The View
You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone, said Joni Mitchell. That’s especially true when you forget your walking poles.
I FORGETTHINGS. ANYONE who knows me will confirm this. Not important things like all the former members of Jethro Tull or the Norse gods or Wigan Athletic’s 2016 FA Cup-winning team, but my wallet, my keys, my phone; that sort of trivial stuff. Thus I have set off for a day’s walk without water, without my ‘butties’, without maps, and on one memorable instance without boots.
Setting out for a quick dash up Souther Fell early in the New Year, I realised as soon as I left Mungrisedale by the little fell road that I had forgotten my trekking poles. Not a problem, I thought; I don’t think of them as an essential bit of kit, though I do usually pack them. It’s not like the day I walked the Haweswater and High Street Horseshoe on the hottest day of the year without any water and actually had to beg a drop from a nice lady on The Rigg (if this was you, thanks again).
The way up was fine, but on the way down to Scales via Mousthwaite Comb, I was really regretting my absent-mindedness. Because, as any pole user will tell you, descent is where they come into their own. Compared to Roughten Gill or Mickledore (insert your least favourite gnarly route here), Mousthwaite Comb is pretty straightforward; a piece of mint cake you might say. But on the slush and wet rock, I found myself moving extremely gingerly indeed without the security which those two extra points of contact give you, not to mention the support for the knees.
Taking a breather with the flask and crisps that I thankfully hadn’t forgotten to pack, I decided to do a little social media post berating myself and sharing my discomfiture along the lines of, ‘Forgot my poles today. Even Mousthwaite Comb got a bit hairy in the wet and clag near the top. So don’t be put off by the macho cairn-kickers. Poles are the hillwalker’s friend.
Admittedly though, you don’t need them on Keswick high street.’
The responses were interesting. The vast majority, both men and women, agreed with me, citing the extra grip, cushioning and speed of ascent and descent. One even took me mildly to task for my last comment: ‘I don’t know: they can get you to the front of the queue at Keswick Greggs.’
Found On Foot
I don’t know if Britain’s Cutest Packhorse Bridge will ever be a TV hit, but if it does, the bridge over the swirling River Goyt near the Roman Lakes in Marple – easy walk, great pubs – will surely win.
Hear Stuart on Radcliffe and Maconie, BBC 6 Music, weekends, 8am to 10am.
One or two though (interestingly, all men), did seem loath to accept the merits of wal
