Following on from the news that we’ve already suffered the wettest winter on record and that we’re still in it, I think we may have finally found somewhere high enough to escape the ever rising wetness to the gritstone crag of Curbar Edge. Looks like quite a few other people had the same idea though, climbers, hikers, walkers, photographers, doomsday preppers, all scrambling along the steep edged, windswept rock that overlooks the Derwent valley. Some say it’s pretty, I say it’s a view of bleak, barren, broken Britain when a man has to climb near the clouds to get away from the rain.
Curbar gap looks rather dominating from below, a wall of boulders, rubble and cliff face that even the wildlings in Westeros wouldn’t want to walk. But its an easy footpath from Curbar Gap to the path on the top of the ridge. A walk along the edge is a windy affair with a vertical cliff . A man could easily slip to his death, especially if pushed by his Mrs. Personally, I’m not afraid of falling off, just hitting the floor. It’s at this point I hear a shriek echoing along Curbar Edge. I assume it’s the screams of someone being pushed off edge by his Mrs, probably deservedly with their girly cry as they fall to terminal velocity.
Surprisingly at this point, I decide that the picnic Sam suggested is a great idea after all, even if it is windy as hell and the picnic nightmare we had at Land’s End not so many months ago has already been forgotten. We traipse across the mud sodden heath, swearing that the dog is deliberately aiming for the mud, to squat upon a stone and chip away at a cheese sandwich before the wind erodes it from existence. Now Sam mentions getting a flask for soup and a backpack. This is her idea of getting ‘tooled up’ even though our efforts at extreme dog walking are about as hardcore as having a bath. I’m firmly against becoming an “all the gear – no idea.” I’d rather save the cash and just have no idea. Now she’s the one in danger of accidentally slipping to her death after I’ve checked the life insurance.