Nowhere Fast - available to order now

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Nowhete Fast

‘Nowhere Fast’ is the story of one family’s attempt to climb all the Wainwights - 214 of the country’s highest mountains, all situated in the breathtakingly beautiful English Lake District. The Wainwrights include Scafell Pike, Scafell, Helellyn and Skiddaw - the four highest mountains in England. Climbing over one hundred and ninety five thousand feet (six times the height of Mount Everest), and walking nearly six hundred miles over the course of six years, Nowhere Fast follows the journey of Andy, Tania and their two sons – William and Tom, as they battle the elements and scale the peaks. Sharing success and failure, highs and lows, laughter and tears, the challenge proves that anything is possible and that what really binds a family together is shared experience.

Conversion on the road to Keswick

Conversion on the road to Keswick


"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of new walking boots must be in want of a mountain” well not necessarily! I start this book about walking with the statement that I was no fan of the outdoors; walking or scrambling. In fact I was no fan of anything that really involved effort, perspiration or dressing like a Geographer.

As a child I had enjoyed walking; my father was a geography lecturer and we spent many family holidays in Cornwall, Devon and various other parts of the country, looking at ox- bow lakes, raised beaches and other assorted geographical features. When I was nine, we all climbed to the top of Snowdon. I can still remember the excitement and exhilaration I felt at reaching the summit, thinking I was on top of the world, and being delighted when I was told that I was the highest person in England and Wales. I also remember racing up to the top of granite tors, and being amazed by Wistmans wood on Dartmoor; the dwarf oaks and long hanging lichens, made the whole place look magical, like something straight out of a tale by Tolkein.

This early taste and enjoyment of the great outdoors, was however fatally diminished by life as a student. I freely admit that I was keener on strutting and posing, rather than striding out and wearing a cagoule. The joys of a weekend away in mountain hut, paled into insignificance, compared to a weekend of drinking and general debauchery at the University bar. Friends on my course (Geography) tried to persuade me about the joys of walking, God forbid climbing, and even worse camping, but I chose a path of comfort and indoor pastimes; anyway it’s hard to enjoy the outdoors when you are scared that the rain will flatten your hair!

So imagine my trepidation, some years later, now a teacher, and being persuaded that a long weekend in the Lake District would be fantastic! To show willing I had purchased a new pair of walking boots. I say new, they were, but I had never owned a pair before. I say walking boots, that’s stretching the definition a bit; I tried on some sturdy looking boots, but they just didn’t look right, so I chose on the basis, not of comfort, suitability for the job in hand or durability, but on the basis of which boots made me look the least like a rambler (more on this wise choice later). I also invested in a waterproof, not really a sensible or accurate description of said coat!

On the journey up to The Lakes I was less than excited. If I had been heading for London, Leeds, or quite frankly any city, I would have been feeling a little brighter. The journey was without incident, if a little slow; my old mini was not used to long distances. I had been promised that I would love the Lakes and be captivated by the landscape, the beauty, the views; but this was October, the hour had just gone back and everything north of Birmingham was in darkness. The outlines of mountains were pointed out to me, but I was damned if I could see them.


Now, there are some things in your life that even at the time you know are life changing moments, even I have had a few;  meeting my wife for the first time, the birth of my children, hearing ‘This Charming Man’ by the Smiths! Little was I to know as I slept that one of those moments was about to occur.

We stayed at a small Bed and Breakfast in Braithwaite. On arrival we were shown to our pleasant modest room and crashed out into deep sleep. Morning was revealed by sunlight flickering around the curtains, and the sound of an alarm that the previous resident had forgotten to switch off. Tired, but excited to have arrived and be on holiday, I pulled back the curtains. I now know that I was looking at Skiddaw, the fourth highest mountain in England at 3,054 feet. What a view,  from Dodd up to Carl side, the summits of Skiddaw and Skiddaw Little Man, Lonscale Fell and Latrigg, all bathed in the red, orange, yellow and the brilliant white light of a glorious sunrise – it was stunning, it was beautiful, I was captivated, and what’s more I couldn’t wait to get out and about.

Today walking and the Lake District are a big part of my life. When I walk I feel relaxed and I feel content, perhaps it is some primitive desire to be free to roam wherever you want, without any constraints; to be at one with nature, to experience the elements, to feel the wind on your face, to breathe the air and to feel alive (I’m not a hippy, honest). The Lake District is also a vital component in my love of walking. Since my first trip I have visited many other prime walking and climbing areas, but there is something about the Lake District that makes it, for me at least, the best place in the world. I think it’s the range of landscapes in a relatively small area, the fact that you can gaze up at the heights and still know that the summits are all achievable. I love the Alps, but the scale is daunting, somehow the Lake District is the right size.

