Out There
Wierd Weather
I can’t help but be quietly scornful of those souls who set out for a stroll equipped as though they are about to mount an assault on K2. The full kit, a walking pole in each hand, a daypack stuffed so tight that if they were to topple over they would be stranded like an upside down turtle, limbs flailing as they endeavour to right themselves before they expire. Surely if John Muir could cavort around the high Sierra with a hunk of bread and a lump of cheese for weeks on end there really is no call for the overprotective hectoring that does its damnedest to scare us away from the hills unless we have a full back up team in tow. Having said that, I have issued forth many a ‘tut’ to woefully ill-equipped individuals in the past. One of the most amusing being a middle aged lady in a Laura Ashley dress whose head was completely consumed by her billowing floral frock as she clumsily made her way over towards Great Gable. As funny as the sight of her slightly faded M&S underwear was she was in obvious danger of slipping off as she fought with her flapping fabric and the gale that was gushing up either flank of the appropriatly named Windy Gap.
On another occasion I was enjoying the Langdale round, having ascended Bowfell under a cloudless sky on a pleasantly warm June day. But by the time I reached the top of Stake pass the heavens were black and I was being pelted with painfully large hailstones with little or no useful cover at hand. A gusting wind also came from nowhere and whipped along the open expanse of Martcrag Moor with such force that I was literally bowled over and had to stoop low in order to make safe progress. I descended to the Dungeon Ghyll hotel in full sun again, the sippers of ale being blissfully unawares of my meterological trauma.
Again in Langdale, we were camped at the National Trust site below Wall End when we were woken at two in the morning by a growing, growling rolling thunderous sound that was clearly working its way down Mickledon towards us. Eyes wide with wary anticipation we waited for the impact, which when it did come found my face unexpectedly kissing the tents fabric. Then calm, followed by silence as the wind disappeared down the valley. Ten minutes later and there was a repeat of the incoming howl as the distant tumble gathered pace and sound before smashing its way through the camp site again. The ensuing silence was disturbed this time by the flicker of torch lights and the cries of other campers attempting to resurrect their broken tents and retrieve bits of gear. This was to be the pattern of things for the next few hours; moments of calm before the next round of nature being rude blundered into us before blithely moving off again. I am not sure what this phenomenon was. I can understand how the wind would have been funnelled down the narrow valley head but how did it achieve that rolling, thundering form broken by several minutes of complete calm each time. I would be interested to hear of any explanations if anyone is more the wiser?