When I walked Offa's Dyke path in 1991 I had never heard of Marilyns (or Munros, for that matter). But the following year I read Alan Dawson's book, and found that I had not only bagged my first Marilyn on Black Mountain, but that it was also my first 2000-footer and my first county top. In addition, I had bagged a further five Marilyns along the path, so I was well and truly hooked. Within a few years I had visited all the hills in southern and central England and Wales, as well as quite a few further afield, but my bagging tally began to flag as the distances to the hills started to climb more steeply than the hills themselves. I reached my halfway point to the Hall of Fame on a glorious early spring day last year, with a fine circular walk to the summit of Buckden Pike above Wharfedale. Here are just a few of the many notable highlights (and lowlights) on my journeys to the tops:
A major highlight was a trip to the Shetland Islands in the autumn of 1993. The weather was superb, and I was able to visit all 12 Marilyns on Shetland Mainland, as well as many of the geological and archaeological delights of this beautiful area. I am looking forward to a return trip to bag Fair Isle, Foula and the other islands. The weather was much less kind during a summer visit to Skye in 1998, bagging peaks in the Black Cuillin: only three Marilyns, but no fewer than 15 Munros and Munro Tops. Only the In Pinn eluded me: due to appalling weather, discretion got the better part of valour.
On a low note, Myarth is a small, isolated tree-covered hill near the River Usk in south Wales. As my wife and I passed the gamekeeper's lodge it seemed prudent to ask permission to proceed. Only the gamekeeper's wife was home, and although she had no objection to our continuing, she clearly did not think we were wise: we soon found out why. The hill was not a pleasant climb, with no paths, and the broad, flattish summit was very overgrown with dense bracken and scrub. After wandering about a bit and visiting what I thought must be the highest point I found a rather easier route down following an old track. We had the misfortune to meet the gamekeeper himself on our descent, and he was not at all pleased to see us. He made it quite clear that permission would have been denied if he had been asked. This only served to reinforce my normal policy of climbing hills first and asking questions later.
My only other hostile encounter on a hill was also in Wales, on Cefn Cenarth (a late addition to Dawson's list). My map showed no footpaths, and I climbed steadily along field edges aware that there was clearly no right of way. As I approached the top I heard a vehicle nearby, and soon saw that I had been spotted by the farmer, who was rushing over to see what I was up to. I was amused to see that he was riding an ancient pre-war motor cycle, which he reckoned was ideal for checking the sheep on his hills. At first he was suspicious that I was part of a gang of sheep thieves who had been operating in the Rhayader area, but he soon warmed to me as he realised I was just a harmless nutcase, climbing his hill for a seemingly incomprehensible reason (to both of us). I then made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning the B&B where I was staying: it seemed that my landlord was notorious in the farming community for being a militant rambler with a reputation for damaging fences and upsetting farmers.
