The mission accomplished for Windermere was for two nights set either side of a day spent walking amongst forest, crag and fell.

Despite a disjointed finale to a nights sleep, 8 of the AM saw Prideesh and I sat alternating our gazes between each others bleary eyes and the horizontal rain lashing upon the glass windows of the B&B. Careful and prolonged inspection of our faces may also have hinted at some resolve, for we were not to be diverted by a light shower, or for that matter thunder and lightening.

Two hours later thunderstorm was in its final throes and rain was temporarily at an ebb. I was kitted out in my thick walking socks, tightly knotted walking boots, jeans, t-shirt, sweat shirt (which fulfilled on its promise) and gore tex all weather coat. This last an unused hand down from my uncle who buys such condiments as I do electronic gadgetry. Atop my freshly short hair sat my outback hat (minus corks). I had a romantic illusion as to the sound rain might make upon this hat, the result of countless daydreams at the flickering image of Clint Eastwood. Has a man ever looked so cool wet?

Prideesh for her part was a slightly more conventional incarnation, the hood on her waterproofs saving her hair for a short period from the moist attentions of the day.

At this time we should probably take a quick snapshot of two images to give you some context to the events of the day. First we have jaunty figures laughing and pushing at each other, striding down the hill with the expectation of the day stretching ahead. Secondly we have the two same, but sodden, bedraggled souls that make their way back up this incline some four hours later.

First stop for our intrepid duo was the bemused climbing shop where compass 'remove luck from the equation' and local map of walks were purchased. We already had a specific walk in mind, gleaned from an older incarnation of the same book over breakfast, courtesy of our host. This choice of walk appealed to Prideesh as the final two kilometres (of ten) wove its way down beside a torrid river which often served as a worthy opponent for daring canoeists.

Into the void then, or almost as we spent a worrying period finding a way out of the reflective rain covered streets of Ambleside. My compass seemed to indicate that at all times we were walking in the symmetrical opposite direction to that indicated by the plastic covered map held firmly in the small red gloved hands of Prideesh. All my attempts at flagging this fact fell on wisely deaf ears, for I would later discover I was reading the wrong end of the needle.

Soon enough, we were to be seen striding the 800 metres up Skelghyll Lane and were stepping literally breathless through Skelghyll Wood, a wild and deep collective of gnarled fairy tale tree's that skirted increasingly higher above the misty eastern tip of Windermere.

Over a period of two kilometers tarmac gave way to forest floor, which in turn gave way to pale igneous rock down which streams of rainwater tumbled around our thick soled boots. Eventually an opening in a tired slate wall, held together it seemed only by the fusion of time, heralded Jenkin crag, a short walkway to a protruding rock above a shallow cliff face that stood 200 metres above the barely discernible lake.

Onwards we went. Taking advantage of a brief abating in the incessant rain, jackets were drawn open to release heat and welcome the cool drift of this late summers breeze. Above, dark skies flashed lightening one final time that we recollect, followed a few moments later by a parting rumble from the trailing thunder. Over time the rock beneath broke onto and gave way to a track cultivated by man which led us through the aptly named Skelghyll Farm and into the vista of rolling dales. On the far horizon a red and blue dot slowly made their way towards us. It took nearly 30 minutes of weaving up and down, around and over these rolling, slate wall lined, grass covered rolls of earth before the two dots manifested at a gate as a male and female. He just into his sixth decade, she well into it, it seemed. He stepped through, the rain peppering his gleaming blue mac, and dryly delivered a line he had probably rehearsed for the last five minutes “Dr Livingston I presume!” We all laughed. I was thinking more like 'Lawrence of Arabia' but kept this to myself. As they headed in the direction from which we came, over his shoulder he told us the coffee in the Troutbeck post office was not to be missed.

A further kilometer and we disappeared down the side of a dale and stepped onto the lose grit of a road, soon we were loping down into a village, turned left at the t-junction and walked the last few meters to the entrance of the post office. There was no indication as yet as to the village name but deduction and the wooden plaque to the right of the door 'Tea and coffee served' allowed us to conclude this must be Troutbeck!

At this time, 5 kilometres into our epic journey, despite being outwardly wet our spirits were still high. Rain had long ceased tapping a tune on the water loaded brim of my hat that now hung limply about my head. Inside the layers of protective clothing, save maybe for Prideesh's matted hair, our only cause for damp irritation was that manifested through sweat, perfectly acceptable. I took the opportunity to remove the hat and coat and leave it propped up in the hall entrance that led to the post office main.

This post office is a scaled down version of the type commonly seen in small villages throughout this country, with a little less emphasis on security. The main booth, immediately to the left upon walking through the door is little more than a wooden frame, fronted by slats of perspex. These in turn were covered in partially pealed, faded stickers that dated to the final decade of the last century. If one had need to communicate with the seated employee you would just pop your head round the side of the open booth. Next to this was a typical angled display sparsely populated of popular sweets, on from which ran a counter that turned at a right angle and sealed off the three smiling staff looking expectantly at our ruddy faces. Behind the staff shelves rose to the ceiling which held precisely one of every essential tinned item you would normally find in grocery stores. This shopping nirvana was completed, on our right by a large glass fronted fridge which held three cokes, two cans of diet coke and three bottles of lilt. We ordered two coffees.

