December 2013
I studied my battered copy of Wainwright. I admired his certainty and steadfastness; so unlike the woolly thinking of life today. 'High Raise is often wrongly referred to as High White Stones. High Raise is the name of the fell, High White Stones the name of a small area of grey boulders which includes the summit.' What a man! Doesn't he take you back to being a naughty, ignorant schoolchild. Since retiring to the Lakes, I had promised myself a decent walk at least once a week, all year round. It was frosty and cold, but luckily, no snow yet.
I liked being alone, especially when walking. I can't bear that pointless chatter that inevitably occurs when accompanied. Who would want to talk about the price of fish when surrounded by Mother Nature in all her glory? I suppose I'm not over keen on conversation because of the inevitability of probing into one's past. Folk are nosy by nature. That was the major reason for me to cut ties with everyone in the past and move myself here. I have a delightful, secluded cottage and I don't talk to anyone unless I have to.
I negotiated the stony path with ease. I've had a lot of practice during the last two years. I stopped periodically to take in the rocky skyline. Before I knew it, I had ascended the 2,500 feet to High White Stones. I added a stone to the big cairn and surveyed the magnificent panorama. As often happens, another image intrudes. I am my ten year old self in our top floor high rise flat. My mother jumps. I rush over, too late to save her and watch her dressing gown billow around her . . . a totally inadequate parachute.