Any journey to the Lakes is no longer filled with trepidation, but with longing, longing to arrive, to walk, to experience the sheer joy of being immersed in the landscape. I usually visit the Lake District a few times a year, and although it’s still a long drive, as I presently live in Devon, I always get excited on the journey up the M6. I always get a real buzz as the first mountains come into view, and I am always thinking about when I can return as I leave.

So what is it about the Lake District that can bring forth such strong emotions? The Lake District, or Lakes, or Lakeland is 885 square miles of mountains, valleys and lakes. It lies entirely within Cumbria, shared historically by the counties of Cumberland, Westmorland and Lancashire; it is one of England’s few mountainous regions. All the land in England over three thousand feet lies within the National Park, including Scafel Pike the highest mountain in England. The sheer variety of scenery is truly impressive; ice-carved, wide U-shaped valleys, many of which are now filled with the lakes which give the area its name. These lakes include the deepest and longest lakes in England. The upper regions contain glacial cirques or hollows and they are typically filled with tarns. The higher fells are rocky, with lower fells being open moorland covered with bracken and heather. Below the tree line, native oak woodlands sit alongside pine plantations. The Lakes also feature picturesque towns and villages, a rich history, a unique culture, and warm and friendly people. What’s not to love?

Now what do I love apart from walking and the Lake District, well my family. It sounds obvious, but talk to people, it isn’t always the case. I first met my wife after I had discovered the Lake District, but I was very fortunate. Some might say that I was fortunate to find someone full stop, but I was fortunate in many ways. Tania loved walking and the Lake District and me. Not a bad combination.

We first visited the Lake District together not long after we met. I remember climbing Helvellyn via striding edge, although in a spirit of true gallantry I also remember abandoning Tania and summiting the mountain on my own. We spent a very wet week in Ambleside for our honeymoon in 1994, and spent a beautiful wintry, white Christmas in Little Langdale. Our family grew, William arrived in 1997 and Tom in 1999. Living so far away from the Lake District meant that but for an excursion on a fieldtrip in 1998 (I forgot to mention that I became a Geography teacher, but don’t say I look like one!), we were unable to visit the Lake District for a fairly long period. I didn’t want to visit and not be able to walk anywhere, money was tight and options were limited. What I did want to do was take the boys to the Lakes when they would be old enough to do some walks themselves.

We returned with the boys in autumn 2004 and had a fantastic holiday, and we have kept returning with an ever increasing frequency. As the boys have got older, the walks have got longer, higher and more adventurous. Before we knew it we had completed several summits together. The boys managed to climb Scafel Pike and Coniston Old Man at a fairly tender age, and we got to thinking about what our next challenge would be. Now I love the Lake District, but when I thought about it I hadn’t really covered much of the area. I think you tend to fall back on places you are familiar with, and concentrate on well known and famous summits. Tania and I put our heads together, what should we do next? What could be our next challenge as a family? It seemed all too obvious; we should try and climb all the Wainwrights, all 214 summits featured in Wainwrights pictorial guides. It would make us explore the whole of the Lake District, it would allow us to see and experience old, new and hidden places that we would otherwise not visit, and it would be a great achievement that we could complete as a family.

The fact that I have already written a few hundred words about the Lake District, and that this is the first time I have mentioned Wainwright, is unbelievable. Wainwright and the Lakes are forever interlinked. I first became aware of Wainwright when I first visited the Lake District. Despite my ill fitting boots and suspect clothing, I did manage to climb Scafel Pike and Helvellyn. I was very impressed with myself; as mentioned before I was not a walker, I didn’t think I liked walking that much, I was unfit and the only thing I had on my side was youth. Walking around Keswick I was looking for a souvenir of the trip, and that’s when I came across Wainwrights glorious Pictorial guides. I stood in a bookshop and devoured Wainrights chapter on Helvellyn in ‘The Eastern Fells’. Like thousands of others I was captivated by the exquisite look of the pictorial guides, the combination of sketches, hand drawn maps and a very precise and personalised account of the fells. As I read the chapter on Helvyllyn, I also relived the experience of the walk. Wainwright lovingly produced the books for the days when he would no longer be able to climb the fells. His plan for himself has been a gift to us all. I relived the very footsteps of the walk, saw the views again and experienced all the joys and sense of achievement of the actual walk. A pictorial guide to the Lakeland fells, Book 1, the Eastern Fells, became my souvenir. In-between my first and second visit to the Lake District, I read it over and over again, to keep my memories alive and to whet the anticipation of a return.

