I only had one thought: „Whatever you do, don‘t fall over.“ Even though I was concentrating on the task at hand, I was acutely aware of my wider surroundings. It was early December and I was up high on the fells in the Lake District. The wind was blowing from my left at a steady 70 kmh but gusting up to over 100 kmh at times. The temperature was below zero and I had a river to cross via some wobbly stones. Three of my friends were already on the other side. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that one of them had his camera up to film me in action. I had two walking sticks and plotted the positions my boots would take to carry me across with no drama.

As I mentioned, the wind was howling. I don’t think we’d ever been out in such a strong gale before. It was exactly the wrong type of weather to be crossing a river on stepping stones, but I didn‘t think it would get any better. With the confidence of an experienced mountaineer I extended my right leg towards the first rock – and missed it by about a foot. My leg got blown off course. Next thing, I was lying sideways in the stream with icy water running into my boot and up my right sleeve. After some inelegant flailing (all caught on film – thanks Magnus) I was up and splashed across the river and decided I had better keep moving. We were a few hours from the cars, I was wet and the wind was enough to blow us over in gusts. The news had been full of storm warnings, which we thought we‘d taken into consideration because our navigator for the day, Graham, had said we were only walking an easy „low-level“ loop.

We later found out that Graham had plotted the route on his phone, without using his reading glasses. He had not seen that it took us up 500 m, almost to the summits. He had also not seen that we needn’t have crossed the stream but could have turned along it, which would have taken us safely back to the cars without drama. As it turns out, we had dropped into another valley and the only way back to the cars was by climbing over a high pass – directly into the gale. We would need to be quick in order to make it back before darkness, which is about 3:30pm at that time of year. As I was already wet, I didn’t fancy taking the risk and decided to stay in the valley and head for a pub which was about an hour away. We knew that we could get a bus back to Keswick from there. In the end, we split up. One of our party, Dr. John, had already wisely turned back on the first ascent, four headed back over a high pass into the howling gale to get to the cars and three of us stayed down in the valley and headed for shelter to dry out and eventually get a bus back to our base.

We made it to the pub (The Old Dungeon Ghyll in Langdale) after an hour or so slogging along the waterlogged valley bottom, but it was not a good spot to dry out. It was cold and fairly damp with a very small open fire which was just keeping the chill out of one corner. Other drenched walkers were gathered around the flames trying to take the chill off. A chap kept turning up with an armful of small logs but would only put them on one at a time „due to the cost“. Luckily, it was warmer in the bus and we did eventually thaw and dry out.

The hardy four (Rick, Graham, Magnus and Nigel) who headed back up over the pass in brutal winds just made it back to the end of the walk by nightfall. All were soaked through and it sounded thoroughly miserable. We had spent some time that morning ferrying cars around so that there would be one car parked at a pub on the route, which would mean saving a couple of miles of road-walking at the end of the day. As darkness came in and the four were battling into the gale, I am sure the thought of a cosy inn was keeping them going. Unfortunately (more great planning) the inn was closed! But to everyone’s great relief, Dr. John was waiting in a warm car with the engine running and the heating on. Cars were collected and we all converged on Keswick.

In terms of planning, outdoor skills and weather assessment it was a blueprint for how not to do it. But for us, it was just another Bridge Weekend. We had soon warmed up in the pub later. Jokes were being made and the video of me falling in the stream had been set to Benny Hill music and doing the rounds in our WhatsApp group.

Now let me explain what I was doing with a group of old friends on a stormy mountain at the beginning of December. It all started 40 years ago, back in the 80s when the first few had a driving licence and drove up to Keswick for a walking weekend. Back in those days, just old enough to drink, almost as much time was spent in pub as on the fells. I wasn‘t on that first trip, but the story goes that the weather was awful and after emerging from the bar, nobody felt like going to the campsite, but saw that there was a convenient park near the pub where tents could be pitched. Once in the park, they saw that there was a bridge over a footpath which would also provide excellent shelter. As it was pouring down with rain, they decided to not bother with tent and sleep under the bridge. Over the years it became a tradition and is now set in stone for the first weekend in December. This time was the 40th anniversary.

It‘s one of the highlights of the year for me. Just the right mix of fresh air, old friends and of course, social drinking. We sleep two nights under the bridge, do a big walk on Saturday and a shorter one on Sunday, whatever the weather. Over the years we have had snowdrifts, lots of rain, flooding (the river next to our spot burst its banks when we there in 2015) and plenty of wind. Walking is the perfect activity for catching up with friends. Over the course of the two days, there is plenty of time to talk with everyone. You find yourself in different groups, sometimes up front, sometimes hanging back a little. Sometimes the conversation is typical blokes‘ banter, recounting the accumulated tales of over 40 years. Sometimes the conversations are more philosophical and sometimes we air our problems. As we all get older, various illnesses, aches and pains are creeping into the top-10 discussion subjects. We need to keep an eye on that. I love it all.

