The other day I saw on Television a programme which detailed the climbing of Scafell Pike. A young woman of charm and enthusiasm (Julia Bradbury) booted and spurred as it were, set out to do the climb for the first time. The glorious scenery of the Lake District spread before us, and she (of course followed by a camera crew) talked first to a sheep-farmer, Ross Naylor, who had, it seemed, climbed most of the Borrowdale peaks several times, and at speed – two hundred and fourteen peaks in seven days – and then, accompanied only by Wainwright’s guide (and the camera crew) she set out towards Seathwaite and Stockley Bridge.
The names rang every bell in the lost places of my memory; they were the beginning of all the Borrowdale climbs, which I, with family and friends, had done many times. If, as Kipling had it, we are given one place to love, I would without hesitation choose the Lake district; this revisiting on the screen was a glimpse of a lost paradise. The programme was one of a series, “Wainwright’s Walks”, Wainwright being the legendary figure who plotted and drew in detail all the great climbs and lesser walks with the infinite care of a devoted lover. He was I believe a somewhat controversial figure, not always gracious, but so passionately absorbed that he stands alone. This is his centenary: his ashes are scattered on one of the trodden paths of Haystacks, as he wished them to be.
Scafell Pike is England’s highest mountain, rising to some 3,000-plus feet. (I am of an age that deals in feet rather than metres.) The ascent from Stockley Bridge is a hard slog, rocky in places, but it is not a difficult climb. Its neighbouring peak, Scafell itself, is, attempted from the same point, much harder. However, the climber is warned that the Pike is dangerous in bad weather because of the crags and precipices which abound on every side…’ Scafell Pike has grandeur indeed – the guide speaks of the wildest workings of nature, and observes that the climber at its summit may well feel that he has reached a farthest point from his everyday world.
On one splendid, if exhausting day, we climbed Scafell, and then making our way home, found that the best route was to climb from Mickledore, a level between the two peaks over the summit of Scafell Pike, not – as we stood there – greatly higher than we were. Our party had separated, and I found myself with one companion, a man called Tobit, who was in middle age going into th Church, and trying to climb without swearing, which he was accustomed to do. He found at this point that he had left his rucksack behind, and must go back for it. So I went on. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon of a calm September day; most climbers had left the mountain and were on their way home – and in September the holidays are done. And so many years ago the hills were emptier than they are now. I stood alone on the summit, and looked with awe about me. Just for that short time, there seemed no movement, no sight of anyone. This was the highest point in England – England of course, not the Alps or the Himalayas. But the marvellous peaks rose about me, mostly sunlit. This was being on top of the world.
When the young woman on television, somewhat breathless, reached this summit she spread her arms and said, “I’ve done it!” Of course I cannot climb Scafell Pke now, it is as much as I can do to get from my pew to the Crypt room. But I once did. There are of course in life many steeper hurdles than old age – cancer for instance, or the loss of a child. And one is lucky in many ways to have been given these extra years – but age does present its own challenges, less appealing than the summit of the Pike, but difficult sometimes. It occurred to me – could I – and other like me – surmount them, as I once surmounted Scafell Pike? It remains a question, but and enduring and somehow heartening one. I remember the words in the Baptism Service: “With the help of God, we will.”
Diana Raymond
Scafell Pike
Diana Raymond