Climb every mountain...

I am officially grounded today, confined to barracks with today's paper and a DIY ice pack thanks to the local corner shop.

Let me explain.

Yesterday, the husband and I climbed The Skirrid which overlooks our Wobble Box in Pandy.  Having stared at it solidly for forty eight hours, the husband decided that Saturday's 'jolly' would be a 'walk up that hill'.  

Now as you know I am an avid walker, clocking up around forty miles a week courtesy of the two woofers, so when faced with a 'moderate' walk (I know this, as I did some internet digging before I agreed to go anywhere near it) which would take between 2-3 hours, I decided that this middle aged bird was more than capable.  I mean, it even had an 'easier' route if you didn't want to do the final 'scramble' (their word again) up to the summit.

The husband, looking for any opportunity to give his new ruck sack an airing, packed up like we were scaling Everest, with bananas, water and ginger biscuits on board.  Being more sensible, I had a woolly hat and gloves in my coat pocket. 

So I'm not going to lie to you, the walk was the hardest thing I've ever done, and overall, it took us three hours (an hour of which was spent with me leaning up various trees doing a passable impersonation of Darth Vader with a touch of the bronchials, but eventually we made it to the top.  It was bloody freezing, and no matter of ginger biscuit bribery would get that woolly hat off my head.  Apparently, if we'd been an hour earlier, there would have been snow on the peak - picture that as you sit in your deckchair watching the sun glitter through the trees. 

Speaking to a lady at the top, she told us that it wasn't a hill, but a bona fide mountain.  This completely made my day and it gave me carte blanche to go a bit Julie Andrews on the way back, trilling, 'Climb every mountain', as we slipped and slithered back down the steep paths back to the car park.

It was the downhill which was my demise - I think we ll know that a 1:10 slope and a pair of dodgy knees are not the best of friends, and as we turned the final corner I was not doing too well.  But we made it back to the car and I was thrilled skinny to have actually done it.

As I said earlier, the MOUNTAIN (woohoo!) is called The Skirrid.  Half way up the ascent, I'd renamed it The Squirrel.  And why is that do you think?

Firstly, I felt that 'being squirrelled' was a suitable description of how I felt at that moment. But there was another reason.

At the half way point, I had looked across at the husband who wasn't even out of breath and decided that if this got any worse, I was going to nick his nuts and bury them so that he wouldn't find them again till February.

That'll teach him...