At this stage I must tell you a strange story about that first visit to The Lake District. Despite a frankly rubbish pair of boots and suspect clothing, I did possess an OS map and a compass, and consequently as a geographer didn’t once doubt that I would be able to successfully navigate myself around the Lake District. Even the summit of the highest mountain would not be an issue. Imagine my surprise; it was genuine, despite that fact that I have little real sense of direction and always seem to get lost; when not far from the summit of Scafel Pike, the mist came down and I couldn’t work out where the summit was. I now know that I was somewhere on Lingmell Col. I was completely confused about which direction to take, so I thought I would ask someone. I spotted a solitary figure, sitting, sheltering between some boulders. As I approached, a large group of walkers descended out of the mist from what I now know to be the summit of Scafel Pike. Before I had said anything the man spoke to me, “Look at them” he said. “The noise, the colour, bright red jackets, they shouldn’t be allowed on the fells, people should respect the fells, they should blend in”. He was obviously not happy about the situation, I reviewed my situation. I was lost or at least as I like to put it, temporarily unaware my exact location, and I was going to ask this somewhat grumpy man the way to the top of a massive landmark, the highest mountain in England. He would think I was an idiot! He was however extremely pleasant and polite, he knew where I should be heading; he didn’t make me feel like an idiot and wished me well.

At this time I didn’t know who Wainwright was or what Wainwright looked like, now I do and this man was the spitting image. Was it the great man? I am as certain as I can be that it was. What an encounter, my first mountain and I think I met the person most closely associated with walking in the Lakes. If it had been two days later I would have known much more about Wainwright, I had seen his picture by then and I would have instantly recognised him. I don’t know what I would have done or said differently, but I could at least have shaken him by the hand and thanked him for his wonderful legacy. I would have been absolutely delighted, but I’m not so sure he would have been.

A family challenge, the Wainwrights! You may well be thinking, “What say do the boys have?”  Do they really want to spend days walking in the cold and the rain and the wind? Well I know that some people won’t believe me, but the boys really like walking. They enjoy the challenge, and if they didn’t the experience wouldn’t be the same. Mind you, to give a little incentive, not that it was needed; we promised the boys a pound a summit!

The glass is always half full

The glass is always half full – October 2011

“The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.”- James Branch Cabell

The nice part about being a pessimist is that you are constantly being either proven right or pleasantly surprised.  ~George F. Will, TheLeveling Wind

When walking is it best to be optimistic or pessimistic?

An optimist, when faced with a problem, tends to find the up side to the situation and starts figuring out ways to solve that problem, or ways to turn it around. These facets are ideally suited to the walker.


A pessimist, however, immediately throws up their hands, and yells, “That’s it; it’s all over. I can’t handle this anymore.” Or they will distance themselves from the problem, pretending it doesn’t matter. This is denial, and it never works. Such facets are highly unsuitable for the walker.

Can pessimism be a positive force?

My feelings on the matter are that a walker has to approach each day optimistically, but plan pessimistically. I have mentioned before that you need to be positive; you need to be able to see positive outcomes if you are to overcome adversity, but at the same time you have to plan for the worst.

A pessimist sees only the dark side of the clouds, and mopes; a philosopher sees both sides, and shrugs; an optimist doesn't see the clouds at all - he's walking on them.  ~Leonard Louis Levinson

Optimistically planning for cloudless skies, I packed shorts and sun cream, and then pessimistically added my waterproofs. Philosophically speaking - I was ready for anything, apart from another early morning.

Whilst I understand that the function of an alarm clock is to get people out of bed, I despise its efficiency of purpose. Apart from announcing the start of another working day; an alarm clock that interrupts your sleep can damage your memories, your ability to learn, your mood and temper, your relationships with other people, your ability to focus and your overall intellectual performance!
It’s no wonder that one of my favourite moments at the start of each holidayis the ritualistic silencing of the alarm.However, this particular ritual was about to be abandoned.
It was the first night of our half termholiday and instead of silencing the alarm, I re set it to an even earlier and bleaker hour. Memoriesof our horrendous journey last October, encouraged adecision to head for the Lakes before even the first light of dawnhad arrived.
Bleary eyed, dazed and slightly confused, we somehow managed to pack and leave the house in a fairly efficient manner. Fortunately, the journey was without incident; the roads were clear and we made rapid progress. Arriving in the Lake District relaxed and in time for lunch, the trauma of the early morning was forgotten and we eagerly anticipated the holiday to come.

