The seldom seen hill

From the village a deep lane winds up between head-high hedgerows, gaps offering fleeting glimpses into other worlds - the farms and fields and hills beyond. Our feet move quickly above a metalled surface matted with straw at first, then strewn with twigs and stones and marbled by mud that flows from steep banks. The detritus of recent storms. 

At the end of the lane we turn right, skirting the hillside until a tight bend marks our exit point and we turn off and climb steeply, hands pressed against knees in a vain effort to add power to burning legs. The angle eases and we hold conference at a marker post, huddled over a photocopied map scant on detail. Rightwards looks best, and after a gate and ankle deep mud we enter a gully of loose, red stones with low slung briars that snatch at skin and snag clothes. A winter stream flows silent beneath our feet, stealing dirt from our shoes and tumbling quick in its eagerness to join the river in the valley below. 

The country then opens out onto a broad spur with views across patchwork valleys to shrouded summits. Tendrils of cloud reach down the flanks of the ridges into the cradle of hidden cwms and broken light chases shadow over an ever shifting landscape. We move on through empty pasture on a faint track and follow the stone wall guarding the edge of impenetrable pine forest. A barren underworld of inky spaces beneath a needle skin. 

A left fork leads us across bog and heather, zigging and zagging over false summits, onwards and upwards to the main ridge. We arrive into the full force of a north westerly gale that hits us like a hammer to the chest. Voices muted by the roar and eyes stinging from wind chill, we stagger punch drunk down the lee slope in search of respite, and find a grassy hollow carved out by sheep. A chance to eat, and rest and steel ourselves for the climb up into the chaos and clouds. 

Back up the slope we are hit again but push on, skirting the drop we cannot see. Above us mountain bulk looms out from the mist and the wind gathers still harder to force us back. We take the shallow path on the windward side and I lean into the slope to brace myself, raising my hand to my face in a futile bid to lessen the bite. Then turn left and with wind mercifully at our backs we are blown up hill to trig point, its concrete base undercut by decades of bullwhip weather lashing out from the west. 

The path home is sheltered on the eastern side of the ridge, and we follow two miles of quartzite boulders that protrude from the peat. White teeth snapping at tired legs. Another trig post is reached and then a giant cairn, which marks the start of the descent into the haven of the valley. Sheep-grazed paths like fairways between the bracken lead us out of the cloud to a stream and stile over a wall, past a hostel and down a farm track back to the road. Here we could pick up speed but resist, choosing instead to savour the time and space. 

How precious these trip are, it's not far to come, we so seldom come here, we should do it again soon. 

Then we are back at the car, changing shoes, talking politics, and finishing a flask of still warm coffee. The engine starts with incongruous sounds from the radio, and we pull away along narrow lanes, the hedgerows racing past in a blur. No gaps now offering glimpses into other worlds, our minds are already elsewhere. 

Lanes then widen to main roads, and main roads become dual carriageways, which turn into motorways, and we are home in no time. 

It's really not that far. We so seldom go there.

We should do it again soon.