to keep themselves dry. After a short distance of relatively level walking, the path climbed steeply and my asthmatic lungs started to complain. Struggling to breathe, I stopped for a break. This was useless! How could I possibly manage a long distance coastal walk if I couldn't even climb a small mountain? At this point, I wanted to give in and go back home...... forget Helvellyn, Ben Nevis.... but I knew I had to get to the summit. With a burst of determination, and a few puffs from my inhaler, I forced myself onwards and upwards. As we ascended, the rain descended and, by the time we reached the gap in the wall, we were wet through. I'm sure it must have rained occasionally when Wanwright was doing his walks but the film footage never shows it. Likewise, I have yet to see Julia Bradbury climbing in a torrential downpour. She always seems to get sunny days, perhaps a passing shower...just enough to reach for the cagoule and prove that she is carrying something in her backpack.

At the gap in the wall, I had hoped for a few minutes rest, a hot drink and a snack before continuing on towards Striding Edge. We had picked a particularly exposed place to stop though and, with the wind driving the rain in all directions, there was no real place to shelter. We huddled near a wall as other walkers passed us. Most were heading back down towards Red Tarn, now hardly visible through the mist.

Climbing over the stile at the wall, we were approached by a fell runner. He was lost! He showed us his map and asked directions. He was practising for a triathlon taking place at the weekend. Mad? Mad enough to do the triathlon, totally insane to do a practice run a few days before! Still, each to his own. We compared maps, offered some possibly unhelpful advice and set off on our separate ways. With the main ascent over, I was able to relax to a steady pace and it wasn't long before we reached Striding Edge. I have read about this and Wainwright describes it as 'an airy rock ridge, very fine indeed' (Wainwright 1955).

However, I wasn't exactly prepared for the reality of the scramble. Perhaps fortunately, due to the weather conditions, it was not possible to see the full extent of the ridge as visibility was so poor. Apparently, we should have seen glorious views across Red Tarn and Ullswater......

Not for us though. Occasionally, we would see a glimpse of the valley. Sometimes, a patch of blue sky would appear optimistically but the wind quickly snatched it away.

We attacked Striding Edge with the respect it deserved. We inched our way nervously from boulder to boulder, scrambling cautiously, checking each hand and foot hold before committing any weight. It was a relief to reach the end and descend back onto a path. The final leg to Helvellyn's summit was reasonably straightforward and we eventually settled into the shelter for a much-needed rest. We arrived as others were leaving and were soon joined by a man walking with his teenage son. Wearing jeans and trainers, the man said this was his third ascent of the mountain. We took a photo for them and they set off again. We didn't comment on the suitability of the clothing. Hopefully, he had already realised for himself and wouldn't make the same error again.

Considering a route for our descent, we opted for Whiteside, past Keppel Cove and down to Glenridding. Supposedly, this wasn't too steep so would be easy on the knees. Not so! Having counted the cairns to ensure we took the correct path, we headed off downhill. The rain had eased off and the occasional moments of sunshine were enough to feel a little warmth although we didn't dare remove waterproofs. The path zig-zagged down at an alarmingly steep angle. So steep in places that we had to stop our descent to avoid the momentum carrying us further. By the time we reached level ground, my knees were complaining and my toes hurt because my feet had slid forwards into the toes of my boots. The path from the youth hostel back to the campsite was a gentle stroll; a chance to chat about the ascent and reflect on our achievement.

At the campsite, wet clothes were exchanged for dry ones and a very welcome cup of tea finished the day. I'm sure Wainwright would have approved.

Of course, camping is all well and good as long as the weather holds. A wet day or night is fine if the following day is dry and sunny: wet clothes can be spread out or hung up to dry, bedding can be aired, tent flaps can be tied back etc. Consecutive wet and windy days begin to cause difficulties though.....and that's exactly what we got! The night after our ascent of Helvellyn was so windy that the blue tent was blown almost horizontal. Continuous rain meant that clothes wet from the walk remained wet, leaving great puddles of muddy water on the tent floor. In the morning, after a sleepless night, we decided that our only option was to put the wet clothes back on and head for a warm sheltered place....Keswick. Well, at least there would be shops and tearooms with warm radiators.