129. Hen Comb

Height 161 Feet
Sunday 23rd October 2011
Route: Kirkstile Inn – Mosedale Beck – Summit – descent via Little Dodd

Persistent morning rain led to a late start and a decision to tackle a short walk from Loweswater to Hen Comb.Wainwright states that Hen Comb is ‘Not an exciting walk, but pleasant enough on a sunny day for anybody who doesn’t want to get excited’. Well, the rain had stopped but it wasn’t sunny, and with such anunenthusiastic description we approached the walk with ‘few’ rather than ‘great’ expectations.
Hen Comb is a linear ridge, beginning in the fields of the Loweswater valley and climbing away southwards. We ascended via Mosedale Beck and soon faced our first obstacle of the day. With no bridge and no alternative, we had to take off boots and socks and ford the beck. The water was surprising cold; perhaps it was the shock that caused Will to drop his boots into the freezing depths.
Saving what little excitement was promised by Wainwright for the return trip; we followed a valley path to an old mine and then climbed through bracken to the summit. The summit; a small grassy dome, provided some excellent views, especially to the Buttermere valley.
Keeping Wainwrights recommendation in mind, we descended via Little Dodd, and we were suitably rewarded. The views were magnificent for just about the whole of the return trip.
Despite his one indisputable commendation of the fell, something tells me that Wainwright really didn’t like Hen Comb. In addition to his earlier comments about excitement; he states that the summit has ‘nothing of interest’ and that ‘It is the sort of fell sometimes climbed, but rarely twice’.
Reflecting over a pint at the Kirkstile Inn, we decided that this was a walk we would happily complete again.
Perhaps our initial pessimism had led to a pleasant surprise.

Senses working overtime

Senses working overtime – February 2013

Humans have five main senses that allow perception of the environment – sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. In theory, when we focus on our senses, and consequently focus on the current moment, we maximise our potential for happiness. Life is meant to be lived in the present, experienced for the reality that it can be. If the experience of the present is maximised by a full scale assault on all five senses, the ‘here and now’ becomes everything and life is being lived to the full. Obviously, when walking it is wise to pay close attention to what you can see and hear, but your other senses appear to be heightened as well. Walking forces your senses to work overtime, whether you want them to or not. Perhaps that’s why walking makes so many people so happy.

188 Base Brown
Height 2120 Feet
Sunday 17th February 2013
Route – Seathwaite – Sour Milk Gill – Green Gable Path – detour to Summit

A truly memorable day began with truly fantastic weather. Clear blue skies, little wind and relatively mild temperatures, resulted in the best walking conditions that we had experienced for a very long time. Parking close to Seathwaite Farm, we headed towards and then through the farm, before crossing the River Derwent and heading up on a path beside Sour milk Gill. The route was delightful. A stepped path, interspersed with a few rocky scrambles, delivered extensive views, and also allowed us the opportunity to witness a number of picturesque, tumbling cascades. The appropriately named ‘Top Waterfall’ proved to be a particularly impressive and thunderous cascade. We edged as close to the vertical torrent as we dared; spray rose high into the air, we could feel moisture on our faces; water tumbled and plummeted, emitting such a crashing roar that we could hardly hear ourselves speak; there was a freshness in the air, and you could almost smell the aroma of the highly oxygenated water. Standing, transfixed and immersed in the beauty of the moment, we concluded that this particular assault on our senses had definitely optimised our potential for happiness.

Eventually and somewhat reluctantly, we dragged ourselves away from the falls and headed along Green Gable path. After carefully negotiating some patches of ice, we avoided the steep, direct ascent of Base Brown, and walked around the back of the fell instead. From here we began our final climb to the summit. This approach was still fairly steep, and the top of the slope was almost completely blanketed by a carpet of frozen snow. However, treading cautiously we managed to reach the summit without any major problems. We were rewarded with some simply stunning views. Scafell Pike and Great Gable could be seen to the South, Helvelynto the East, Skiddaw and Blencathra to the North. What’s more, the major summits were revealed in all their winter glory. Snow-capped peaks glistened in the bright afternoon sunlight. We surveyed the scene in awed silence. I’m not sure that I have ever spent so long admiring the view from a summit, but this was the sort of day when you run out of superlatives.

Descent proved to be just as delightful as ascent. Not only we were able to enjoy all the spectacular views for a second time, we were also able to practise some glissading and some rock climbing. Glissading is the art of descending a steep snow covered slope on one’s backside in a controlled manner - we weren’t very controlled, but we did descend on our backsides. Our rock climbing was the result of a visit to Seathwaite Slabs. The ‘Slabs’ are used for rock climbing practice by novices, so we were amply qualified. We spent an exciting few minutes trying to find a route to the top. Tom was our trail blazer; he nervelessly discovered a route that Will and I managed to follow.

Heading back to the car, I remembered an epigram by Oscar Wilde – ‘To live is the rarest thing in the World – most people exist, that is all’. Well, today we had lived. We had experienced the present and
we had stored up wonderful memories for the future.