Is there such a thing as a poor hill?



Summit of Great Mell Fell, Cumbria
Pennines above a temperature inversion beyond
28 January 2012



The legendary Doug Scott was once asked why he climbed.  Doug is a very clever guy, and a deep thinker, as anyone who has ever attended his lectures or read his books will testify.  But Doug did not respond with some philosophical answer of the sort that George “Because it’s there” Mallory may have given.  Doug’s reply was simply “because I get fed up if I don’t”.

I was thinking about this as I headed up Great Mell Fell in Cumbria on Saturday last, 28 January 2012.  Great Mell Fell is not the sort of hill that most hill walkers would get too excited about.  It is low (537m); it is grassy rather than rocky; it is not connected to any other fell and so it’s almost certainly just straight up and down, probably by the same route as it does not particularly lend itself to a circular walk; and the whole “expedition” can be done in well under two hours, even allowing for some wandering round the summit cairn and for time to take photographs of the admittedly superb views to Blencathra, Helvellyn and the Dodds, the High Street Range and over towards the extensive Eden Valley and the Pennines.  So I may have spent the equivalent of many months of my life walking the fells of the Lake District, I must have driven passed Great Mell Fell four or five hundred times, usually heading for “bigger and better” things, but my recent walk up that hill was only my fourth trip to its summit.



Blencathra from Great Mell Fell

And I had the most superb couple of hours.  I felt alive for every moment of my short walk.  I did not look to Blencathra or Helvellyn and wish I was on them, fabulous though that would have been.  Yet I know that on other occasions I might have thought that Great Mell Fell was a pretty poor hill, an experience not to be repeated.  I have on occasions, on a variety of summits, from Snowdonia to Switzerland, thought that the hill or mountain I was on was not up to much.  I hope to be walking in the snow in the Lakes again this weekend and can think of dozens of hills I want to avoid.  I shall not be going on Mungrisdale Common; or Sallows; or Sour Howes; or Branstree.  I will certainly not be making the 15 minute trudge up Little Mell Fell from the road, or the 20 minutes stroll up Binsey.  Yet I have walked up all these before, and have had super times, as well as poor times on all of them.

All these fells are “Wainwrights”.  I first realised that AW was “having a laugh” at the expense of peak baggers when trudging up Mungrisdale Common in the rain and the clag.  No way is it a separate fell.  It is a flat piece of moorland at the back of Blencathra.  No way does it deserve a few pages in his brilliant guides.  He must have realised that there were those of us daft enough to have a tick list.  He was taking the proverbial.  Similarly, with Little Mell Fell and a number of others.  Yet all regular Lakes walkers will also know of a few summits or tops that are fabulous mountains, not in the Wainwright guides which we keep quiet about to deter the hoards.



Little Mell Fell from Great Mell Fell



But I have enjoyed myself on each of these nonentity of hills on certain occasions.  So what is this all about?  My theory is simple.  There is no such thing as a poor hill; just a poor route choice.  When I was ticking off the Wainwrights for the first time, Blencathra via Mungrisdale Common was a great choice of route and I had the satisfaction of adding the tick at the end of the day.  And similarly on my second Wainwright round.  Binsey was just the choice to carry my two year old up when his increasing weight in the backpack was starting to limit my options for introducing him to the hills.  But as I grow weary of tick lists, as my walking days, once apparently endless, now start to feel numbered (I will be lucky if I can manage another 10 summers and even fewer winters, after a lifetime of what I once thought would be never ending seasons of the fells), Mungrsidale Common would be a very poor hill indeed.

Better to use precious days to go to other places.  Not necessarily the classics but better for the circumstances.  Better for the day.  The hill you are on is a great hill if you have made the most of your opportunity that day.  If tick lists float your boat and you need another tick it does not matter that to others the hill would not be worth the effort.  If the weather is appalling, blowing a hooley and you haven’t got much time do not sneer at a walk up the forest road to Dodd or up the near motorway standard path to Latrigg.



Glorious view: Clough Head
From lower slopes of Great Mell Fell
January 2012



The heather clad, rock free mound at the back of Skiddaw or in mid-Wales, or South Shropshire can be the perfect hill for a sunny Bank Holiday.  Nowhere better.  And then on that sunny day, mid-week in early April or late September, when your countrymen are at their desks and you have a pass out, get yourself on to Striding Edge or Grib Goch; or if you aren’t keen on the exposure on to Grasmoor or Cnicht or Ben Lomond.  If your legs are getting on a bit, Pole Bank on the Long Mynd or the Lawley in Shropshire will do the trick.  It does not really matter.  There is no such thing as a poor hill.  I suspect almost all have their merits.

