February 2005 will long be remembered for its walkers' glory of frost, snow and sun. One brief shower on one hill out of the 45 ticked off was unusual to say the least.
For years I've been meaning to see old friends in widely separated places in England and Wales, check up on places I'd seen during National Service, and climb hills of note for scenery or their literary associations. When several business matters needed attention too, I got out a map and marked all these locations and drew a route taking them all in: it was like one of those children's games linking numbered dots to produce a picture. Jill could also join in the game, so we combined forces, loaded up, and set off on 14 February.
The first night was to be with Anne St John at Renwick in the Pennines, with its great view to the Lakes. On the way Jill went off to climb Grange Fell while I investigated a small rural graveyard, which turned out to be rich in carved stones and called Crowdieknowe. The next day we were to stay with another Atlas / flowers expert in Kendal, Charles Aitchison, only he and his wife Mavis were off to Canada. He left us his keys and a well-stocked fridge. On the way we took in Grayrigg Forest and Lambrigg Fell on another day of hard frost and great views. The Howgills and Kendal reminded me of the late Harry Griffin, a delightful friend much missed.
On the 16th we drove round by Arnside and Silverdale before I had an hour of (pleasurable) business with Cicerone Press in Milnthorpe. That night we kipped with Charles Knowles in Sheffield, who was loupin about on crutches following a pair of hip operations. Jill cooked supper for us. And, en passant, we'd taken in Ilkley Moor. No hills the next day as we put the Watford Gap behind us and stayed with John and Sheila Gallimore (more old Morocco hands). Sheila has typed all my work for decades, and was left to work with my edited letters home from RAF National Service days in 1953-1955 (Egypt, Cyprus, Aden, Kenya etc).
February 18 saw us westing for a brilliant morning up on spacious Cleeve Hill before finding Brockhampton to visit an elderly uncle of Jill's. She'd already noted a Brockhampton in Surrey but assumed this was the one; it wasn't, nor was the one on the other side of Cheltenham. Phoning for directions we were told Hereford. And motoring about England's green and pleasant land we spotted two more Brockhamptons. Give me hill navigation any day. (AD: I once visited Bricklehampton just to bag a 14:14 - there's only one of them.)
Bredon Hill, with its massive fort on top, was typical of the big views most of our hills provided - so take that as said for each and all. Coming down a brief heavy shower was the only rain we were to have in three weeks. The mud was memorable though. We stayed with Bob and Nicola Lees, renowned 'Challengers' (10+ Scottish coast-to-coast events), and he'd been in the Atlas too (I infect everyone).
Plenty driving for our hills: the long, breezy crest of Long Knoll and a hurricane for Win Green, luckily all of five minutes from the mobile cafe I drive, then more miles to reach the southern sea and add flinty Hardown Hill. After finding Dunster Farm for Jill's B&B we climbed the tree-spooky Lewesdon Hill. My tin box home was rattled in the night by a belting hail shower that turned the landscape white. On the 20th Jill had an off-day for her rights and lefts which made for interesting navigation, but we found the Isle of Purbeck, with Corfe Castle black against the sunblaze. Swyre Head was unbelievably cold, while Nine Barrow Down gave a view warning of the urban coast we were to follow from the chain ferry to reach Lymington, whence I'd once set sail with Tilman for Greenland. Crossing to the Isle of Wight was less traumatic. Brighstone Down (a treeland walk) and St Boniface Down (a stey brae for the poor wee van) filled a pleasant afternoon. Still cold and clear.
A dozen attempts before Jill found a B&B in Rookley, while I nested nearby. Thank goodness I'd a winter bag and my thermals. Much of eastern Britain was suffering blizzards.
Our charmed life continued, with a pleasant morning in the New Forest among ponies and deer, the afternoon with John and Susan Cotes, he an old friend from Kenya RAF days, after meeting on a flight from Aden (four of our gang of five from Kenya are still in touch). Salisbury in the rush hour is best forgotten. I slept in a car park facing Jill's eventual B&B. Big moon and a glitter of stars. The coldest walk of all was up the modest Milk Hill, blowing snow with the excessive wind-chill factor. Was this really the soft south of England? I had two days working in the Bodleian Library in Oxford while staying with the Bainbridges at Church Hanborough. Christine had been the wife of Donald Mill who was swept away in a Knoydart river one Hogmanay. Donald, Eric Roberts, Charles Knowles and I had climbed a lot together. (Christine had written the biography of Norman Collie.) After regrouping we drove (well, I drove, Jill navigated) west to Stroud and a night with a friend of hers. This easy life was becoming addictive, especially as the next morning we spent at Slimbridge looking at ducks. I hope the flamingo crowd liked the ice. It was tempting to escape the arctic cold and bivvy in the tropic house, but Jill is a hard task-person, so instead we added May Hill, with its summit-singing Scots pines, and Ruardean Hill, the west's answer to Bishop Wilton Wold. Across the Wye it was Garway Hill in the falling snow, where ponies pawed at the ice in search of a drink. At dusk we visited Kilpeck church, with its hundred carved corbels and exquisite doorway, then found Jill a B&B.
February 26 saw us circling Hereford. Aconbury Hill was a mix of trees and mud up to its defensive fort rings, before visiting Jill's uncle for coffee in the real Brockhampton. Seager Hill had vertical mud and a pleasant undulating crest, Hegdon Hill a five-minute job, then Burton Hill above Weobly. Roads closed and roadworks made finding Gordon Campbell interesting. We had both taught at Braehead back in the sixties; an artist and violin /cello maker now.