The campsite had suffered during the night. The babbling brook running alongside was now a raging torrent. Little streams criss-crossed our field and a pond was developing outside the shower toilet block. Worried that our tent might not survive the day, we felt that our best option was to pack everything away and take it with us. At least it might dry out a bit in the car. Whilst hubby packed things away, I paddled across the field to get washed. The group of girls I'd met the previous morning were standing outside the block....their belongings piled up on top of sinks and worktops, their tent in the large refuse bin.

"Our tent collapsed in the night," one girls said, apologising for the mess.

"Yeah, we're going home early," another added. I detected a hint of relief from both of them. It wasn't much fun for a first camping experience. I only hoped it hadn't put them off completely.

I got back to our tent in time to see hubby examining a broken tent pole.

"I was just about to take it down and there was a huge gust of wind," he said. "This pole's broken and I think another one might be bent."

"Oh well, we'll have to get a new pole in Keswick," I replied. I've spent enough time wandering around outdoor shops to know that tent poles are sold separately. Hubby didn't seem convinced.

Keswick was a welcome relief. Just being able to sit in a warm coffee shop was a luxury. We wandered around from one outdoor shop to another. None of them had spare tent poles. About to give up, we turned a corner and found ourselves outside an enormous outdoor shop. It wasn't far from the car.....but we'd turned left instead of right. Inside, at the first sales counter, a woman was getting a replacement tent pole. Not just us then! We waited our turn and soon had a new pole in exchange for a donation to the Keswick Mountain Rescue Team.

Not quite dried out, we drove down to the lake and walked around a little of its perimeter. Then, after a brief stop in Ambleside, it was back to the campsite. Although the rain had held off for a while, the field was still very muddy. Most people had packed up and just a few hardy souls remained. We toured the field to see if there was a better spot but returned to our original place...and the green tent. Definitely a green tent situation.

Almost as soon as the tent was pitched and the bedding sorted out, the rain arrived with gusting winds. It was going to be a rough night. From the relative comfort of our tent, we could hear a neighbour trying to pitch his. He had chosen a spot behind us and was struggling to put up a large tent single-handedly. Hubby went out to offer some help. The man explained that his wife had gone to a posh event in Penrith. He was to get the tent sorted then drive up to collect her. Hubby was a little doubtful about the man's tent which was similar to our blue tent only bigger.

At around 10pm, as we settled into our sleeping bags, we heard our neighbour set off in his car to collect his wife. Ten minutes later, an enormous gust of wind battered our tent. A loud crash followed! Gingerly, we crawled out of our sleeping bags and unzipped the tent, just enough to peek out. Just yards away, our neighbour's tent lay upside down. Now what?

"Well, we can't just leave it there," I said. "It'll just get blown further down the the field."

Pulling on boots and waterproofs (again), we grabbed headtorches and set off to investigate. The tent, having somersaulted across the field, had landed upside down in a muddy puddle. The tent's contents: stove, air mattresses, sleeping bags and food, had been tossed and tumbled like clothes in a washing machine. Rice, pasta and porridge oats were strewn across the ground; bread rolls nestled in the wet grass alongside jars of herbs and broken crockery.

Surveying the devastation, it was obvious that there was no point in attempting to pitch the tent again. The wind hadn't abated and the field offered no shelter. The tent would just blow over again. Our only option was to move the tent and its contents to the shower block. At least it wouldn't suffer any more damage there. With help from a couple nearby campers, we carried the contents of the tent to the shower block. As we moved a heavy stove, large gas bottle and two large plastic crates of food, we began to realise that it had been a lucky escape. If the tent had been blown a few yards to the right, it would have hit our tent......and us!

Once the tent and contents had been moved to safety, hubby and I settled back into our sleeping bags. Just one problem now......how will we explain all of this to the owner of the tent? Waiting for him to return was nerve wracking. Each time we heard, or thought we heard, a car, one of us would leap out of the tent. We thought about the man driving his wife back to the campsite.

