Hiking Helvellyn and the Fells

I haven’t been writing with my usual frequency. I’d like to say this is because I finally decided to take a break, but the opposite is true. I’ve been out and about, trying to do everything – work, socialise, exercise – that my body has finally had enough. After some uphill sprints this morning followed by a swim session, I collapsed in bed and slept for hours.

Which is why I can finally tell you about my recent trip to the Lake District. 

Last weekend, we spent four days in the fells. We set off from London early on Saturday morning, arriving in Thirlmere by noon. It was raining heavily when we headed on our first walk of the trip – a gentle amble to the foot of Helvellyn, across the road to the lakeshore, and back through the woods to the hotel.

By the time we arrived in Keswick for dinner, the rain had increased into a downpour, and we quickly found shelter in a local pub. Though I don’t think I could live in such a small, crowded town, I love Keswick for its atmosphere – everyone in hiking gear, accompanied by their dogs.

The next morning we had a few hours to kill before meeting friends, so we figured we’d do the easy route up Helvellyn. I’d done Striding Edge a few years prior, but given the weather, we decided not to risk it and started from Swirls Car Park. We were on a pretty tight schedule and in the company of an energetic dog, so our ascent only took an hour and fifteen minutes.

While beautiful on the way up, by the time we reached the summit, we found ourselves inside a cloud. No visibility. Once we started heading down, we encountered a much more prepared man, who explained that the clouds were meant to dissipate by noon, which is why he was taking his time on the way. 

Unfortunately, our friends were waiting in the car park below, so we ran the rest of the way down and met them for our next hike – a stroll through the Squirrel trail. It was a much less challenging route, one I believe actually joins up to a different path down from Helvellyn, but equally enjoyable. In the good weather, we had stunning views of the lake and the mountains adorning its other side.

After a lovely lunch at the Kings Inn, we said goodbye to our friends and headed back to the Squirrel path for some evening painting. Unfortunately – and I didn’t realise this – the Lake District is also home to the famed midges of Scotland, because I was soon eaten alive. Still, I think I did alright for a ten minute sketch.

Realising the dog was exhausted, we decided to take it easy the next day and walk the ten kilometres from Keswick to Threlkeld, which I’d done during my 100km adventure last November. Given that the dog is exhausting on a lead, however, we only managed one fourth before turning back, going off-piste, doing a loop around the river and finding ourselves at the exact spot we’d turned back. So we turned back again.

Arriving at the car, we brainstormed where else we could go. My husband found a route not too far from the hotel, so we drove there for what would be our final hike. We quickly arrived at the destination of the hike, which appeared to be something called the Resting Stone. Unsatisfied with a short hike, we pushed further, heading uphill until I recognised the location.

We were on the route my friend and I had taken back in November into Borrowdale. Back then, I had proposed we ascend Grange Fell, but – understandably, given the experience on Pillar where we’d had to call emergency services – my friend requested we stick to the route. This time, I had my chance! 

It was absolutely worth it, though by the time we turned back, the dog had clearly had enough and began having a tantrum, so my husband had to carry him back to the car. On the bright side, we all slept well that night.

We had a bit of a misadventure on the last morning, because I wanted to take a stroll along Wast Water to look upon the imposing face of the mountain which had nearly killed me (slight exaggeration). Unfortunately, the GPS took us in the wrong direction and we ended up near Windermere instead. Worked out just fine, though – we took a much deserved swim and headed back to London.

Running the Tough Mudder Morden Park 10k

It’s called the Tough Mudder, but when it’s 34 degrees outside, it’s just Tough. I did a 5k back in 2019, and I have to say – that experience was much nicer. More people, more energy, more mud. This time around, I just got loads of scratches and bruises to show for it. Not even a free beer. 

I had dreaded the water-based challenges last time – this time I craved them. It was disappointing for the entire course to only feature two pools. The famed Arctic Enema was far too warm for my liking.

I admit to skipping two challenges and failing at one – I avoided the electric eel after coming across an immobile Scotsman lying flat on his stomach and crying out each time his buttocks touched a wire, receiving a sharp electric shock. 

I also kept running after trying the Texas Hold ‘Em – a type of seesaw where you’re meant to walk across it holding hands with your counterweight. The problem? My husband is at least 25 kg heavier than me. So as soon as we got into position, I had flown off the contraption and fallen flat on my ass. Ouch.

The one I failed at was the monkey bars. No upper body strength. I did alright at swinging myself along a ledge, but as soon as I reached something that looked like doorknobs, I couldn’t hold on and tumbled off. 

Not sure it’s an accomplishment, given the lack of people and the Tough Mudder pledge that it’s “a challenge, not a competition”, but we were told we were among the first 10k finishers. A few photos later, we were off to the Tough Mudder village for well-deserved snacks and beer and to discuss whether we’d ever do an Iron Man. 

