It’s taken me a year to write this. I guess because half of me couldn’t believe that I’d done it, and the rest of me took that long to recover.
A year ago to almost the summer solstice day, myself, my husband and a band of rowdy rebels (aka fellow parents at my kids’ school) completed something called the 3 Peaks Challenge in aid of our primary school’s charity pot. To help build things the school couldn’t fund for themselves.
Since I got my kiddos in to the place I have looked for ways to “help”, without being that PTA about it. I don’t do committees. More the bridesmaid than the bride, back left, not centre stage for all that. And I found my groove, literally and figuratively, by helping to organise a much loved family music festival each year, for four years. It was soooo much fun and allowed me to get my kicks in assisting the school without pushing one single raffle ticket. It brought music and fun to our school community and gave me purpose and much pride. And as that tenure came to an end I was asked to swansong it up a mountain, well three mountains, with one of our team. An adventurous dad whose children were off to “bigger school” who had always wanted to do it… And why the heck not? I thought.. I pretty much say yes to anything a bit bonkers like that. Something tricky with a risk of looking crazy? I am IN. But there are challenges, and there are Challenges. This particular one involves hiking the highest mountain in Scotland, then England, then Wales. In 24 hours or less. And whilst they aren’t the highest peaks together in the UK (those all reside in Scotland), they are, all in their own magical ways, adventuresome, tricksy and bloody hard fun.
Ben Nevis, the first ramble, is a long winding path through a bonny valley, full of luscious emerald fern and lilac foxgloves, dew clinging to every foliage tendril. Up to misty heights and hairpin bends, where snow clutches in crevices and the weather transfigures from hazy to driech in an instant. The second, Scafell Pike, is scaled by head torch alone, one foot in front of the other, scaling steep rocky stairs that require thighs of steel whilst trying not to trip and tumble off the track. And lastly, the glorious Snowdon, rising out of lakes and over the copper mines, with Men of Harlech blazing in your ears, as you catch the end of the race in your sights.
And so it was, on what seems an eternity ago now, after delivering a full school Friday assembly of almost 400 kids, quoting Dr Seuss and desperately trying not to look too uncool, we hightailed it to Glasgow with our amazing driver come font of all knowledge; Martyn, for a nervous night’s sleep and an early start. Challenge accepted. On Saturday 22nd June 2019 we stocked up on sugar and empty carb fuel, (the best reason in my book for doing this) and set off, past the beauteous lochs of Lomond and Levan, for Nevis to begin.
I put myself in charge of the Social Media drum on the trip, to kindle support and funds for our cause, so as we set off, after all the starting line posing and time noting, like some classic novice tourist, I was posting and selfie-ing and not focussing on where I was putting my feet. Man alive did that malicious mount kick me in to touch. After about 30 minutes in I was struggling for breath and had to borrow my husband’s inhaler to reset myself. This was no ambling in the park. This was a super shlep that needed my full concentration and graft. And so we climbed. Onward and up. With our kind guide warning that the little rocks were as good as ball bearings designed to break our ankles. And our knees waking up to the realities of ascending over 3000 metres in just one spin of the Earth. Ouch AF.
And there were so many people doing it too. In the longest day lit hours, for cancer charities, for dementia, for the blind and deaf, for the depraved, for the kids, for the wildlife. For their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers. Best friends lost and babes never met. In groups or solo. All climbing for a cause. Of all different ages and fitness levels. It was rather humbling.
By the time we reached the summit some 4 hours later we were elated, though we couldn’t see much in the fog. It’s a funny feeling reaching the top as you know its all good, but you cannot get complacent. There is a fear in the knowledge of the way down. You are aware of how long it will be and you dread the injury or the slip. You have to creep carefully. Easy on the kneesy. Softly down the mountain we went.
And then suddenly we were back to the base. To a change of clothes and another sugar snack in the late afternoon highland air. And what better way to ease sore legs than coop them up in the back of a minivan on a long drive? More ouch. But on the way to Peak 2 we got to stop and have dinner. Fast food on the car park tarmac and living our best lives. And then we’re off again, racing to the Lake District, quick, quick.
Though our f***ing mountain guide was late to turn up, (and I will never forget Martyn’s willingness to take us up himself, sacrificing sleep whilst we were gone), the toilets were dank and the hour was late, we eventually began perhaps the toughest ascent of the three. Scafell Pike. As the night closed in. Following a torchlit thread up as far as you can see. Like some ancient druid procession. As the mountain horizon line blends with the sky. We played all the word games we could think of to keep our minds off our legs, that stepped in greater strides the higher we went. Hoisting ourselves up the martian like landscape of boulders and brush to the second peak. It seems fitting that such an effort takes you to a WW1 war memorial. Half way done. Only one more down and one more up to go.
But that down was harder. The knees felt really sore. And vertigo nudged at us as we gazed out in to the darkness to see all the way to the Maughold lighthouse on the Isle of Man. Yet under the early morning stars we trekked downward, our most cautious at the lead to keep us all together.
As the green grass thickened and the ground flattened off, the minivan, fresh clothes and a kip beckoned. We collapsed into the drive to Wales, with a quick petrol stop for breakfast sarnis whilst rushing and racing all the way to Snowdonia.
The end was nigh. And after some down dog stretches at the base, we had a spectacular guide to lead us to the top and the finish line. Hikers rarely get to see the summit as they go, but we were lucky, there she was, on a strangely clear day.
It was like Richard Burton was narrating in my ears as I gazed over to the great beacons and the all majesty. We just had to make it to the top and then the clock stopped. And we felt the fear, and had to scramble. Literally in parts as the rock face was steep.
But come hell or high water, we did it.
Knees creaking, legs shaking, stomachs churning, the wind whipping through us, we did it. In 23 hours and 20 minutes. And thousands raised for our school from all the parents who woke up in the night to check our progress and send us love and luck, and all the kids who egged them to give a little bit more. A little goes a long way.
And so it was the end. And truly the best cup of tea I have ever had in the cafe at the top. Now just the mere walk down and back home. The most fun weekend of all weekends. It’s always amusing reflecting on a challenge like that. Words don’t quite do it justice. The camaraderie it takes to keep each other going. The conviction to stick at it even when the going gets tough. The support from those watching you and willing you on. The feeling of euphoria and near disbelief and amazement when it’s done. It stays with you a long, long time. Gets put on the list you’d read out to summarise your little moments of a life well lived.
As Helen Keller once said, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all”.
For Martyn, the best chauffeur and cheerleader ever, and for L, E, H, M, M, W and of course J – the best team ever x
40 for 40 