"The campsite's a bit muddy darling, but the tent's all set up. I've unpacked the stove and organised the food ready for breakfast. I've put the sleeping bags out so you can go straight to bed. You don't need to worry about anything."

Eventually, I heard the car and rushed out, bootlaces trailing in the mud. As I approached, the man wound his window down.

"Um....your tent...." I started.

"It's blown away," he said.

"Well, no, not exactly," I replied. I explained what had happened. "We've put everything in the shower bock. We couldn't put the tent back up so it was just a case of damage limitation. I'll show you where everything is."

They both got out of the car and we walked over to the shower bock. My husband joined us at this point and added more details to the saga. Fortunately, the couple took it all very well. They thanked us for our help, realising that there wasn't much more we could have done. We explained that there was a bunkhouse nearby and the man set off to see if there was space for them. His wife... perhaps due to shock, perhaps due to the effects of her evening out....found the whole thing rather amusing and began to laugh. She explained that her husband had brought suitable clothes for her to change into, explaining that the campsite was very wet and muddy. When they arrived at the site and the tent was nowhere to be seen, he was lost for words.

Luckily, there was room in the bunkhouse for the couple. As they loaded their battered belongings into their car, we retired to our tent. It was definitely a green tent night.

Usually, leaving the Lake District is a difficult decision: the beauty of the mountains and lakes, villages and hamlets of stonebuilt cottages, narrow winding lanes which are an adventure in themselves. This time, though, there was little regret. With relief, we packed the drenched tent and damp sleeping bags into the car and headed north hoping for some drier conditions.

The weather did not disappoint and we stopped briefly at Loch Lomond to enjoy the sunshine before heading further north to Glen Nevis. Typically, as we neared our destination, the skies darkened and, by the time we reached the campsite, rain was imminent once again. Following a familiar pattern, we checked in then went for a wander to find a suitable plot to pitch the tent. We had been given a choice of two fields so we carefully examined both before settling on a suitable plot. Both fields had suffered from days of steady rainfall. The grass was water-filled and spongy, heavily used trails had been transformed into muddy puddles. Fortunately, the site was reasonably sheltered so we pitched the blue tent and set about cooking some food before nightfall.

The campsite nestled in a valley with Ben Nevis towering above it. Checking the weather forecast, it seemed that our best chance of good weather was the following day. Deciding to begin our climb early in the morning, we packed our backpacks and settled for an early night. Probably just as well because, once again, the rain was falling......

6.30am: I would like to say that the alarm from my mobile phone dragged me from the depths of slumber but, in reality, I was already awake following another sleepless night. I have never been a great sleeper and my sleeping habits have often been described as nocturnal or insomniac. Under canvas, the insomnia seems to become more apparent when combined with the discomfort of a semi-inflated mat and the ever-present sound of rain dripping on the flysheet.

With Ben Nevis calling, I pulled on base layers, fleece, walking trousers (still a little damp from the previous expedition) and dry walking socks before opening the tent to examine the weather. Rain.

Following our now familiar routine, hubby made tea and breakfast whilst I prepared food for the journey. Then, after a quick wash, it was time to set off. Well, time to prepare for setting off. Not wanting to get caught out again, I insisted on having all the right kit. So, with contact lenses in place (have you tried climbing a mountain in appalling weather, wearing spectacles?) and Gore-texed from head to foot, I was at last ready to leave the campsite. We walked down to the visitor centre where the trail began. The car park was already full: vans and minibuses ready to escort willing 'Three Peaks' volunteers to their next mountain, walkers arriving and preparing for their own challenges. There were also a few vehicles with kayaks strapped to roof bars. I hoped they were keen white water kayakers because the river didn't look too friendly.

We checked the weather forecast at the centre: rain. Unable to delay the moment any longer, we crossed the river and began our ascent.

