The summit party comprised two beardy gits, one dapper gentleman and a dominatrix. The dapper gentleman was carrying full Challenge kit. The lazy beardy bastards were carrying their packed lunches. Miss Whiplash was carrying the full regalia; whips, barbed wit and sarcasm. One way or another we were definitely getting to the top.
And summit, we did. Twice.
And yet, there were no pens or ghents on Pen-y-Ghent. This time there were no circus elephants or parakeets either. At noon, the little shelter was full to bursting with Three-Peakers and a pack of chocolate labs, Irish Wolfhounds, Jack Russells and men with ferrets down their trousers muttering; 'grim-up-north,' her-in-doors thrashing himself to within inches of his life' and 'what's a bloody trig point doing up here?'
It was getting crowded and after defending our lunches from the ravening hordes, we staggered on over rough moorland, peaty bogs and the last snow patches to our next objective. It was hard fought, with lowering dark clouds scudding between us and cold winds nipping our naughty bits.
I was attired in my newly acquired 'stealth' jacket from Paramo's latest Paris catwalk, to enable the stalking of mountain wildlife. Indeed, so good are its stealth qualities, to blend and be at one with nature, that I came across a pair of Morse Code birds (Golden Plovers) on the top of Plover Hill.
So, are we likely to find hell on Helvellyn or a whorl of wherns on Whernside? Or perhaps bells on Ill Bell.
At the end of our battle with the Great Outdoors, we didn't find any golden lions but we did stumble across a very nice pint of Black Sheep.