A year ago a small family group of us – two fathers-in-law (Paul and me), two sons-in-law (Tigger and Cush) – took a trek over Causey Pike and round to Grisedale Pike in the northern Lakes. It was a terrific day out and we agreed to do it again, as soon as we’d recovered. So a year later off we went. The weather was diabolical and it was all a bit retreat from Moscow, but you can’t have everything.

We set off into low cloud up Garburn Pass on what should have been a spectacular walk round the Kentmere horseshoe, but the mist and rain descended and that was that. Half way round Tigger asked where we were and Paul said ‘the top’, which tells you all you really need to know. We completed a horseshoe of sorts and came out of the mist where we were supposed to. What was in between was all a bit of a mystery.

And that’s a shame, because I’ve always wanted to see what it’s like on top of High Street, and have tried many times to do so. On this occasion I had a sense that High Street started where Tigger dived into a snowy cornice and finished when we later took a right turn at a low wall. That sounds a bit vague, but checking the map back home showed it to be about right. I’ll confess to a couple of moments of concern out on the trail, but if you trust your map and compass you’ll do alright.

While a bit soggy, the walk had its moments. Best of these was when we spottetd a sheep on its back in a stream, legs waving forlornly. Tigger, who is from farming stock, took charge, whispering sweet nothings to calm it down (‘beast‘ and ‘lass’ are the proper Cumbrian forms of address, in case you’re interested) and in time turning it over and hauling it out of the stream and up the bank.

On dry land (a relative term) again it didn’t want to move. Fearing it had broken legs and feeling we had done what we could, we left it to its fate. By the time we had reclimbed the wall out of the field, Beast naturally had hobbled off, with neither a thank you or a by-your-leave. No manners at all, but then what would you expect from a Herdwick, an ancient Viking breed?

Still, Tigger had saved the day. We adjourned to the nearest pub for peanuts and a pint, and for reasons that are hard to explain we all felt very happy and pleased with ourselves.

IT’S going to be a busy summer up here, I reckon. It’s bad enough already, the Lake District being what it is, but now that we’ve got the ruddy newspapers banging on about ‘staycationing’ and a raft of TV luvvies falling over each other to discover the Lakes we could be in trouble. Would you all just please shut up?

The thing is, all these presenters extolling the virtues of the Lake District are just a bit too good at it. How could anyone resist the call of the Lakes? Clearly we have to prepare for the worst: the roads will be gridlocked by layby picknickers and Ambleside won’t move for the tourists searching out an ice cream and a photo opportunity.

John Prescott spoiled us, I’m afraid, by banning all the decent water sports on Windermere. I don’t have a downer on water sports – in fact I quite miss the activity on the lake, and Prezzer clearly reneged on a long established agreement between power boaters and the National Park – but that first summer after the ban we stayed in a hotel at Rydal and we could have had any room we wanted. That’s what the lakes should be like: all mine.

But back to the present. Hopefully this foretold traffic chaos may not impact too badly on our cycling events on 25 April; Wrynose or Bust may be early enough for us to get away with it.

But on the other hand, all this Lake District stuff on the telly might just generate enough curiosity in cyclists who live further afield to persuade them to come up here and give one of our events a go. Maybe there should be one or two more presenters celebrating the English Lakes and all things Cumbrian…

What’s the matter with them? Don’t they know a good thing when they see it?