The climb wasn't too hard to begin with. The path ascended gently, barely noticeable. Three Peaks participants passed us on their way down. They already looked exhausted: one down, two to go. I wondered if the thrill of the challenge had worn off. Soon, the gentle incline gave way to granite steps as the path meandered up the mountain. Again, just like Helvellyn, my lungs complained and I had to stop to get my breath back. With a few puffs on my inhaler, I was able to set off again but as the paths became steeper, the stops became more frequent and I became more disheartened. Each time we stopped, a small group of walkers overtook us. I wanted to run and get past them but I knew that this would only leave me more breathless.

At the tarn, we stopped briefly for a drink and a snack. By this time, the wind had picked up and the steadily falling rain had become heavier. We sheltered by a rock, just off the path. All too soon, though, it was time to head onwards. The path zigzagged up the mountain. We crossed waterfalls and streams sometimes by way of a metal bridge, other times by carefully picking a route across stepping stones. There was no point in getting boots wet unnecessarily. I was struggling, not just with my breathing. My legs ached and my Gore-tex jacket was letting water in across the shoulders, allowing a cold dampness to spread down my torso. I stopped frequently, moving off the main path to allow others past. I was annoyed that my hubby didn't even seem out of breath whereas I could barely speak. People passing us seemed much less prepared in jeans and trainers. I saw one man wearing a kilt and carrying an umbrella, another carried a flagpole. All should have been slow and breathless yet they trudged on up the path. Occasionally, I would see someone turn back, exhausted. A young couple walked slightly ahead of us. He was wearing full waterproof gear but she had a plastic poncho over her thin anorak. It was clear that she was not enjoying the experience and, each time they stopped, her partner encouraged her to go on, "We're nearly there now. You'll be so pleased when you get to the top."

We pushed on. Nearing the summit, the combination of altitude, wind and rain sent the temperature plummeting. My face and hands were numb, my legs aching. Despite attempts to avoid wet boots, the rain had somehow seeped in and my socks were noticeably damp. We dug out gloves and pulled them onto our hands. They gave a little comfort but were soon so wet that simply making a fist was enough to release a steady stream of water.

As the path levelled out, visibility deteriorated and the wind picked up. I clambered on, forcing myself to keep going, knowing I was nearly there. Any illusions of a view across the mountains had long vanished and I had to accept that the stay at the summit would be brief and very unpleasant. Through the mist, people passed us as they began their descent. By this time, exhaustion was taking over and I was counting paces (anything to keep me going). I counted to a thousand, then started again. I tried counting backwards but couldn't concentrate enough. I looked up and could see groups of people huddled around cairns, pulling water and snacks from their backpacks. Perhaps the strangest sight was a small number of people dressed in high visibility jackets, transporting loads of rocks and stones across the summit, like high altitude street sweepers. I wondered if they had to walk to work each day. Imagine having to climb Ben Nevis each morning before starting work. It would be a very short working day for me!

Reaching the summit was a complete anticlimax. It was too cold and windy to even stand still and too wet to risk getting the camera out. We climbed the final few steps to the trig point then, after a quick snack, began our descent. I had taken my gloves off in order to get my snack but my hands were too cold and wet to put them back on. Instead, I stuffed the gloves into a pocket and pulled my thin sleeves down over my hands. The rain had turned to hail and we were walking into the wind. My hands were stinging with cold and the hail felt like needles as it hit my face. People pay a fortune for acupuncture, I thought, trying to console myself. My skin will be smooth and blemish-free by the time I get back to the campsite.

Partly due to the pain I was in, partly in desperation to get out of the wind, I raced down the path. I passed the young couple as they finally go to the top. I passed another couple: he was shouting words of 'encouragement', she was plodding on, head down, hands in pockets. I passed people lugging heavy rucksacks, I passed two young men carrying mountain bikes! Were they planning to ride back down? The things some people do for attention! Occasionally, I looked back to check that hubby was still with me. I didn't stop until the path turned a corner and the wind was on my back. Then, I stopped and waited for hubby to catch up with me. My hands had thawed and I knew the worst of the descent was over. We continued together, finally able to chat about the ascent. Being fitter than me, hubby could have completed the ascent much more quickly and I knew that I had slowed him down. I also knew that no amount of training would enable me to match his speed. I would always be slow and breathless. Either we climbed slowly together or we approached challenges separately. Personally, I preferred the former. Adventures are always more enjoyable if the experiences are shared.

