Bloody Unromantic- part two

Before reading this part two, you should really read Part One of the story here

We’d had a most romantic night.

Lots of time alone together, no murmered voices in the background, no dog crying to be let out, or kids turning on the TV at 6am to watch cartoons whilst they devoured all edible substances in the cupboards and fridge.

Through the little lace curtains of the hotel window I could see a stretch of verdant green and a flash of steel blue lake. My Englishman roused gently.

I felt guilty about all the horrible things I’d said on the way up the country on Thursday night. I gulped hard when I thought about the things I’d jotted down in my diary. Grumpy, hissing , mutterings about ‘not being bloody romantic’…

I lay back on the pillow and thought about everything that had happened. Paris, Las Vegas, Israel. I’d moved four times the previous year. I’d travelled between the UK and NZ on that bum numbing 30 hour trip three times in one year. We’d done so much together.

‘How about a little walk today?’ he sleepily asked.

‘Ok, where?’

I was thinking a country picnic on the fells, or by the lake. Cosy. Very English.

‘I’d like to climb Helvellyan.’

Not a little walk in the country then, nope we were going to climb a mountain.

And so we did.

After a full English (which on reflection was possibly a bad move), we prepared ourselves and drove to the start of the route.  Now Helvellyan is not just a hillock. It’s England’s third highest peak and stands 950m high above the Lake District.

So today was going to be one of those days.

I’m a chicken when it comes to heights, and I’m not the slimmest of creatures. Despite these failings I had accompanied my Englishman on a 18km trek up Mt Ngaruhoe (Mt Mordor in Lord of the Rings) in New Zealand, and thoroughly enjoyed it. If I’d done it once, I could do it again.

Girls can do anything!

We started to climb.

At first the route was quite easy over farmland, but it didn’t take long for us to really start climbing. I believe this trek is straight up. We made height quite quickly and I started to tire. The  backs of my calves were throbbing with stress and my face was burnt red.

But this is so romantic!

Hmm.

We stopped to take a swig of water and pile on beanies and gloves, and to admire the view.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ he said pointing to the vast green land way down below us.

‘It is. But we could of course have flown up here in a helicopter to see the views’ I said tetchily.

We continued to climb. The path started to wind its way around boulders and there was loose scree under foot. I kept trying to keep a brave face, but it was killing me.

‘Remind me. Why are we doing this again?’

‘Special reasons.’

He smiled briefly and continued climbing. I now know he was worried I might stop and head down, and there was something he wanted to show me, at the top.

Finally we reached the top of the ridge, and the path levelled out. The last vestiges of the season’s snow still licked the crevices. The wind was blowing a gale, and it was very cold. But the views were incredible and the sense of achievement insurmountable.

I stopped to slug from the water bottle, whilst my Englishman urged me to join him at the cairn of rocks.

‘Is there something interesting there?’ I walked over to him to see.

‘I think so’.

On the top of the cairn of rocks, a white gold band iced with a glistening diamond solitaire lay.

‘Is that for me?’ (Does everyone who climb the hill get one?)

‘I’m sorry I can’t get down on my knees, but would you do me the honour of being my wife?’

Tears sprung from my eyes.

Of course I would, you bloody unromantic man!

NB/ And that was what I was doing this weekend past, last year. I know you never read my blog My Englishman, but I still love you, you soppy git.

Tagged as: Mt Helvellyn