At long last I climbed the Malvern Hills, seen so often driving past. Worcestershire Beacon was iron-hard with frost and the icy wind - so usual now that I'll stop mentioning it. The cold went on forever. There was a lot more snow on the ground for the oasis of Walton Hill, busy with sunny Sunday visitors. On then for the day's end in a carnival atmosphere on Titterstone Clee Hill, with children sledging and a brilliant west sky - all in the blasted remnants of superquarrying. On top we so far forget ourselves as to embrace (to avoid hypothermia) and at the van had the cake and champers: Jill had entered the Hall of Fame. Writing my log that night I found the hill had been my 100th English tick in Dawson. Neat coincidence.
I rather hoped Jill would relax after that, but next day's ring of Ludlow produced six new hills, endless surprises and plenty exciting driving. A serendipity day. View Edge was guarded by yeti which turned out to be shaggy poodles standing on their hind legs. Took a bit of working out. Across a vale lay Burrow, and the most spectacular prehistoric fort summit of the trip. Stiperstones called, with a memorable swooping road up cut deeper and deeper through drifts. Every nick on the jagged rocks topped by the trig was ice. We could have done with ice axes and crampons - seriously. And what an extraordinary place. The road over Long Mynd was just motorable (hard-packed snow in stretches) and the rolling heather to Pole Bank could have been in the Borders.
A nervy drive down and a relaxed picnic in the van at the head of the Carding Mill Valley. (And seeing a man's idiot dog chase sheep all over the place.) Caer Caradoc looked hard, so we went for the soft option of Callow Hill, where the path up to the tower (wrapped in polythene!) was the steepest ground of the tour. We found another way down. Shropshire Lad A E Housman had his troubles too:
On WENLOCK EDGE the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
Back at Ludlow it was only 5pm, so we drove on and added High Vinnalls, whose wooded crown is being cropped to open up the views, but late on a Sunday night we felt we could ignore the prohibitions and orange tape. We dined well in the Queen's that night, as we had the night before in an Indian restaurant. Ludlow appealed. Just as well all the bookshops were not open on Sunday.
Heading to Ironbridge on 1 March we took in Brown Clee Hill from the gentler east side, which however was deep in snow, with a freezing fog that led to a merry dance on top. The Jackfield Tile Museum, Coalport Museum and a B&B looking down on Britain's second-most famous bridge kept us occupied for the rest of the day. I joined Jill in the B&B. They had a big, big bathtub.
Hell Gate and Heaven Gate took us up the eye-catching Wrekin on crunchy snow before heading off along the A5 for north Wales. We visited Telford's masterpiece, the Pontcysyllte aqueduct, now 200 years old, and then got caught by a bookshop in Llangollen; three levels lost in the vastness of a one-time cinema. We ran up to the Horseshoe Pass and Moel y Gamelin gave us the highest hill of the holiday; floundery heather and blaeberry and the snow wind-blasting us like an old building having its stonework done. But nice to have a real hill. Jill's B&B was so attractive that having had tea there I just stayed. Partly for the birds too: feeders swarming with siskins, long-tailed tits and nuthatches, besides all the ordinary friends. We'd seen kites and buzzards and ravens were everywhere. The snow it snowed.
So 3 March was very white to add Cyrn-y-Brain from the top of the scenic Horseshoe Pass; solid track underfoot a boon. Of course we had coffee in the Ponderosa cafe. Then it was off for the Clwydian Hills above Ruthin. For Moel Gyw (pronounce that!) I made a mess of the route-choosing amidst snow on deep heather. At the summit a stone gave note of the easy way down to Offa's Dyke path, which wends along these rolling brown breakers above the Vale of Clwyd. We drove down and up to the big car park between Moel Fenlli and Moel Famau and did them in turn, the former another hilltop fort, the other crowned with an odd stump of tower and a minimalist view indicator. We were looking north. Annie Roberts looked after us in Ruthin, she the widow of Eric who'd been avalanched in a 'safe' camp on Annapurna - another of our youthful quartet claimed by the mountains.
We went east before north on the 4th: a pure ticking of isolated Dawsons. We drove right round Hope Mountain to find easy access by the telecommunications service road (the rest was barbed wire that would have done the first world war proud). Raw Head was a pleasant sandstone crest rising from the trees, Billinge Hill a kernel of green between the urban nutcrackers of Wigan and Liverpool. And ensuring B&B in Kirkby Lonsdale left time for a pleasant sunset wander up Hutton Roof Crags with its harsh limestone areas (no problem from Crag House Farm).
A Lakeland day on the 5th: the pachydermatous limestone of Whitbarrow (I wrote Wheelbarrow in my log), the deservedly popular Gummer's How, dominating Windermere, and Lowick High Common, a weird world of quarry and wind farm, but a sea view to make the Scottish heart yearn for home. So next day we added Baystones for the best views of all; Lakeland giants dazzling in the snow, then Kirkstone Pass and the familiar M74. We collected gravestone photos at Lamington, Biggar and West Linton (for a slide show: Guddling Among the Graves), Jill fed me at Perth and I was home by the sea that night, all the voices satisfied and 2030 miles driven. No wonder my 1000 took so long: the easy ones are all in England.