Our accommodation is sparse. We line up under the bridge. The sleeping surface is concrete but we have good sleeping mats and sleeping bags and seem to sleep pretty well. It does help that we go straight from the pub to our sleeping spot. We know the bridge well and over the years all of us have our own „spot“. I am on the end, which I don‘t mind, but have to be careful not to accidentally position myself under the drip. The drip is usually easy to avoid, because you can see a damp patch on the ground below it. This year, however, the wind and rain was so bad that the ground was damp everywhere. A strong westerly was howling through the bridge bringing raindrops with it. Still, as I said earlier, we have good kit and I usually sleep better when the weather is bad – snug and warm in my bag as the wind howls outside.

So on Friday night I set up my kit – 2 mats to sleep on, a good down sleeping bag and a waterproof bivouac (bivvy) bag. All pulled tight so I was just had a small hole to peep out of. The wind was relentless and waves of raindrops kept battering my outer layer noisily. The gale was so strong that my bivvy bag was also flapping. I tucked as much as I could around me but then it would work free and wake me up again. I usually sleep well, but this was a tough night. In the midst of the storm, my bladder also started to complain. Laying there, nice and warm, knowing that you won‘t get back to sleep until you‘ve ventured out in the filthy weather and had a pee is the low point of the weekend. Back in our 20s we all slept through, but these days there is a constant stream of sleepy middle-aged men heading for the pee spot. Only having to get up once is considered a victory.

I eventually got back to sleep and resurfaced as it was getting lighter. I knew the cafes weren‘t open yet but did see that more rain had blown in overnight and my gear was all damp. I decided to pack up, and position my damp kit in the car so that it would dry out a little. I knew that we would be driving for about half an hour to our walking spot and thought that the car heater would be enough to dry stuff out. There were three of us in the car and by carefully positioning things there was a chance that it could dry a little. Nigel, who was driving the other car, passed outside in the rain and said he was going to the cafe in town. We decided to wait until 8:30 when the „good“ cafe opened. Five minutes later, Magnus appeared with a damp rucksack in his arms. „Have you seen Nigel?“, he asked. „Yes, he headed into town about 10 minutes ago.“ The problem was that Nigel had the car keys. I knew what was coming next. Of course I let Magnus put his wet kit into the car on top of my stuff. Closely followed by Johnny and Tom who were also left stranded by Nigel. I let out a small sigh as their damp karrimats and bags were piled on top of my kit.

But soon we were in the cafe enjoying a full english breakfast and any concerns about getting my stuff dry before evening were pushed to the back of my mind. Of course, a few hours later the worry returned – as I lay half-submerged in that mountain stream. But somehow everything turned out allright. By the evening and several hours in a warm pub, I had completely dried out and warmed up. The car had been driven enough with the heater on full to dry out my sleeping gear. The second night was less eventful, as the wind had dropped and the rain let up. Next day, we decided not to tempt fate and did a proper low level walk along the river and up over Latrigg, the hill overlooking Keswick. The wind dried out our damp walking kit and we all felt a lot better than we had 24 hours earlier.

I‘m lucky to have a bunch of friends that make the effort to stay in touch and get together at least once a year. I suppose there are officially ten of us, but one lives in Canada and works in ski resort which means he can‘t get away. Otherwise there are usually 9 of us present – with the occasional absentee suffering from injuries or illness. I love the ebb and flow of the weekend. There‘s the giddiness and excitement on the drive up and the raucous first night in the pub. The adventure of a cold night and then a lovely warm start to day in the cafe – knowing you will soon be walking off that fried breakfast. The big walk on Saturday is great for catching up with everybody and the second evening is a little more subdued as we warm up after a day on the fells. A second night of stone-loosening snoring and then a shorter walk is perfect to round off the weekend. The drive back is slightly melancholy, but I know I‘ll soon be reliving things by telling family and friends about the adventure.

I have now written well over a hundred blog posts, about all sorts of banal things. I have often started to write about the Bridge Weekend but I always stop because I can‘t do it justice. But I promised to write an account for Mike – so here it is, and I hope it gives a little insight at least.

Bridge Day 1: „Low-level“ 13km with 918m of ascent. Wet, extremely windy and generally horrible.

Bridge Day 2: 8km around Keswick with 347m of ascent. Still windy but dry and surprisingly pleasant.