Following a hard day in the Social Media Library offices everyone was in high spirits looking forward with naïve enthusiasm to the weekend which lay ahead. It didn’t take long though for the first problem to come crashing down around us. Our chief van driver, who was to ferry us up to Scotland, down to the Lake District, over to Wales and then back to London arrived at the van rental shop 10 minutes before it closed minus a driving license. The proverbial fan felt jammed with a rather pungent substance. But we weren’t going to fall at the first hurdle and after a quick crisis meeting an alternative plan (a ‘Plan B’ you could call it) was hatched.
So, with the entire party (minus a soon to be lynched driver) ready to leave (five hours late) we set off for Heathrow airport. Not to fly to Scotland. That’s not how we roll. This is for charity and we planned to slum it to ensure as much money went to the charity as possible. So, renting three cramped cars at Heathrow we set off at 11pm ready to drive up to Scotland. Some of our party had been up for 20 hours already (the drivers obviously) and so things already looked perilous and we’d not even left the capital.
After a long drive north, we arrived, bleary-eyed and non-bushy-tailed at Ben Nevis. The drive through Scotland was awe-inspiring and filled most of us with the requisite energy levels (with a healthy dose of cereal bars en route) to climb the first mountain. We eventually set foot on the mountain at 12pm, a full six hours behind schedule. Undeterred we ventured off at full pace; bouncing along. Soon though, problems emerged. One of our party who trained on an (un)healthy diet of smoking and sugar, crashed early and had to be escorted down. Those ominous looking clouds ahead began to take on metaphorical meaning.
Ben Nevis is the biggest mountain in the UK. At 1,344m, it’s very tall. Taller perhaps than most of us expected. After three hours hiking, climbing, grunting, groaning and moaning, we were rather demoralisingly informed we had two hours left to reach the summit. Not what you want to hear when you brain assures you the peak must be just over that next mound. But, every time we felt we couldn’t go on, every step which felt immeasurably heavier than the last was greeted by moral support and the reminder of why we were doing this. For Frankie.
Once we got up high enough to take in the gorgeous views we entered the clouds. Suddenly it felt less like Scotland and more like Mordor. But after many hours dragging our sorry arses up the mountain we finally summated to a healthy, invigorating dose of adrenalin and a swig of whiskey.
Then we had to get down. Not as easy as you might think.
After we’d all made it down and changed, dried and packed up again it was off to a famous hamburger joint for a refuel and then as quick as we could (legally) drive it, down to Scafell Pike. Here, more problems arrived. The aim of the Three Peak challenge is to climb all three peaks within 24 hours. After our six hour delay though our carefully conceived plans were out of sync. We arrived at Scafell Pike at 2am. Living in the city you forget how dark it can be at night in the middle of nowhere. So dark in fact no one even knew in which direction the mountain was.
Also, as we waited for the entire party, three ambulances and two mountain rescue drove past. Not the encouraging sight you want to see. Despite that, and with our fearless attitude, the team decided they would climb up as far as they could with nothing but head torches to guide them. Two hours later, after a couple of people stacked it, the group returned to push on and prepare for the final assault in Wales.
By the time we reached Snowdon, the uncomfortable cramped surroundings of our cars felt like king-size beds and many people found it much easier to fall asleep than they had originally bemoaned.
Wales did everything it could to compete with Scotland for beautiful surroundings but lacked the rainbows and sheer magnitude of the its northern relative. Arriving at Snowdon everyone was once again buoyed with energy and enthusiasm, despite the cereal bar supply running low. The thought of knowing that we were hours away from completing our challenge was enough to fuel everyone up the mountain.
A clear sky also allowed the group to truly appreciate the wondrous views at the top of the mountain. As the group returned, some dancing over the finish line, others nursing wounds, a sense of euphoria and joy spread throughout the group. For some it was emotional, for others it was the toughest thing they’ve ever done. But for all of us it was something which will never be forgotten and as a result none of us will ever forget our good friend, Francesco Anstey.
It was for him that we did this, raising over £6k (to date). And whenever any of us think about climbing these mountains, sleeping in cramped cars and getting to know each other in ways none would have wanted before, Francesco will be inextricably connected and will come to mind. For all the aching muscles, sprained ankles, wheezing chests and strained groins, we had, in our own way climbed the three peaks of the UK and in doing so honoured Francesco in one of the most memorable, emotional and satisfying ways possible. For Frankie.
by Ben Keightley
Note: more photos of the walk can be found here.
