emily at beSottied.com

It’s been another busy couple of weeks here at Camp beSottied. I did no knitting (still) but finished all of my uni work in plenty of time to skip off to the Lake District for a couple of days with Neil. There was a lakeland village, a gorgeous hotel, a fair bit of wine and plenty of cake, but it wasn’t all about relaxing and getting fat: I’m sat here typing with very tired legs, as we made the most of our couple of days away and did a fair bit of scooching up and down hillsides, too.

Typically for a British summer break, the weather wasn’t too kind: wine glasses sat on a rain-spattered table; an evening meal was partly burned off with a sloshing jog through a wet night; an evening outfit of a sundress and sandals was stylishly topped off with a bright pink waterproof jacket and pouffy hair; jumpers dried on radiators, and hands warmed around mugs of tea. Ocassionally, clouds took pity on us and sheeting rain gave way to sun-streaked afternoons, and we thanked them by plonking Muriel in (extortionate!) National Trust car parks and working our way up the fells. On one walk, near Coniston, I gleefully spotted a 2CV sitting outside a youth hostel, and felt obligated to take a photo: proof that it had managed the gravelly, damp ascent to its hilly perch.

The best day of the lot was, as is usually the way, the day we were due to come home. The rain had obviously had enough of work and decided to stay in bed for a while. The sun shone, white clouds scudded across an arc of blue sky. Armed with rucksacks filled with useful equipment (Neil) and boiled sweets, water and a camera (me) we made our way to Langdale to tackle the fabulously named Stickle Ghyll.

The path snaked up the hillside following the course of a waterfall. Every so often I would lose my footing, suck in my breath, scrape some skin. Mr Boyfriend, clearly having spent some time studying the climbing habits of particularly energetic mountain goats, had no such trouble. As we clambered, smoke-grey ewes and tufty lambs shuttled up and down the crags so easily they may as well have been cable cars. More than once, I considered the probability of one of them carrying me to the top without complaint or sheepy bite. Slim to none, I decided.

For 500 metres we climbed - Neil never without a sprightly spring in his step, me slightly less bouncy and slightly more red in the face - until we reached the beautiful Stickle Tarn, its waters so inviting after our walk I would have happily thrown myself in, fully clothed, before the audience of perky fellwalking types sporting flicky ponytails and springy sticks.

After a few minutes spent appreciating the view from a grassy bank beside the tarn, Mr Boyfriend turned his attention towards the grey rock soaring up from behind the water: Pavey Ark. It is fair to say that Neil is much fitter than me, with much more experience of this sort of thing. Also (crucially, I maintain) his legs are a good few inches longer than mine, and so we split up to tackle the peak in two different directions: him, Jack’s Rake: the Crazy-Boy narrow ridge cutting a diagonal line across the front of the rock; me, the curving, gentle Lady Version (hah!): a rocky path scooping its way around the back of Pavey Ark to its summit.

For around forty minutes I grunted my way to the top, stopping ocassionally to admire the spectacular views across the Lake Distrct towards the west coast. It was not exactly an easy walk: I had to climb every so often, finding footholds and handholds in stones slicked with water. I took my time and loved the challenge. My brain flitted between feeling smug and lording it over those part-timers lazily lounging by the tarn far below, to composing soaring and ridiculous poetry about what I was seeing (don’t worry, I won’t actually write any: I’m really not a poetry kind of person), to wondering just what exactly I was doing clambering up a bleak rock dripping with water, moss and lichen. Just minutes from the summit and feeling quite triumphant I managed to plunge my foot into a big, boggy splodge. It wasn’t a winning look.

Eventually, with weak knees, damp feet and a rhubarb and custard sweet clamped between my teeth, I reached the top. A short time later Neil popped up on the opposite rock. I was very happy that he had survived his Mad Climb. I was very happy that I had survived my own Mad Climb. And was it worth it? Well, the fact that I’m desperately thumbing through my mental thesaurus in an attempt to come up with a suitable way to describe the view, the unashamed natural beauty spread out below the pike is answer enough.

