It has been an age since I first ventured on to these obscure, desolate fells by Harrop Tarn, on this less fashionable side of Thirlmere. A spot which, I believe, enjoys a certain fame among the orienteering fraternity, largely due to some minor debacle in the mid-seventies when a fair number of competitors were bested by a bit of wind and rain. Ah yes, 1974 or perhaps 1975, the precise year escapes me, but it was my own introduction to the sport on Lakeland terrain. Where better to flounder hopelessly?
In my usual spirit of reckless ambition, I chose the longest course, imagining, no doubt, a heroic triumph. No sooner had I begun than I found myself woefully adrift, my navigation reduced to guesswork and blind hope. Add to this the brutal terrain, more suited to the Herdwick sheep than men, and I truly felt I had earned every penny of my entry fee. Of course, the weather—how shall I put it—played its part. By the time I staggered towards the finish, my fingers numb, my body shaking, I was but a degree or two away from full-blown hypothermia.
Ah, those were the days indeed. Fond recollections of near-death experiences. Splendid times.