Pondering these thoughts, we suddenly found ourselves in a queue. A queue on Ben Nevis? What were they queuing for? A bus? A cappuccino? No, they were queuing to cross a waterfall. The reason for the queue was the Ben Nevis race. Some fellow campers had told us about it but I'd forgotten. I didn't think it would affect our descent so hadn't really bothered about it..... until we reached the back of the queue. We watched in awe as 600 people, dressed in running shorts and vests, scrambled upwards, clinging onto rock and bits of grass, anything which might aid their grip and balance. Quite why anyone would choose to run up and down Ben Nevis was beyond my comprehension. They looked exhausted. Keeping weight to a minimum, they carried nothing whereas we were dressed in full waterproof gear with walking boots and packs containing food, drinks, blister plasters, whistles and maps. As the runners crossed the waterfall, walkers had to wait for a suitable gap in the traffic, at which point a marshal helpfully hurried them across. When it was our turn, there was no time to pick a suitably dry path. Due to the constant rain, the stepping stones we had used for the morning crossing were now submerged in ankle-deep water. I traipsed across, feeling the icy water penetrate my boots, knowing I couldn't do anything to prevent it. Safely over, we continued on our way.

It seemed only 10 or 15 minutes later that we heard a shout and, looking round, we saw a runner approaching at some speed. It was a ridiculous situation. We had taken all day to climb this mountain and here was a young man who set off after lunch and was already passing us on his way down. We later discovered that he had completed the race in just over an hour and a half. Not wanting to hamper his race, we leaped aside to allow him free choice of rocks and stones. Soon after, another runner passed us, then two more. We slowed down and tried to keep to one side so that the runners had space to pass us. We couldn't believe the speed they were travelling at. Here we were, carefully picking our way down the rocky path, trying to avoid any slips or falls. They, on the other hand, sprang from rock to rock like mountain goats. One slip would send them tumbling over the edge. The consequences were unimaginable.

We left the main path and completed our descent on the path by the youth hostel. The steps down were steep and hard going. I was glad we hadn't used this route at the start, I might have given up. We were back at the tent mid-afternoon; cold, wet, tired but with that warm feeling of satisfaction that comes from such an achievement. We peeled off layers of wet clothing, removed wet boots, emptying the water from them, wrung out soaking socks and gloves and crawled into sleeping bags to warm up.

I had achieved a second ascent of Ben Nevis. I had worn the correct clothing this time. Yet, I had not seen a view from the summit and I was still soaked to the skin. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to do it again some time.

I had packed for an English summer. Now, after two mountains and six days of rain, everything was wet. Inside the tent, puddles of water had collected around and beneath wet clothing. The two entrances were thick with mud which adhered to the hands, feet and knees of anyone trying to get in or out. We had developed a system to reduce the number of comings and goings. Food was cooked by one of us outside then passed to the other inside, thus keeping one person dry. Dry clothing and non-essential items were stored in the car until needed. Toothbrushes were kept in coat pockets so that we could brush our teeth at a convenient moment. This was something we learnt after the first night when, having finished eating we removed wet outer clothing and boots and settled into our sleeping bags just as the heavens opened. We both lay there for some time before summoning up enough energy and enthusiasm to put wet waterproofs and boots back on in order to make the journey to the shower block.

Now, after the thrill of climbing Ben Nevis, I was faced with a pile of very wet attire and no obvious means of drying it. My overtrousers and both waterproof jackets and were wet through, inside and out. My only walking trousers, two fleeces and baselayers were soaking. I had brought two pairs of walking socks: both now wringing wet. Worst of all, my walking boots (the only suitable footwear) were completely saturated.

Not wanting to spend the day stuck in the tent, we decided to head into Fort William. So, what to wear? Do I risk getting my remaining dry clothing wet? Or do I wear the wet stuff and hope that it might dry off during the day? I decided on the latter. As long as I kept warm, I shouldn't suffer. Most of the clothing wasn't too bad, just a little cold and damp. The socks, though, were really awful. Having carefully rolled them onto my feet, I then had to put my boots on. It was not a pleasurable experience. Surprisingly though, once my feet and socks had reached a similar temperature, I forgot about the moisture.

