O u t lo o k A w a lk e r 's b e s t f r ie n d s
PAUL WILSON with a lament for a walker’s best friends: his boots
A RAMBLER can gut, attached to his boots. Not literally, of course, although after a particu larly hard day on the hills the removal of boots can certainly come to resem
ble minor surgery. But after a few years and
many miles spent in one another's company, a cer tain bond can grow up between a walker and his vihrams. Wainwright, you may recall, dedicated one of his Lakeland guide books to his left leg and his right leg: he might with equal justice have extended the honour to his hoots. In my quarter century or
wave. 1 made the classic - and very silly - error of assuming it would be just as hot up by Rannoch Moor. Of course it wasn’t. It
was snowing. Flakes as big as half ciowns were shim mying out of the leaden sky when 1 disembarked at lonely Corrour near Lock Ossian. That night, the weight of snow on my lent was so great that the ridge pole snapped, and in the morning it was so deep that il filled my boots at every s tep (of course, 1 had blithely neglected to fetch my gaiters). 1 beat a wet, shivering, hasty retreat. A p a r t from th a t , my
alpine overland
BARNOLDSWICK'S OUTDOOR SHOP THE OLD LIBRARY BARNOLDSWICK
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this minor crisis in the lile of the fellwalker ju s t at present. Anyone who read my last 'Outlook' article may recall my moans about getting wet feet up on Mid dle Knoll near Dunsop Bridge. This was due to my boots being - how shall l put it - on their last legs. For a long time they have
so of rambling o’er hill and dale, through brake and briar, l have got through only about four pairs ol boots. Thus, when it comes to the inevitable time when one’s current companions become finally unwearable, it can be something of a poi gnant moment. I am having to cope with
world. Desert rats would not feel at home here. It is, let’s be honest, wet. Soggy. Unarguably squelehy. And it was here, as I picked my way gingerly amongst the peat hags, that my boots finally collapsed. The soles, quietly and without fuss, detached themselves from the uppers. It was a chilly morning,
quickly as possible. At every step my boots - such as they were - made hideous
squelching noises. I’m sorry to say that once
lnirn I felt that, given the s ta te of my footwear, I would perhaps not be terri bly welcome in the bar at the 1 lark To Bounty.
I’d hobbled back into Slaid-
and the water which now slutched around my feet was horribly cold. There was nothing for it but to head on down to the lower reaches of Croasdale as
boots have kepi me dry shod until just recently. At last, on a walk from Slaid- burn the other day, they
finally gave up the ghost. They certainly chose their moment. I had decided to wander up onto the lonely tops above the village, so
took the pleasant lane that passes the Hark to Bounty Inn and climbs up beside Croasdale Brook to the ancient milestone pointing the route up and over Salter Fell to Hornby. I continued along the lane
grave dereliction of duty - no pub last time, nor again this month. 1 promise we’ll get a pint in after our walk in the next, seasonal, issue.
I realise that this is a
MEPHISTO E EM
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borne me across many miles and up innumerable peaks, in the l ’ennines, the Lakes, in Scotland and in Wales, and even in the Alps. In fact, now I come to think of it, they are almost 10 years old, and have only let me down once. Back in the early eighties,
bagging in the wild ami remote Bed Alder forest in the Scottish highlands. As 1 set off from Colne railway station, the country was sweating in an early heat
1 set off in the first week of May for a spot of Munro
MOUNTAIN EQUIPMENT
a little further, picking up the track to Burn Side. Eventually the path takes to the fellside and climbs delightfully up the shoulder of Burn Fell, with glorious views opening up behind the Craven Dales. 1’enyghent is particularly
well displayed from here, looking almost - if you screw up your eyes and kid your self - almost the Suilven, th a t wonderfully weird mountain in the far north ol Scotland. The ground grad ually levels out and you emerge onto the broad top - although 'top' is hardly the right work for this great fiat expanse of peat - ol Dunsop
Now, Dunsop Head is not the dryest place in the
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