nd plucks a gem of a day from the embers of the year
destination , a crashed and abandoned four-wheel drive blocking the lane was the clearest possible signal to stop driving and get on my feet . I stashed my two-wheel-drive-at-best car in the nearest layby and laced up my shoes .
Taking to my feet If ever there was an occasion for metal studs , this was it . They bit into the icy road like a snow leopard ’ s claws , giving total assurance . I trotted past the forlorn and abandoned pickup truck and ran the last mile of road before heading onto the broad northern ridge of Great Dodd . The snow was firm , but it must have only recently crisped up – someone had preceded me in snowshoes and there were ski tracks off to my right .
As I gained height , the wind blew colder , so I pushed the pace to keep warm . Blencathra was already looking magnificent , but I knew it was only getting started ; it would look even better from Clough Head and better still as the sun started to dip .
First , I wanted to run all the Dodds , so I kept going south , down to Watson ’ s Dodd and up over Stybarrow . At Sticks Pass , I paused for thought . Midwinter ’ s shadows were already lengthening and , in a rare moment of self-restraint , I fought off the temptation to keep going over Raise , White Side and perhaps Helvellyn itself . Superb though this ridge is , it would have meant night falling before I reached the view I had come to see . So I retraced my steps to Great Dodd before loping down the ridge to Calfhow Pike and Clough Head .
Best seat in the house For comedians , magicians and mountaineers , timing is everything . As I reached the last summit of the day , the light had started to honey up , casting a rosy glow over Blencathra ’ s crenulated crown . Parapentists rode gentle updrafts on the north-western slope , or soared out above the green pastures of the Vale of Keswick . I let my mind circle among them , giddy with the thrill of it .
Time was pressing on and , although I of course carried a headtorch , I was conscious that falling temperatures would only make the icy lanes icier . I didn ’ t fancy a night trying to sleep in a car tilted into a ditch . So I bounded down the north-east ridge to the Coach Road and the last few miles to the car . With the lanes now slippery as a politician ’ s promise , it was a grateful motorist who made it safely to the Troutbeck Inn and the freshly gritted A66 . A challenging year had saved its best for last .
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