Yorkshire Dales - 3 peaks

It seemed like a really good idea at the time. Take a friday off work, get together with the squash boys, go to the Dales, stay in a lovely cottage and go for a gentle walk up three mountains on the Saturday. You have to admit, in theory, it sounds idillic. Provided you're a boy of course. And enjoy discussions about, um, boy stuff. And meat, you'd have to like meat too. Anyways.

Friday morning came. Armed with a carload of meat, Alex, Darren and I set off on the long trip north. 6 frustrating hours spent in queues and listening to driving South African rock later, we arrived at the small village of Dent, where we met up with Greg, Mike, Angus and Chris, who had come up on the train. They had used their time wisely. Ie, they were drunk. They brought 3 bottles of champagne, a 1 litre bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and smoked salmon onto the train. Their fellow commuters probably couldn't believe their luck. (I freely admit that any cynicism detected is nothing but jealousy.)

Sometimes whilst living here, you receive subtle and not-so-subtle reminders of how small a world it really is. I remember arriving in Edinburgh for the first time a couple of years ago. It was delightful. I'd always wanted to go to Edinburgh, but really wasn't aware of just how beautiful it was. Anyways, arrived on the bus after a long day's travelling. I was really excited. Scottish flags were everywhere, whisky was dirt cheap, the buskers played bagpipes, it was marvellous. I felt wonderful and happy that I was so far away from home.

I walked aimlessly to the backpackers I'd booked into for 3 nights, strolled into the bar, and froze. Jimmy Barnes was playing. Something was terribly wrong. I went to the bar to lodge a complaint. A large gentleman who looked like he'd just walked off the set of Home and Away turned around and said "G'day mate, what'll it be?" All the romanticisim of travelling was dispelled immediately.

Dent presented something similar. Walked into the local bar expecting to see a range of warm, flat beers, hopefully brewed in the area. Nope. Smack bang on the centre of the bar was a tap for none other than XXXX. Sometimes I get the feeling that Brisbane follows me and just occasionally, when you least expect it, gives you a little tap on the shoulder.



Regardless, had a pint of XXXX (a pint mind, how novel) before heading to the cottage for a night of poker and meat. Alex, we discovered, had forgotten to bring his boots of all things. His choice was to either do the walk in flip-flops, or in a pair of my shoes. Alex decided on my shoes. Frankly, this was a hell of an undertaking, 20-odd miles in someone else's shoes which were seriously underequipped for the occasion.

First peak was Whernside. This was the tallest and was by far the easiest. A gentle walk up a long hill. This is Alex and Darren at the top of Whernside. As you can see, they're barely raising a sweat.



The other two mountains were a little more problematic. The distance between them was huge and after the second, Ingleborough, there was a long walk into the wonderfully named town of Horton-in-Ribblesdale. Horton itself had at least 3 pubs, with four miles and 1 mountain still to climb it was very tempting to simply stay there.

But we finished. It took 12 hours. It had been the hottest day in Britain that year. The humidity was high, even by Brisbane standards, and there wasn't a breeze to speak of. I ended up drinking about 7 litres of water. But the day itself was, in retrospect, very enjoyable. That was by far the most demanding physical activity I'd ever undertaken, it always feels good to have actually finished.



So naturally enough, after such a long day, we drank shots. We are boys after all.