A remarkable scene that I witnessed yesterday.  A desolate mountaintop,
rough and rocky, blasted by a fierce icy wind that is gradually building
up a layer of ice over everything, with big blade-like ice crystals
frosting the boulders on their windward sides, and glaze ice in the
hollows between the rocks that makes walking treacherous.  The summit is
being brushed by the fast-moving cloud, so glimpses of the valleys and
distant peaks alternate rapidly with intervals when visibility drops to
a hundred yards.  Skin exposed to the wind numbs in seconds.  It feels
like the ends of the earth, Patagonia perhaps, except for one thing- the
scene is full of people.  Warmly dressed parties of three or four or
more people reach the summit every couple of minutes, say hello, consult
their maps, speculate on which valley that was that appeared for a
moment to the southwest, decide on the best way off the summit, and move
on.  A family party appears, with two small children (eight or nine
years old) and an enthusiastic dog which dashes back and forth between
them.  Just a Saturday afternoon in the park, in Antarctica. 

I was atop Crinkle Crags, the first high Lake District mountain that I
have ascended since we arrived in England, while Jane was back in
Grange, nursing a cold.  "High" means only 2800 feet in this case, but
that feels like a respectable mountain when you have ascended it from
close to sea level, and the slopes are so steep, the top is so rugged,
the views (when there are any) so glorious, and the weather so fierce.
The fact that the mountain was so busy certainly detracted from the
feeling of wildness that is one of things I seek on a mountaintop, but
then I would not have dared to go up there in those weather conditions
if there hadn't been other people around.  And the presence of others
didn't detract from the physical satisfaction of gaining the summit, or
the drama of the landscape.  On the descent, out of the wind and the ice
and the cloud, and with no other people nearby, I sat on a rock above a
waterfall and looked out over the valley that was my destination, ate an
orange, and felt the peace and beauty of the mountains soaking into me. 

One nice thing about these high latitudes (we are at 54 degrees north)
is that darkness falls very slowly.  As I was eating my orange I could
tell that the light was beginning to fail- the hills were darkening and
the occasional patches of sunlight had a warmer color than before- but I
knew I had plenty of time to get back to the car in daylight, and made
the 1-hour drive back to Grange before the light had entirely gone from
the sky.