So Great Mell Fell last Saturday was a marvellous choice.  I had not set foot on a hill for three weeks.  I only had a couple of hours free.  It is only 15 minutes from my cottage.  I could get to the top and feast on the views of a multitude of much loved hills, snow clad in the near and middle distance.  I could set my eyes to the horizon of the east, and Great Dunn Fell and the white magnificence of the Pennines standing proud above the cloud filled Eden Valley.  It was the perfect choice.



Pennines Above Cloud Filled Eden Valley
From Great Mell Fell
January 2012
A Perfect Choice of Hill



 

Let’s hear it for Alton Towers (even though I have never visited)

The summit of Bowfell, August 2010: almost the scene of a very unpleasant incident!

I often wonder whether I am alone in the completely selfish attitude I hold towards going on to the hills.  I get the impression, on the flimsiest of evidence, from comments in outdoor magazines and from blogs and tweets, that many dedicated and regular hill goers are liberal (with a small letter “L”), and incredibly tolerant of their fellow beings.  I envy this attitude but have not yet mastered it.  But perhaps many others really do share my views?

This is where I admit to my crabby, undemocratic spirit and intolerance.  I love the sense of peace and solitude that I get on many of my days on the hill.  I try to seek out areas that I believe will be empty, especially at weekends and holiday times.  Even in the Lake District there are still quiet places on summer Bank Holidays.  But with the growth in popularity in hillwalking, with better roads and more car ownership, the hills have become far more crowded in the 40 years I have been wandering them.  Solitude is harder to find for us all.  And, thus, I have to admit to a sense of hypocritical intolerance towards my fellow man when I am out doing what I enjoy most.  I am happy to pass the time of day with other solitary walkers, provided it’s not for too long and I can sit and enjoy a snack in silence.  But the presence of chattering groups pushes me to lung bursting, leg aching exertion to put distance between them and me.

It is not just the lack of solitude that inspires my Wainwrightesque attitude, although I have not yet stooped to his depths of turning round and pretending to pee to drive away those attempting polite conversation.  It’s also the erosion, the litter, the reminders of civilisation and all the thoughts that the latter brings to mind, that so disturb the sense of tranquillity.  And in this, I let myself develop an irritation when I should be seeking calm.  Being on the hills should be therapy, not an instigator of angst.

These attitudes, of course, are completely hypocritical and have grown as I have aged.  I cause as much erosion as the next man (although I like to think that competent hill walkers do not do so).  I certainly destroy the solitude for other walkers, who perhaps are viewing me with the same antagonism that I too often view them.  Perhaps the answer and the solution lie within me. I need to develop big T tolerance and not just small L liberalism.

Until I master this I will continue with my unuttered barbs and jibes, always contained, and mostly hidden behind a cheery greeting or snatched conversation.  Such as near the top of Bow Fell on a wet, cloudy day last year.

“Do you know where we are”, I was asked, "my GPS battery is dead”.

“Yes thank you”, I replied.

“Oh” said he.  “Could you show me on the map?”

“No problem – we are about here”.

“Thanks” he said.  How did you know that without a GPS?”

“Because, Dumbo, I have a map, a compass, a brain, and I use all three”.

Of course the last line was not spoken, just thought.  I simply said “Oh, you know….” and smiled and waved the map and went on my way.

Later that day I met another lost group near Esk Hause.

“Is that the path down towards Borrowdale?” I was asked.

They were actually heading towards Eskdale.  It would be a 40 mile taxi ride and a £60 fare if they got it wrong.  The hidden philanthropist in me emerged.  But I was so tempted, oh so tempted, before I heroically sent them off north to Borrowdale not south to Eskdale, and my self righteous sense of goodness exploded within me, and repeatedly returned on future outings.  Until I ended up completely disoriented on Red Screes one awful claggy day this August.

So what’s so great about Alton Towers?  Well, in short, my selfish desire for solitude and the chance for enjoyment mean that I relish every television advert for Alton Towers, every leaflet I see for a National Trust House, every brown road sign pointing the way to a tourist honey pot.  Good luck to them all.  Pull in the crowds.  Pull them in by the million.  Offer all comers a fabulous experience.  I genuinely hope that all who go to them have a wonderful time and repeat their visits.  I hope they find the prospect far more enticing than grinding up a steep fell side.  You see, I do wish my fellow man well.