I graduated from university almost three years ago.
In that time, friends I met over a six-year period slowly began to disperse across the UK.
It will come as no surprise to them that I am not an excellent online communicator. Group chats do very little for me beyond checking in to make sure everybody is still there.
I left Glasgow almost four months ago, arriving in Lancashire for my first full-time role in media. It has been the most challenging and rewarding part of my life so far.
Yet I’m often left feeling like one part of poor William Wallace’s body. Friends, like arms and legs, spread across Britain.
Maybe a trip to the Lake District could tempt the band back together?
Saturday
I am late. Very, very late. Already liberal with my leaving time from Lancaster, I am delayed by my own stupidity, taking the wrong exit before the M6, adding half an hour to my shame.
It’s a self-inflicted, humiliating wound, deepened with every torturous minute held up on narrow Cumbrian roads. They probably struggled with horses and carts.
Suffocated these days by the bikers, cars and runners that are beginning to wear some locals down, to say the very least. A box of frogs I will not be opening here.
Fortunately, my weekend companions are a forgiving bunch. We meet at Freda + Ray for some breakfast; this could be the last decent meal for a while.
Grasmere is a magnet for the north; it has pulled three from Glasgow, one from Ulverston and me from Lancaster.
A trip to the shops gives us a chance to get our fuelling for an arduous walk just right. Unfortunately, my lack of foresight when shopping will come to bite me; have no doubt.
Our first stop is the Langdale Valley, a long glacial valley carved by ancient ice and ringed by some of the Lake District’s best-known fells.
The stunning vista is as close to Scotland as you are likely to get down south, bashed and bruised by the same ancient volcanic forces that built much of the Highlands.
We make our way to Elterwater, a scatter of slate cottages, the beautiful Britannia Inn and a bowls green, the solitary bit of flat ground for miles.
I am fortunate that I can avoid regurgitating the tired tropes that are ‘hidden gem’ or ‘nestled’ (neither am I without sin in this regard).
The homes in the Lake District are not nestled but grow out of the hills like a fungus. Homes rise from the slate and stone. Not built on the ground beneath, but of it. Many are already decomposing back into the pile from which they were born.
Each valley here is its own world. Life in the village next door feels like an unnecessary distraction from your bliss. There are plenty of secrets in each to keep you busy for a lifetime.
Our eyes accidentally catch sight of one. It is but a tiny hole in the ground, suitable only for Pennywise. A walk around to the other side takes us to a slate quarry and a strange cave.
Slate dragged people deep into the hillside here, gouging out caverns and sublime scars.
This cavern is something out of a horror film, and we wouldn’t be true to form as naïve young adults if we didn’t go in.
It is deathly quiet; slow, metronomic water droplets provide the soundtrack to our descent. Inside, we find shoes missing their partners and a still body of water with a boat visible under its skin.
A fair climb from the nearest tarn or river, how on earth it got there remains a mystery.
The sun is beginning to exit the stage, and we make our way to the campsite. Tents sprawl across the valley floor.
All here are united by the desire for a shower, and because wild camping remains illegal in England. Another box of frogs, closed for now.
We are herded here. Bleating sheep that we pretend to be, a chance to visit the pub is the pin bursting our bubble of indignity and moral outrage.
The pub is a welcome warm fire in a quickly cooling evening. We play cards, reminisce and plan for our future meetings.
Positively knackered, we amble back to the tents. So tired that we talk for hours. Eventually, though, sleep does its best work and pulls us under.
Sunday
There is something about the outdoors that makes it impossible to linger dazed for more than thirty minutes.
We hoist the mainsail (start the Volkswagen) and set sail (drive badly) to the Langdale Pikes. If Peter Jackson had not chosen New Zealand to shoot The Lord of the Rings, I have no doubt this would have been a fitting alternative.
The sun is beating down on our overdressed rabble. We are not alone in early discomfort. Overtaking us as we peel some layers is a university netball team, the hyenas of tertiary education.
