Present: Bob Kelly; Iain McCallum; Brian Taylor; Chris Thickett; Keith Williams

All along the road edges there were heaps of rotting, blackened, snow as we left town and the deep gloom of 50m visibility punctured only by the beat of crepuscular sodium lights did nothing to raise the spirits as we headed north.  Nor did the gloopy mist lift as we hit the motorway; Ramsbottom felt like the setting for the witches scene in Macbeth.  And the snow dumped the previous week just got deeper.  Blasted heath followed blasted heath. The only good thing was that the gritters, defying every government cut in the book, had been out in force; no more snow had fallen so the roads rolled out one black strip of tarmac after another.

Arriving in Clapham, the mist still drifted about despondently in the village.  Mingling with Christmas fund-raisers selling cakes who looked like imminent hypothermia victims we set off up Clapham Beck, crunching and skidding on the hard frozen snow to Trow Gill.  Would we need crampons for the steep little gully at the top?  Hard to believe, but the silent plodders all knew what the others were thinking, along with, “Which silly bugger organised this meet?”  In the event, no-one could stand the ignominy of ironmongery at a mere 300m.  Those with sticks fared best; those without got bruised backsides.

Heading for Gaping Gill, a paler shade of grey was sensed above while the path was completely buried below.  Someone with dubious optimism ventured the thought that it was improving but the rest kept their heads down as the ground steepened.  In ten minutes it was improving; overhead shifting wraiths of pale blue sky appeared and disappeared tantalisingly.  In fifteen minutes we’d emerged above the mist like Paul on the road to Damascus (things were quieter then) into a blazing wonderland of pristine snow and cloudless skies.  How the spirits soared.  “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive/But to be young was very heaven.”  OK – the average was about sixty, but it felt like that.

Crampons came out, gripping the perfect snow.  Up we went past Thack Pot climbing like the possessed on to Little Ingleborough. And as we climbed the whole of England emerged with the clarity of diamonds from the fast-burning mist.  In no time at all we were on the top – a top unbelievably bereft of all other life.  The air was incredible; if it was like champagne, it was Dom Perignon 1966 at two grand a bottle.  So clear was it that we could have stridden across to Whernside in five minutes – done the whole Three Peaks in half an hour!  We could even read the contractors signs on the scaffolding on Blackpool Tower.  The pinnacles on York Minster bristled like some incredible aiguilles we never knew existed east of Hawes.

After an hour of marvelling and munching on the top, the descent called.  We picked our way carefully through the sastrugi-plastered rocks of Swine Tail then, abandoning the crampons, glissaded headlong across Simon Fell Breast, over the wall for ten minutes with a hot flask. It was as well that the gradient down to Nick Pot eased for the glare of the lowering sun straight into our unprotected eyes rendered the ground a vague black hardness somewhere down there.  We powered on, all gripped by that exhilaration which only comes with those exceptional days in high mountains or waiting for the Euro Millions draw. . .

Everyone agreed, as we sat in the café over hot buttered tea cakes and a pot of tea for five, that what had started as pure and unadulterated misery had turned into one of those days that – prosaically – we would never forget.  But a bit like a dream, when you get odd disconnected flashes of recall and then it’s all gone.

It was all gone – in fact, it never existed at all.  But you know how it is on a dreich day, the mist clamping around you like the aftermath of a shower in the hut in winter and the wind, the wind. You have to have something to dream of.

NOTE THIS IS A SATURDAY WALK

A short walk for a short day. Meet in Clapham, 10.00, at the entrance to the Ingleborough Estate (entrance fee, 65p). There is often on-street parking in the village but also a national park car park with toilets (expect to pay about £4).

Ascend Ingleborough via Clapdale and Trow Gill. Descend to the top of Sulber Nick where there is a choice. 1. (10 miles) Return to Clapham via Sulber Gate and Long Scar, or 2. the longer option at 15 miles: Theives Moss, Beggar's Stile Cairn (SD7771 7261), Crummack, Norber Brow (7721 6967), Robin Proctor's Scar (7648 6968) to Thwaite Lane and Clapham.