Long time readers might remember my 50th birthday plans to climb to the highest peak in England on the day itself. Must be bloomin' barmy, but hey-ho if you can't be bloomin' barmy upon reaching your half century I don't know when you can be.
Anyway, to return to the narrative - Frankenkeith spent last weekend doing a bit of a recce. He explored Gosforth (where we'll be staying) and was pleased to report that of the five pubs in the village, three actually face each other. Makes for an easy crawl, then.
But our intrepid adventurer didn't stop at examining the pubs, oh no. He also recce'd the trek itself. Resulting in him (and I quote as accurately as I can remember) "digging in [his] ice axe to have something to hold on to and hunkering down against the wind and the driving snow" before deciding that a push for the summit wasn't a sensible idea. He was climbing alone and a twisted ankle could have been a very serious problem.
Luckily my birthday is a few months away yet and we can hope for more benign conditions. Meanwhile here are some photos that Frankenkeith kindly sent to me of his heroic efforts.
That's Scafell Pike in the distance . . .
Frankenkeith hiked onwards and upwards . . .
Until, I think, this is about as high as he got before being beaten back by the gale force howler and blizzard conditions.