In tandem, we begin what will prove the most physically arduous part of our journey. Quads begin to burn as the lactic acid takes hold. It has been less than an hour, but Jens Voigt's words ring in the ears, ‘Shut up, legs!’.
We grab a minute at Stickle Tarn, a stunning intersection for lovers of the Lakes, and duly come across two runners with more unbridled enthusiasm than a Labrador crossed with a YouTuber couple hiding an off-camera divorce.
We make our way to the side and clamber around the back of the ridge. This is the last time we will see the view for the next 24 hours. We are one with the fog now.
What is the fog? For some, it is the denial of a hard-earned panorama, a weekend wasted. If you were smart, though, you would let the shroud envelop you, seep into your psyche, let you feel as though there is but you in the fells.
This is another realm. Picture Luke Skywalker’s first training session with Yoda on Dagobah.
Each of us takes breaks from jokes about magic dogs and lonely sailors to take stock, reflecting privately on what is good and not so good. In turn, someone will interrupt our private silences like a monastic gong.
Part of the difficulty that accompanies being in the fog is the complete disorientation. We are not one with the sat nav.
Fortunate enough are we to cross paths with the mystic sheep. Brown-fleeced with paper white faces, they pepper the trail like breadcrumbs.
Some wandering humans cross our paths. A Norwich fan enjoys a cup of tea in a stone fort. An American has no idea where he is, holding a map which might as well be of Kinshasa as far as he’s concerned.
We point him in the right direction and wish him godspeed. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s alright.
The day is coming to an end. It is time to head down and back to a campsite for the night.
My meal is awful. In my haste, I have bought but two packets of chow mein noodles for supper. I get distracted, and the bottom is burnt. Night begins its eight-hour shift. Findlay dreams of sushi.
Monday
Six in the morning. The sun clocks in. I wipe the drool from my mouth, put the bags under my eyes on my back, and we head up to Bowfell, the highest peak on our trek. Our spirit guides await us in the fog as we scramble up, down and through Crinkle Crags.
Our hair is wet. Not with sweat, but collecting the dew that will be tomorrow’s rain.
Tired eyes and legs plod along, lacking their usual fizz. I haven’t the heart to tell them the coffee I packed was decaf. Sorry gang.
One by one, we all lose our footing, none brave enough to say, ‘Have a nice trip?’. We know all too well it will soon be our turn.
As with any hike, we reach the stage of passing the same rock twice. Our navigator is scrambled, and our mystic guides are off for a fag break.
Time is not on our side either; our parking expires at 1pm. We four brave hikers, having ploughed on, scaled false peak after false peak, finally made Bowfell our own.
Now, we must race back down and remember the best jokes we forgot to tell. One of our party’s knees is holding up about as well as a snowman in the Mojave.
He limps down, every step taking its toll on his battered cartilage.
The valley begins to appear as the sheep fade out of view. We thank them. They are nonplussed. I became convinced that there were only ever two, accompanying us from place to place.
Vehicles are reached and parking fines avoided. Our timing brings a sweet relief, but an almost immediate sense of foreboding. I know all too well how tomorrow is going to feel.
Fortunately, we extend our time together with a trip to Kendal. Delaying the inevitable parting for as long as possible.
It is all too brief, but we stop at the Farmhouse Kitchen to enjoy a steak burger and a cinnamon bun. Two days of noodles, oatcakes and goat’s cheese leave me hankering. Did you know I was once picked to complain for Team GB?
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Time is up, though, and the hourglass can no longer be turned upside down. The body must now hang, drawn and quartered, sent miles apart. Although William Wallace didn’t have the M6 to contend with.
It is an oddity that sometimes writing an article is the only way you can express how much you miss time spent with friends.
Fortunately, the Lake District will always be there. So too will our spiritual woolly guides, waiting for the day we meet again.
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