The answer, if you’re curious, is no.

Review: La Voix humaine / Les Mamelles de Tirésias

If we subscribe to Daniel Kahneman’s theory of dual selves, which I do, we know there is the experiencing self and the remembering self. The latter can influence the former in both future and present.

Yesterday was my birthday. I’m not the biggest fan of birthdays. Perhaps my remembering self is to blame, for nothing apart from my eighth birthday party stands out in my memory. And that’s only because it was filmed, which begs the question as to whether I even remember it at all, or just remember the emotions I experienced when rewatching it later.

Beyond that, birthdays have typically been disappointing. I always feel pressure to enjoy myself, and there’s nothing like pressure to kill any and all happiness. That’s why my usual tactic is to hide away somewhere. This year, I was going to sign up for a half marathon, but my husband told me he’s planning a surprise.

The day started with coffee, pancakes, and a walk with the dog. I was then sent to a massage, which was slightly concerning, because I am not really a fan of massages. But as it turns out, this was all a diversion tactic. A quick stopover at home later, we were on our way to Eastbourne.

We checked in to one of those slightly sketchy seaside hotels, then took a very short walk for an affogato – at which point I was told we need to get ready, otherwise we’d be late. He pulled out one of my dresses, high heeled sandals, and a pair of earrings. Our destination was then revealed – we were heading back to Glyndebourne. This time, for the Poulenc double bill – La Voix humaine and Les Mamelles de Tirésias. 

If I’m honest, I had never heard of Francis Poulenc and had no idea what to expect. La Voix humaine opened with striking staging – a single tilting board, upon which lay the talented Stéphanie d’Oustrac. A regular at Glyndebourne, the mezzo-soprano is also the great-grandniece of the opera’s composer.

And though my experiencing self wasn’t sure how to feel about the plot, which centres around the only character speaking on the phone with her former lover, who has since deserted her, once I processed it, my remembering self greatly enjoyed it. I was particularly moved by the direction Glyndebourne took in portraying the tragic heroine’s suicide attempt.

After a beautiful picnic on the famed Glyndebourne lawns during intermission, we were back for Les Mamelles de Tirésias. If La Voix humaine is precisely the sort of plot you’d expect from an opera, Les Mamelles de Tirésias was a surreal experience of pure joy and laughter. To be fair, if I had been a better student of French, I would have probably surmised that something was amiss by the name alone – the breasts of Tirésias.

Following a stark warning to make more babies, the opera opens to the title character – as Thérèse – and her husband in bed. As he chases her around, depicting an erection, she tears off her breasts, which float off into the sky before being shot by the self-proclaimed Tirésias. 

She rejects convention, heading out into society to be whatever she wants – a councillor, a doctor, or any other option open to men. The husband, meanwhile, remains at home, creating 40,049 babies through “willpower” and some sort of contraption that wouldn’t be out of place in a mad scientist’s laboratory.

It was absolutely bonkers. I loved every second of it. Not only was the experiencing self thrilled, but I’m sure the remembering self will be talking about this day for years to come. Looks like 31 is the new eight. 

Poulenc Double Bill is at Glyndebourne festival until 28 August.

Swordfoosh Has (Have?) an Epiphany

What’s the right way to live? It’s almost like asking “what’s the meaning of life?” Any answer will either be too vague or too subjective. The only thing we can do is make a considered choice about our own priorities.

In my case, I’ve always believed that the best way to live is to set objectives. I remember I even wrote a blog post about how to stick to your New Year’s resolutions when I was first starting out. 

Setting objectives gave me a metric by which to assess impact. But running after results often takes away from the enjoyment of the process – of life – itself. Suddenly, all those things everyone had been saying – things I had been saying – clicked.

I had a packed morning. Non-stop calls. Normally I’d work the whole day through, but today I couldn’t bear it. At lunch, I grabbed my painting kit and headed to the park. Sitting on the bench, sun shining, paint all over my legs, I realised I was so happy I could cry.

I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Because I haven’t prioritised myself. But I actually really like myself. I like my interests, my independence, my ability to enjoy the little things. Sure, there’s plenty I could work on, but overall, I’m pretty great. 

What’s really upsetting is that I haven’t let myself be myself. I’ve been too caught up in living how I thought I should live – achieving results, helping others, proving myself – that I haven’t even considered whether it’s working for me.

So what’s changing? I’m just going to focus on myself a bit more – and try not to feel guilty about it. If I need time alone, I’ll grab my paints and go. If I want to do a solo hike at the end of August, I’ll book it. I’ll live with intention. And I fully encourage you to do the same.