It would be to do these three people a huge injustice to compare the situation to the 'league of gentlemen', but there was some resonance in the difference equally felt between the locals and the obvious city types that currently stood dripping on the dust covered wooden floor. Genuine but over used conversation was undertaken on the topic of holiday destinations sought by those that lived in gods back garden. It seems Norway and Sea houses are hot favourite's. Another local entered while we sipped from the blissfully sweet, hot coffee and engaged two of the staff in a short and rather heated conversation regarding the pro's and con's of showing the proud and well maintained gardens of this village to the general untrained rabble of tourist.

Post purchase of a football sized plumb cake that had been calling to me practically from the moment I stepped into the shop, we re-applied the outwardly wet layers and stepped back into the vast open valley of which we could not see past the first house on account of the vapored haze that we later concluded was actually the lower strata of cloud. We would meet its close relative; 'thick I can't see a bloody thing' type cloud in the not to distant future.

This my dear reader, is where things started to fall about our blissfully inexperienced and literally wet ears. Yes we could look up and see the peak which our map headed us towards, far off enveloped in thick, thick unmoving cloud, but there was some measure of unreality set between us, in the drizzle of the roadside that heralded the upward winding path and that far off summit. Some part that our minds told us the path would conveniently circumnavigate this inconvenient cumulus and bring us to a clear peak with breathtaking views that would see our cameras happily clicking at distant horizons.

So then, with our innards freshly warmed and safe knowing that we had enough plumb cake to sustain us for at least two days, we stepped forward onto the rising rock strewn path and began the 520 meter (1700 feet) ascent of Wansfell Pike. As is the way of such things, the path rose in a zig zagging fashion for perhaps half a mile and then diverted, via a large gate into the serious work of multiple steep summits that by increasingly steeper and winding paths always heralded the next incredibly steep summit shadowed in the ever thickening cloud. As this cloud permeated every spare vent and space in our clothing, drenching us both from within and outwardly, we lost all correlation of distance, time but fortunately never completely heading. This despite an ever present opportunity to lose ones way in visibility that could be measured at best in the distance Prideesh can throw a ball, which I can assure you fair reader is not very far at all. These constant false summits and the winding path to the next higher, steeper summit was taking its toll. My lungs felt like the inner layer had been painfully stripped away and my legs felt lead heavy. There was the ever likely concern of turning and finding ones ever flagging angel either disappeared or spreadeagled in the long grass, for there was much groaning and speak of feeling bilious. Somehow, eventually the path ended and heralded by a vicious wind as if from no where, we made the final summit, plonking our weary bodies down on the nearest cold damp rock. To hell for now with piles.

To my oxygen starved brain I have to admit that it seemed in this visibility, which stretched all around us at no more that three meters, fenced off on one side, there seemed no obvious path to which we might continue. I suddenly had a premonition of being filmed on Cumbria TV as the hopeless, hapless southern tourist that got rescued in dire conditions after getting lost with nothing more to sustain a successful journey than a cheap map, confusing compass and football sized portion of plumb cake. All this much to the merriment of the locals crowded round TV's and who would all spend that evening patting me on the back and having a jolly good laugh while consoling poor Prideesh on her sorry choice of walking partner.

With a determined set to my jaw I resolved to get us off this rock and pulled out the instructions to my compass. It was of course at this moment I realised in was the red needle that pointed northwards and the black one southwards, they had all been black when I was a nipper.

I managed to prise the map out of the reluctant grasp of Prideesh and after some minutes aligning the directional markings with my jittery red needle managed to follow the printed direction arrow to the rather obvious but unusually constructed style flanked either side by fence, that stood insolently about two meters front and left from my current position.

Prideesh of course claims to have seen said obvious route immediately and had wondered why I was so determined to double check the path with compass (given its erratic recent past), she is quite obviously fibbing. The compass did have its moment though. After twenty minutes of descending carefully, step by step on jagged slippery rock it became apparent that there were three intersecting paths and no obvious indication with zero visibility which one would take us west and back down into Ambleside. Enter stage right, moi by now as expert in compass wielding. West most path was located and this did eventually lead us down into our required destination.

As we came below 300 meters the cloud started to clear and hazy outlines of buildings way below could be seen, 200 hundred meters and we were stepping between stair like slabs rather than jutting rock and at 100 metres were back onto tarmac. If the walk up had been wearing on our minds and lungs then the walk down was physically exhausting, as the muscles in our backs, abdomen, thighs and calves would constantly remind us over the next two days.

By the time we stepped from tarmac onto the concrete pavement of the village the insistent rain seemed like an irrelevant foe. We weaved our way through the throng of mid afternoon shoppers, who even accustomed to the wet and tired visitor seemed somewhat taken aback by these two thoroughly damp castaways escaped from natures cruel clutches.

A quick stomp up the struggle was followed by a triumphant shedding of clothes which were hung to dry in the utility room set aside for visiting climbers (of which we now proudly counted ourselves). Next was a warm shower, loose clothes and falling as a pair of felled great oaks onto the heavenly bed, deep sleep lasted to the early hours of the evening. Despite weary bodies we dressed and walked back into the now rain free village, took dinner early and reclined to the wine bar where, between bouts of Lolita we plotted as only the human mind and its ability to look forward can. Our next great conquest would of course be Ben Nevis in a few days time