We spent the day sightseeing: Fort William, Caledonian Canal, Neptune's Staircase. We were more or less dry when we got back to the tent and the rain held off enough for us to both cook and eat al fresco. The wind was starting to pick up as we settled for the night though. We hoped the blue tent would cope.

I didn't sleep well. Situated in a valley, the campsite was relatively sheltered but the wind that night was extraordinary. I could hear the gusts approaching from the west, whistling through the trees. Most passed over the tent but then they seemed to bounce off the mountains in the east and come hurtling back to the campsite, usually hitting our tent. I lay awake, listening. It was a bit like watching waves develop out to sea, waiting for the biggest waves to hit the shore, drenching anyone standing nearby.

When morning came, we checked the blue tent for damage. It had survived well but, looking around the campsite, we could see that others had not been so fortunate. Lumps of twisted metal and torn fabric were piled in the large refuse bins. We packed up. It was time to head east. Perhaps conditions there would be brighter.

We journeyed east with the optimism of better weather, usually associated with flying to the Mediterranean. Leaving the mountain scenery behind, we stopped briefly at Loch Laggan to admire the view and marvel at the dam and hydro-electric power scheme. I guess that's one of the pitfalls of marrying an engineer! Whilst we waited for the rain to hold off long enough to take some photos, three more cars arrived. The lay-by didn't have the usual appearance of a tourist attraction. Either this spot was more important than we realised or this route across Scotland was bereft of reasonable parking places. Judging by the number of chaffinches pestering for food, this was a common stopping point.

From Loch Laggan, we headed south towards Edinburgh and civilisation. Our search for a lunch stop led us to Killiecrankie....and another feat of engineering to admire. Apparently, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert stopped here in 1844 although I don't know if they wandered down to the banks of the River Garry and I doubt they had the rather spectacular view of both railway and road viaducts. Did they get the opportunity to use the fascinating round toilet block? Unlikely. Still, Victoria said they both liked it here.

It's main claim to fame seems to have occurred in 1689 when a soldier called Donald McBane jumped across the river, a span of 18 feet, to escape Mackay's chasing army. History has never been my strong point so I really can't offer you any more information that this. Any readers interested in learning more will have to do their own research. However, the place where the young McBane jumped from is now called 'Soldier's Leap'. Standing at that spot, the far bank seems a long way off. I think current long jump record is about 29 feet but that's with a good run up and a soft landing. McBane had neither but I guess desperate measures lead people to achieve the incredible.

As our journey continued, the weather improved: sunshine and dry roads. We took the Forth Bridge across the famous Firth, admiring the rail bridge and bypassed Edinburgh's city centre before crossing the border at Coldstream and taking the coastal road to Bamburgh.

I've never been to Bamburgh. It's one of those places I've heard about but not visited. So I wasn't surprised when we drove into the village and came face to face with an enormous castle. What did surprise me was the total lack of any facilities. Here is a village blessed with a fantastic castle, links with Grace Darling, an amazing beach, views across to Lindisfarne.......yet, there was practically nothing to encourage visitors to stay. Arriving shortly before 5pm, we hoped to find a place to stop and eat before searching for a campsite for the night. However, just parking the car was awkward. The castle car park was closed, the large car park opposite the castle (some distance from the village) was pay and display even though it had no facilities. So we went back into the village and parked on the road. The public toilets cost 20p to use. I don't think I've ever had to pay to use a public toilet except in London and Bangkok! Our stay in Bamburgh was rather shorter than anticipated. The RNLI museum was closed, as were the handful of shops. The only places offering meals seemed to be hotels, not really what we were looking for. So, we took a wander down to the beach a back via the castle grounds. Then we went to look for a campsite.

