Fight Club Hikers at Kirkstone Pass

Friday afternoon, I took the knipemobile and it’s new tyres over the Pennines to Kirkstone Pass for the occasion of the peacefulhikers – that is to say the Fight Club Hikers third anniversary “do”. I should also add that it is very very close to my 60th birthday…

The Pass was a bit on the dreary side when I arrived, to find Wibble Himself reading the Daily Mirror and drinking San Miguel in a dark corner of the bar. Over time, TDude, Gill (Walkingirl) Mott, Peter Crawford, Nurse Jane and Masey and their dogs arrived from various points in South Englandshire, such as Manchester and Anglesey – and Terrybnd from somewhere up the hill round the back. We drank beer.

At one point some birthday pies with candles were produced  for my birthday. I was not disappointed at all at the lack of a stripper nominally dressed as a WPC. BUt these are hard times and sacrifices need to be made.

In the morning, after a night of snoring, farting and the half-hearted attentions of the pub poltergheist, we set off (eventually) up Caudale Head and over to Hartsop.


This went well and the weather was specially kind in a sunny and sparkly kind of way.  There were lots of contours, specially down to Hartsop over Hartsop Dodd, which is a bit like walking off the end of the world.

At the outlet to Brotherswater, the group split. Those with appointments with foaming beer glasses headed for the permissive path back to the pub (and very nice it was too) and other, more determined Hikers went for the high level or haute route. At some point, this party also split between those with reasonable characters and the focussed hill-baggers and duped companions (frankly) who went for very high tops with the certainty of darkness and head-torch time. Head torches were used.

Afterwards, we gathered once again in The Bar and drank yet more beer and ate things wth chips and lots and lots of pepper in some cases.
In the morning, which was probably Sunday by now, we had a desperate hunt for Masey’s car keys, dramatically and emotionally and, even suddenly and after protracted searches of personal cavities and unbder beds and stuff – by Gillian  who eventually searched somewhere sensible but unlikely and came up with the key keys which were key to Masey getting home without spending £400 on a special lift thingy.

Me and Terrybnd went to bag the subsidiary top of Wansfell in bright and glorious sunshine and, after falling damply on my arse several times (more than three), I decided that these trainers were useless and took Terrybnd to Ingleton where he was determined to camp up Ingleborough whilst I enjoyed a breakfast in Bernie’s cafe. And very nice and cracking good value it was too.
And that was it, really. Cracking weekend. I was sustained spiritually, emotionally and nutritionarily by the pies, specially the meat and potato one. Nom nom nom, as we say in Pieland.