Lake District

Six months earlier, I booked a place above a pub. When I arrived, I realised I hadn’t booked a room but the entire second floor of a 17th-century pub. Alone. After very little sleep, I set off at 07:20 on an endurance round that depended on a bus timetable I thought I’d researched properly. The day brought brutal wind, poor decisions, unsettling surprises, and a finish that nearly left me seven miles from my car. Somewhere in all that, I climbed 17 peaks.

After five years and 214 fells, the list ended on Lingmell in Wasdale, in violent wind that tried to turn us back. It wasn’t the calm finale I imagined, but it felt exact. Above the worst of the wind the views opened: every chapter of the journey in one frame. I ran the last metres to the cairn and then synchronicity struck. The same two people I met three weeks ago arrived to finish their 214 Wainwrights journey at the exact same minute.

A perfect Wasdale morning turned into one of my most memorable hikes yet. I abandoned my 9 km plan within minutes, wandered to Burnmoor Tarn in total silence, faced down two herds of cows 🐄🙈, and climbed Slight Side & Scafell. By pure chance, four of us hit our 213th Wainwright together 🤯. Sunshine, summit banter, and spooky coincidences made it feel like destiny. Some hikes tick boxes but this one made memories. 💚

Trip #8 of 2025 took me back to Wasdale, my favourite valley, for a solo climb of Yewbarrow. From the steep grassy nose that everyone says is horrible (I enjoyed it), to the scramble at Great Door, to the easy grassy ridge, the fell felt like a compact adventure. The real surprise was Stirrup Crag - a descent that looked fine from above but delivered two airy downclimbs. Calm in the moment, reflective afterwards, Yewbarrow proved that small fells can pack big drama.

The Eastern Fells are officially complete! In true Mira style, it took an 11-hour ‘fell shift,’ 9 summits, and one phantom path disaster at Blea Cove that had me crawling on all fours and losing my glasses. The day brought sunshine, relentless heat, and the rare miracle of zero wind on every top. I crossed Striding Edge and Swirral Edge, lounged on Catstye Cam with a cheese sandwich, and wrapped up with fish and chips at Glenridding. Just four Wainwrights left - the finale is

This was my 7th trip to the Lakes this year and clearly, I can’t stay away. Day 1 was a mellow evening climb up Troutbeck Tongue, my last of the Far Eastern Fells, with rain on the drive giving way to sunshine, blue skies, and a pint by the water. Day 2 was a contrast: ridge views from Hartsop Above How, buzzards circling above, and a grassy plateau on Ullscarf. Two fells, two chats with inspiring older hikers, and another area completed.

On my final day, I set out with a light pack and a full heart, hoping the Central Fells would finally show me some kindness. What I found was quiet magic - a startled fawn in the bracken, perfect hiking weather, and my 200th Wainwright. I wandered slowly, soaked in every view, and ended the trip exactly as I’d dreamed: with 13 peaks bagged and 13 left to go.

Day 3 brought sunshine, summits, and actual humans, a welcome shift from the previous day’s solo soggy suffering. I tackled Green Crag, Harter Fell, and Hard Knott over 26.3 km with 1,161 m of ascent and 9 hours on my feet. No rain, lots of chats, and no bog trauma. Nutrition? Laughable. Spirits? High. Feet? Tired. Turns out, all I needed was sun, strangers, and a vest to feel like myself again.

It was July 25, a peak summer and I found myself in the Lake District, stumbling through rain, wind, and total whiteout for 7 relentless hours. No views. No people. Just fog, soggy layers, and six Wainwrights I was too stubborn to skip. I ate a squashed sandwich, wrung out my gloves like tea towels, and questioned all my life choices. Navigation was brutal. Spirits were damp (literally). It didn’t break me… but the dent? Yeah, that’s permanent. And mildly traumatised.

I parked at Mungrisdale to avoid the narrow road into Mosedale, ditched my route, and hiked straight up Carrock Fell through buzzing heather and wild blueberries. After scratching my legs in shorts and spotting ravens feasting on a sheep, I reached High Pike - my final summit in the Northern Fells. A peaceful tarmac road walk back, warm sunshine, and quiet reflection marked the end of another chapter. The blog is up now - come read the full story.

I’d built Sharp Edge up in my head like a moment that would mean something. But when I crossed it, all I felt was... nothing. No adrenaline. No shift. Just a quiet blankness I couldn’t shake. That’s when I realised: maybe the real challenge wasn’t that ridge, maybe it’s the silence that follows. And strangely enough, that’s the day I decided to try the Welsh 15.

The day began with sunshine and optimism, but the fells quickly turned into steep climbs, soaked scrambles, and endless bogs. By Lining Crag I was alone in mist, low on food, and sinking in mud. I chose to turn back. The long descent was slippery and relentless, yet strangely peaceful. This was the hike that reminded me to trust myself. Strength is knowing when to stop.

Thunder kept me awake all night, so my planned long hike was ruined before it began. After two hours of staring at the forecast like a grumpy weather detective, I switched to a shorter Ambleside mission. I boiled in full waterproofs, limped on a dodgy foot, and still tackled Wansfell Pike and Baystones. Boggy, humid, chaotic, but satisfying. Fish and chips and two pints finished the day.

A solo Friday escape powered by toe socks and one Boost orange. I drove straight to Seatoller, hit the trail in perfect sunshine, and immediately detoured in classic Mira style. Grey Knotts, Brandreth, Green Gable, and Base Brown rolled by in wind, views, and minor chaos. I descended like a confused goat, earned 7th on a Strava segment called Almost Certain Death, then inhaled a veggie burger and a pint in Keswick.

It’s almost go time. Bags nearly packed, routes planned, and I’ll be driving straight from work to the Lakes with loud music and too much coffee. Three days of big mileage and character-testing climbs await, my last prep before the Welsh 15. Keswick is home again, the fells are calling, and I feel that familiar buzz. Same base, new version of me, ready for whatever this weekend brings.