We had passed a few signs advertising campsites so we did the obvious thing and went back to these places. Approaching the first site, a farm, we drove up the muddy track to the field entrance. The reception, a small wooden hut, was closed and a hand-written note pinned to the door asked us to phone a mobile number if we wanted to stay there. We reversed the car and drove on to the next site, an enormous place proudly advertising it's affiliation with a camping and caravanning club. Just inside the main entrance there was a large building with restaurant etc. A sign stated that campers should enquire at the camping reception so we followed the arrow down to the campsite. Here, a sign informed us that the reception was closed and we should enquire at the main reception. We retraced our steps only to find that the main reception was also closed. We gave up and left.

By now, we were tired and hungry and in need of a place to stay. My campsite book recommended a place further down the coast so, with no alternative, we headed there. My book described the site as sheltered, down a side road and lacking in views but also small, clean and friendly. In reality, the site was in a field bordering the main road with fantastic views out to sea. We parked outside the reception building........which was closed! Tired and very fed up, I got back in the car. This was ridiculous. How do these people expect to get any passing trade if they close everything at 5 o'clock? No doubt they will soon be complaining about the poor summer season and decline in tourism. Hubby persevered and wandered around the site. Shortly, a man approached and opened the office. The campsite fees were high, extortionate, twice as much as anywhere else, but we needed to stop driving. So we paid the fees and had a look around to see where to pitch the tent.

"Follow me," said the man, "and I'll show you where to put your tent."

Hang on, why can't we make our own decision? Other campsites had left it up to us to decide where to pitch. Not here though. We did as we were told and followed the man. He led us to a small patch in the middle of the filed, sandwiched between two camper vans.

"Here," he said. "Your car goes here, and the tent here." He pointed to the two spots.

I looked across the half empty field. There were some lovely sheltered spots away from other campers. Why did we have to pitch our tent here? I voiced my concerns to hubby who asked the man if we could have a spot at the back of the site, near the wall where it was more sheltered. The man seemed annoyed that we had dared to question his decision but he carried on and directed us to a place near the wall. It wasn't the ideal spot, still stuck between two other tents, but we accepted that we weren't going to get any real choice.

Reluctantly, we pitched the green tent. It wasn't windy but there was no way we were staying more than one night and I wanted to make a quick getaway in the morning!

I did not enjoy our stay at this campsite. This was our first properly dry evening, a chance to cook and eat outside, sitting on the grass by the tent, enjoying the evening sunshine.....It all sounds idyllic. In reality, we decided to sit in the car with the windows closed. Why? Because of the antisocial behaviour of the people in the tent next to us. What were they doing that was so offensive? They had some awful music system which emitted a tinny, piercing noise. The volume was loud enough for us to hear this dreadful 'white noise' all the time we were outside or in our tent. They left it on even when they went off to wash up or have showers. It was horrible.

We went to bed early. It had been a long drive down from the west coast of Scotland and we were driving to York the following day. In the morning, we had breakfast and packed up, trying to make as much noise as possible to drown out the white noise from next door.....yes, they were still playing it and it was still audible even above the sound of their bacon sizzling and their kettle boiling.

Rather than drive straight to York, we took a detour north to Lindisfarne, an island which had long fascinated me, due mainly to the tidal approach. We arrived just in time to get an early crossing as the tide was going out. Driving across was strangely amusing. Brightly coloured poles marked the path of the causeway and the height of the water. Sheds on stilts provided refuge for anyone caught out but the tide. Hubby drove slowly to avoid getting salt water on the underside of the car. Having crossed to the island, we parked up and walked into the village, towards the castle. The headland jutted out into the sea and the gusting wind was unexpected. The path up to the castle entrance was steep and uneven with just a rope to hold on to. Following other visitors, I hauled myself up the path and into the shelter of the castle.

Hubby loves castles and historic buildings. He is fascinated with the architecture, the engineering, the electrics and plumbing. I discovered this during a recent trip to Lanhydrock House in Cornwall, when he insisted on checking out the electrical systems and asked the guides extraordinary questions about heating and ventilation. Lindisfarne was no different. Once in the building he read every piece of information and carefully cross-referenced it to check for accuracy. I, on the other hand, preferred to explore. I spent many childhood weekends being dragged around stately homes and castles and never really saw the attraction or point of paying to see something which was roped off with large signs saying 'Do not Touch'. Even as an adult, I have been reprimanded by 'jobsworth' volunteers for touching a piece of furniture or sculpture. Surely furniture should be used as intended and I cannot believe that sculptors do not want people to touch their creations. Most pieces of sculpture can only really be appreciated through touch.

