HIGH HEELS ON HELVELLYN

HIGH HEELS ON HELVELLYN

(A short sketch of amateur climbing in the mountains of England’s Lake District, with dialogue written partly in the local dialect, to give a flavour of the activity.)

We’d done Skiddaw the day before, then hitchhiked from Keswick to Penrith and turned off for Pooley Bridge to catch the boat the next day.

My brother Joe and me had left the delights of Tyneside for a couple of days, and we camped a mile or two outside Pooley Bridge near a pub called the Wool Pack. Mavis was there and the voice was unforgettable, kind of a high-pitched sing-song Geordie accent, but pleasant to listen to. I’m sure everyone was listening to her voice. It seemed we were all doing everything together. Everyone in the camp ground had the same stuff, leather boots, long ropes, carabiners rattling heavily and smoothly like a bunch of oiled and coiled rattle snakes around our waists.

In the Wool Pack it became clear that all of us were camping in tents, and then tomorrow catching the boat to Glenridding and then on up Helvellyn. Like lemmings. The pub crowd split naturally into two groups which spoke almost like teams in a slightly competitive tone about who could get up Striding Edge and down Swirral Edge the fastest. Maybe the real competition was for the attention of the singsong girl and her small group of miniskirted cronies.

The university types had taken possession of the entire bar counter. Their loose ¾ knee-buckle pants (bought in Austria last year)stylishly echoing slightly long hair, and suggesting names like Jeremy, Lawrence and Nigel. Good quality clothing was matched by high-quality accents, their laughter slightly too loud.

The tables and the doorways were colonized by the working-class climbers from Consett and Gateshead. Their short hair and work clothes cut off below the knees with rubber bands (not Austrian), and their singsong accents matched perfectly with names like Paddy, Bill, Joe . She and her friends were in the centre of one large group around a table groaning under half-full beer glasses. They were enjoying the teasing and being inviting to come along with them tomorrow.

In her melodic Tyneside idiom she cautiously offered, “Well, I have me day off from the shop tomorrow - so dee aal of us , so I suppose we could ….what do ye think, Brenda?”

Brenda put down her empty glass with a small bang and intoned, “ Soonds aal reet to me, Mavis.”

The Jeremies and Lawrences chimed up with, “Why don’t you come with us? We’re going to win, you know?” Brenda flashed them a stage smile, then quickly pursed her lips over her teeth and looked away in disdain, the long mascara lashes firmly closed, emphasizing the gesture.

We hung around at the side door and drank our beer, and fell in with neither group. Still, we had some of the de rigueur ‘expert’ gear - some ropes, big boots, etc., and in our anorak pockets Kendal mint cake and the obligatory guide books by A. Wainwright. So we felt part of the scene.

The packed room buzzed with good-natured banter, and frequent mention of Cat Bells and Maiden Moor and a litany of other well-known popular climbs. It was a crowded and jostling scene with all the ‘professional’ climbers contrasting with the miniskirts and high heels. The smoky atmosphere curled in waves with peoples’ movements as they tried to dance to the music of the Northumbrian pipes.

We drained our glasses and stepped outside, where the celebrating continued in the street with drunks dancing in the semi-dark, and the drizzly weather making no difference. The cloudy sky was going to give way to ‘sunny intervals’ tomorrow. As good as it gets in the Lake District. Most of the group staggered back, or singsong-ed its way in pitch darkness to the campsite: and the rustle of sleeping bags and pumping of primus stoves gradually enveloped the sea of soggy tents.

So we set off early next morning, Joe and me catching the boat just after nine, well ahead of the rest. Got off the steamer at Glenridding and hiked a mile or two on a rough track, then climbed. The sun made a tentative appearance and it got warm. Anoraks off and tied round the waist, we dawdled up Swirral Edge and in an hour or so got to the flat peak of Helvellyn. Put a stone on the cairn, then we made it a little way down Striding Edge to get out of the strong breeze, and stopped to eat our last sandwiches, taking in the view of Red Tarn looking very blue in the sun. Then we met the other climbers, who had obviously caught a much later steamer after sleeping off their hangovers.

First we found ourselves surrounded by Consett and Gateshead all smiling and fit from their winners’ exertions, heading flat-out for the top of Helvellyn itself. Then a long way behind them coming over the most prominent hump on the roller-coaster ridge of Striding Edge, suddenly appeared the faces of the Jeremies and Lawrences, carabiners rattling finely, with their Austrian ¾ knee-buckle pants, and the girls in miniskirts and high heels who had decided to come with them on the same climb. Mavis had managed to navigate the polished stone ledges of Striding Edge in high-heeled sling backs and a miniskirt.

Continually pulling down her skirt hem, she musically lamented,” Oooh, it’s the last time I wear these heels. Every time we come up here they start killin’ uz.”

And looking to blame the nearest person, she added with heavy sarcasm, “And how come we aalways get to gan with the losing team, Mavis?”

We looked at our boots and their wetness, then at their high heels and their dryness, and we were amazed . But we were not surprised that she and her friends were aalways gannin’ with the losing team.

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