The summit of Catbells – a fell in the Lake District – is a distinctive bulge that paws at the sky, before slightly drooping to one side, like the tip of a Smurf’s hat, only less severe. It’s early February when my parents and I find ourselves walking in weather typical of the Cumbrian winter; it is, mostly, gusty and wet, so my waterproof trousers balloon in the wind like a double-pronged windsock. But there are brief moments of calm, such as on our way to Maiden Moor, another fell, when we turn to look back at Catbells’ summit and see the sun momentarily overcome the cloud, illuminating the scenery around us. A rainbow manifests, then quickly fades away. It is fleeting, but beautiful.
It’s taken me over 20 years to reach this summit, thanks to a tantrum at the age of eight, some yards from the top, on my first attempt. At the time, I hated walking, and berated my parents whenever they dragged me out on to the fells at the weekend. Believing it to be the ultimate protest, I lay down on the ground, declaring I would not go any further. My family went on without me. They collected me on their way down. (My parents would like to stress that I was in sight at all times during my demonstration.)
