The Rainy Season

I've got lots to say so prepare for a few installments.

Part One

There's a run in the sky above the Lakes District, not unlike the one fraying a hole in my stockings, and it's been leaking water for days. I don't think the English should be allowed to declare a season summer just because the rest of us do.

The leakiest day came when Jayne, my restaurant manager, and I decided to take on The Old Man of Coniston, a sky-high Fell (you get yelled at if you say hill) that you can see from the dining room window, and one I've lost many moments contemplating (fell gazing is an acceptable waste of time, whereas leaning against walls is largely frowned upon). Locals refer to it as Coniston Old Man and it's the highest in the Furness Fells - and, after some quick Googling, the 12th most prominent mountain in England.

Jayne drove us there in her yellow convertible, whipping about the skinny roads like we were chasing the lost sun. If you live in the Lakes District, it is your right as a citizen to own a convertible, without one you are like a Maddy with no book.

I had new waterproof walking shoes and was tied up tight in my pink and grey raincoat (the boys say this raincoat is a deterrent to possible liftgivers when we trek home up the hill from gym as it makes me look like a person who wants to walk). Honey and jam sandwiches neatly wrapped up next to my banana sat at the bottom of my backpack, camera on top.

We parked in the village of Coniston, and began to climb a road so steep I was almost on my knees. Ten minutes later the road flattened and we took a turn leading up to a car park where the sensible walkers bring their cars. It began to rain - light stuff that wet my knees through my pants and made me wish I’d worn shorts.

C-O-M was some way off and water was already puddling on the wide track. A few other walkers were visible in the distance and the odd sheep grazed at ferns. After a steep row of steps the track seemed to vanish, and Jayne, long legs striding to the left, announced she could see the path further up. Some mad scrambling followed and we came across forgotten rail tracks tumbling over the cliff’s edge. We scurried back down the hill, warning a group of walkers off Jayne’s path and righted our course. C-O-M is covered in slate, and there’s a mine still in operation, so much of the walk was spent avoiding injury by sharp rock. Two hours in we came to a lake, a gorgeous pool of water hiding in the hill, and I could only wonder at finding it on a hot summer's day.

It took thirty minutes longer to climb to the top, where a pile of stones awaited us, and with each minute we lost another snippet of visibility. The ladder in the sky widened an inch more and the water almost washed Jayne and I down the mountain. I was wetter than if I'd had a bath. At the top is a tree of stones that grows taller with the arrival of each fell conqueror, and my stone, chosen near the start of our walk, went on top. I think the wind blew it right off again, but somewhere up there in the clouds is a piece of my walk.