Anyway, as I do not have the patience to stand around reading lengthy descriptions of past events, I decided to explore the small castle, particularly enjoying the tiny corridors and oddly placed windows. I wanted to see into the rooms labelled 'private'. I wanted to see the kitchen and the bathroom. Did they have a newly installed Moben kitchen? Was the bathroom suite white or avocado? These were the questions which fascinated me but the locked doors ensured that they remained unanswered. When hubby and I were eventually reunited, I had already seen most of the castle whilst he was only in room 3 (rooms being numbered to encourage visitors to see them in a specific order). I continued the tour with hubby and admired the distant views through tiny windows whilst he read about the positioning of books and furniture. I have to admit that Lindisfarne is one of the best historic buildings I have visited. Most castles are so large and cold that I struggle to imagine living there. Lindisfarne, due partly to its Lutyens conversion is small and surprisingly homely. I even took away a few useful ideas for my own home, especially an ingenious design for curtains in an alcove. I wonder if that was Lutyens idea.

When our tour was finished, we battled our way back down the sloping path and wandered into the village passing some upturned boats which had been converted into shed or offices. I think Dickens used this idea in David Copperfield but I doubt he invented the concept. Despite its 'holy' status, Lindisfarne is moving with the times, evident by the amount of building work going on. I wondered what it must be like to live in a place governed by the tides. Opening times for pubs and restaurants seemed to depend on when the causeway was accessible. I saw no evidence of a school on the island so assumed that children living there must attend schools on the mainland. Do they get punished for being late to school? Are they allowed to leave early in order to get back home? What if they're late out of school and miss the tide? And what about all the islanders who work on the mainland? So many questions.......

From Lindisfarne, we drove to York over the moors, with views across to Whitby. Passing near Goathland, I wondered whether the 'Heartbeat' tourists were a positive addition to the village and surroundings.

We stopped at a campsite on the outskirts of York. The site consisted of a couple of fields within a working farm. A few static caravans and a couple of tents were scattered around, no regimented lines like Bamburgh. The farmer told us to pitch where we liked but suggested we avoid the riverside as it was still a bit wet and muddy. He offered some advice regarding transport into the city and gave us a quick tour of the facilities. Being a sheltered field, we pitched the blue tent.

Venturing into the city the next morning, we stopped to visit an elderly relative then headed for the railway museum. Well, how can you visit York without going to the biggest rail museum in the world? To be honest, this was my third or fourth visit but hubby had never been there. After a couple of hours looking at trains, carriages and everything associated with railways, we both concluded that some hobbies should stay in the garden shed! If any of you think you may have become a little obsessive about your collecting, just one visit to the railway museum will help you to decide. Do you feel the need to collect every single item connected to your chosen hobby? Do you carefully catalogue your collection? Has your collection taken over your house? If you've answered yes to these questions, perhaps it's time to reassess your life and change direction.

Escaping from the museum, we took a stroll through the city in search of a tearoom or cafe. Now, you'd think that York, of all places, would have tearooms in every street, all serving Yorkshire tea and cakes. Well, you'd be right, there were tea rooms in every street but they all closed at 5 o'clock! The only places which remained open were trendy coffee houses with uncomfortable seating and loud music. We tried a couple of places and walked straight out again. So, we sauntered through the old streets, past the Minster, admiring the quaint buildings in the Shambles. Well, I admired them. Hubby scrutinised them, commenting on the window designs and roofing. Accepting that we would not find a decent tearoom, we walked along the bar walls, back to the car, then on to the campsite.

After one final night under canvas, we packed up and set off back home to Cornwall. Arriving late afternoon, to glorious sunshine. Had it been like this for the last 10 days? Oh well, it was good wet weather training...........