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Whetstone Ridge, Highland cows, and a surprise COM- two Ethels, a trig, and a perfectly timed Peak District adventure before the rain.

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.

After a ‘leisure hike’ reset, I went full Mira mode: berries, a mystery tall furry creature, new peaks, soup, beer & Sofia views.

Berries, soup, cheese, beer, and family. A slow, joy-filled Cherni Vrah day that fed my soul as much as my face.

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.

From fog to dead torches, wild pace, and rain at the end. The Carneddau broke me and kept me moving. Automatic mode, fully engaged.

800m up Elidir Fawr. Scree, boulders, scrambling joy, endless steps. Poles saved me. 26 km in, halfway wrecked, not broken. Still moving.

3 peaks. Zero views. Wind, clag, soaked socks, no fork. First time using poles. Wet, wild, relentless and honestly? Wouldn’t change a thing!

An unhinged tale of tuna pots, failed torches, and why I emotionally disintegrated for six weeks just to climb 15 Welsh peaks in 24 hours. Spoiler: the mountains didn’t kill me, but the prep almost did. This is how I spiralled - mentally, meteorologically, and nutritionally - into the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Welcome to the Welsh 3000s. Bring oat bars.

I didn’t emotionally prepare for the Welsh 15, I spiralled. One minute I’m thinking “I’ve got this,” the next I’m googling: “Will 4000m of ascent expose me as a fraud or awaken my inner mountain goat?” I check four forecasts. I panic-bought fusilli. Crib Goch is looming. The others might be ultra-runners. I’ve just brought vibes and cheese sticks.

I went to a Linkin Park concert, slept four hours, forgot my trekking poles and my jacket but still hiked 34 km in the Peak District heat without sitting down once. This final pre-Welsh 15 training hike was messy, sweaty, and wildly unplanned… but it showed me I’m ready. Sort of. Probably. Hopefully. Let’s find out.

Some people get nervous before a big challenge. I spiralled into a retail frenzy involving toe socks, three rain jackets, and an alarming number of knee braces. This isn’t a gear list. It’s a psychological case study dressed as a packing blog. Welcome to the pre-trauma panic vortex that is: Welsh 15 Prep™.

I’ve never walked 50km on flat terrain. So I signed up to do it on 15 Welsh summits, with 4,000m of ascent, in 24 hours, starting at 2:50 AM, with strangers, in a country famous for sideways rain. Also, I paid for it. This post contains overthinking, knee brace diplomacy, and tuna pasta pot logistics.

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.

I don’t share my stories to impress anyone. I share them so I don’t forget who I am, especially in a world that keeps trying to shrink me down. This is for the version of me who might need reminding that she once stood on a summit alone, certain and unshaken. And if someone else finds their own fire in my words? Even better.

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.