I think I could really get into this walking malarky.

Chez Emily has been a hive of activity this weekend. Zero knitting took place (I’ll say that straight away, for the benefit of those poor deceived visitors who have discovered me through Ravelry) but Keith has been waging war on the giant crows and wood pigeons who have taken to bullying all the small birds away from his new bird-feeding station; Dan and I finally fixed my bike (only the tyres have gone down again, so I’m going to have to go and get new inner tubes anyway); Neil bravely came to meet Mutti and Keith and, on Monday, the two of us went to Durham, walked a lot, climbed to the top of the Cathedral tower, then ate a giant piece of chocolate cake that probably contained more calories than we’d burned off. But it was BRILLIANT cake.

I’ve been able to shamelessly enjoy all of this adventuring as, on Friday, I went to a very sunny York to hand in one of my two dreaded essays. I celebrated this scholarly victory by buying myself a nice Muriel-coloured Pantone mug on the way back to the park-and-ride bus stop, and by walking to Neil’s local pub that night for curry-based sustenance (excellent plan: walking distance = no designated driver needed).

On the motoring front, I’ll be driving to the Lake District later this month and I recently realised that, if I drive all that way the way I usually drive, Muriel will slurp her way through approximately 4 tanks full of petrol (in a very elegant, very French way, or course) just to get there and back. This expensive thought, coupled with a little bit of gentle reprimanding from people who will remain nameless (that means you, Captain Coconut) has tempted me to try a novel idea: driving under the speed limit. Gadzooks.

Typical, then, that just days after deciding to be a law-abiding motorist (sigh) I think I’ve been snared by something I’ve managed to dodge for the four years I’ve been driving: a speed camera.

I was heading home from York on Friday, pootling along at about 67 miles per hour (ish), when I spotted a black Rover-type car idling in a lane, waiting to cross my carriageway and the central reservation to reach the other side of the road. I was heading down hill, and my speed crept to 70ish, more likely 72 mph. There was a big group of cars in front of me, then a pretty sizeable gap, then me and Muriel on our little lonesome, then another gap, and another group of cars.

“Aha.” I thought, feeling kind in my new aviator sunglasses (Oasis, £14, thanks). “I will le speed up, catch up to the cars in front, then that Mister Man can whip out in the gap behind me.”

And so I put my foot down a little bit. The man behind the wheel of the black car was looking the other was as Muriel and I rolled on down the hill. Mu’s speedo read 78mph as the guy behind the wheel turned, saw me coming towards him and… and….

LIFTED A SPEED GUN TO THE WINDOW!

!!!!!!

My face (behind the stunning new aviator specs) must’ve been a picture. Mouth dropped open in shock, I composed myself in time to surprisedly hiss a rude word as I scorched past. Yes, I was recklessly speeding and endangering the lives of myself and others, but I was trying to be nice. I was making a big enough gap for him to get across the road! Cheek.

And so now, we wait… will a speeding ticket drop through my letterbox in the next week? Will I get 3 points on my licence and a £60 fine? Or was I far too close to the speed gun for him to have clocked me? Let’s hope it’s the latter, since I really have turned over a new leaf and have been driving steadily, steadily, steadily. It takes me about three hours to get anywhere, and it causes me physical pain when I’m overtaken by grandmas in Nissan Micras and people carriers full of squabbling kids, but I’ve been doing it nevertheless.

If you have pity for a naughty, naughty speeder who’s realised the error of her ways, do keep your fingers crossed for me =) Unless you’re a traffic police officer, in which case this entire blog entry is a work of complete fiction and I don’t actually own a car. Wink wink.

And now, my dears, I’m off out for a run. I haven’t been out for a few days now and I’m starting to panic a little bit. Let’s just hope I make it back alive!