Cock Mountain, Mourne Mountains

At last, we were on our way back to the Mournes and I couldn’t wait to climb my second peak, Cock Mountain, which was a heady 505m high! Unlike the last time, I was suited and booted in appropriate mountaineering regalia. I was windproof and waterproof from head to toe. Well, more or less, I was missing proper walking trousers but on the plus side, I was wearing a pair of very funky and fashionable leggings. A case of style over substance that I was sure would impress the fashion police.

Beginning the walk

I was also sporting a brand new backpack! Which is basically a handbag for the hills, and I got just as excited going rucksack shopping as I did when I went in search of the latest arm candy. Unfortunately, I wasn’t as au fait with the designers in this field. As I had discovered before when going in search of mountaineering clothes, fashion designers that I was familiar with hadn’t branched out into the great outdoors. As far as I could see, this also applied to the accessory market. There were no Louis Vuitton, Chanel or Gucci logos adorning the assortment of backpacks on display in Cotswold.

That’s right, I was back in my new favourite shop for all things mountain related! I gazed up and down the different backpacks hanging on the wall, there were so many to choose from. How was I going to narrow it down, I wondered? A fellow mountaineer who was also pondering this selfsame dilemma, walked up and down the vast array of rucksacks before grabbing one from the wall. I watched as he took the contents of his own bag out and stuffed them into the new one. Oh no, he was going to steal it! I looked around for security and instead came face to face with another friendly shop assistant, who had appeared to help me. I didn’t want to say anything, in case the thief heard me so, instead I nodded in his direction to alert the girl. She looked round and back again, oblivious to the crime being committed right in front of her face. I continued to violently nod. The man had now zipped up the backpack and was strapping it to his back. She looked round again. Nothing! Instead, she asked me what I was looking for while the rucksack robber was walking off!!

top of Cock Mountain

‘I really think you need to see to that man first,’ I had to point out the shoplifter who was marching across the floor with a piece of their merchandise on his back.

‘Yes, of course,’ she smiled and danced over to the man.

Oh no! what have I done?! He could be armed and dangerous, like the criminals I’d seen in police dramas on TV. She could be in mortal danger!

I watched as he took off the backpack and set it back down on the floor. He was starting to remove everything. Phew! I felt very proud that I had played a major part in preventing a crime.

The girl was back at my side, ‘and what can I get for you?’

Other than a medal, ‘a rucksack for my next mountaineering adventure.’

Selfie at the summit

‘Are you camping out?’ she was moving towards the gargantuan sized sacks that would fit not only a tent and sleeping bag but also a small child!

‘God no!’ I was definitely slower than the average mountaineer, but I was confident I could still make it up and down in a few hours.

‘A day sack then?’ and she thankfully moved in the direction of the smaller bags.

‘Thanks, I’ll take it,’ the man shouted over.

‘Great, glad you found what you were looking for,’ she said before turning her attention back to me, ‘it’s always a good idea to put your stuff into a bag and make sure it’s the right size,’ she explained.

So, he wasn’t a shoplifter after all. I felt really bad for falsely accusing the poor man.

‘Do you know what size you need?’

‘Umm,’ no! I quickly glanced at the bags and pointed to the smallest one, in a light grey colour that I thought would match my boots.

‘My husband uses that when he’s running in the hills,’ she told me, ‘I think you might need something bigger for a day’s walking. What about this one?’ and she handed me a Hike Lite by Osprey. ‘You’ll be able to fit in your waterproof trousers, a fleece, extra hat, socks, gloves, map, compass, first aid kit and torch. You know, all the essentials you need for a day in the hills.’

No, I bloody well didn’t know! My essentials were a hairbrush, compact and lipstick!! No one told me I needed all this other paraphernalia. Never mind a rucksack, I would need a suitcase and a big one at that!

‘And let’s not forget your gaiters,’ she added something I’d never heard of to the long list.

The only gators I knew of, were 12ft long and lived in the Everglades. I had no desire to carry one of them up a mountain and they definitely wouldn’t fit in this bag.

‘You can pop your water bottle or flask in here. I take both with me,’ she told me.

I didn’t have either!

view through the clouds at the top

‘So, what do you think?’ she asked.

I think that I’ll never get to Cock Mountain because I don’t have any of those things, I wanted to cry! Instead, I told her I’d take it home and try it.

‘Lionel,’ I burst into tears as soon as I walked through the door, ‘the girl in the shop told me that I need alligators and a hip flask and waders, like fishermen wear and a whole pile of other stuff that I don’t have that I have to shove in here,’ I wailed, holding up my new Hike Lite.

‘That’s nice,’ Lionel ignored my histrionics and admired my new rucksack. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you have everything you need’ and he kept his word. After a flurry of online purchases that arrived before the big day, I was packed and ready for my foray up the mountain.

A group of walkers were gathering in Hen Mountain car park as I proudly strapped on my lovely new rucksack.

track to Cock Mountain

‘Can you show me Cock Mountain?’ I was surveying the undulating mountainous masses, trying to decide which one it was.

He pointed to the peak behind Hen Mountain.

‘That’s where we’re headed,’ he told me and then it disappeared.

We had consulted the map and decided to walk around Cock Mountain and come back over it in the direction of Hen Mountain.

It actually felt very mild for the time of year and we had to stop to shed a layer. It was so peaceful and quiet. There was no sign of the gang of walkers and the only other people on the track behind us were two people on horseback, led by a man who was taking them on a trek. They stopped for a chat on the way past as we left the path to begin our ascent.

The map had showed a short path, that Lionel thought he’d found.

‘This isn’t a path, it’s a river,’ I pointed out as I stepped over rocks and through water.

‘It’s a path,’ he was adamant.

‘Well, it’s not a very good one,’ I muttered under my breath, as I followed in his wake, water washing over my boots.

Then it disappeared completely, and we had to negotiate very boggy, soft ground peppered with tall clumps of grasses that even the sheep didn’t want to graze on. Mr Horseman had told us that the sheep had caught diseases from the ticks and so they took them away. Of course, at the mention of ticks, I had a full-scale panic attack.

‘You should’ve told me there were ticks here,’ I accused Lionel of withholding important health and safety information.

climbing to the top

‘It’s the countryside, there are ticks everywhere.’

‘But what if I get a tick,’ I moaned, ‘I could get Lyme Disease!’ I remembered one of the Desperate Housewives had got it from one of the burrowing, blood sucking little creatures.

I felt my skin start to crawl.

Lionel ploughed on, picking his way over the flattened mounds of tall grass. It was tough going and I felt duty bound to tell him so.

fog on the ascent

‘We shouldn’t have come this way. There’s no path,’ I complained and then the cloud that had shrouded the peaks, descended down the mountain. I had yet another panic attack. I couldn’t see where we were going. This was too dangerous. We’d be lost on the mountain, although I wasn’t sure which one. Lionel was veering to the right and I was convinced Cock Mountain was to the left.

Cloud descending on Cock Mountain

The cloud was like pea soup and I prayed that it would lift, so we could see our way. Someone up above was listening and suddenly the sun broke through. We were at the base of Pigeon Rock and with Lionel’s navigational skills, we would have been climbing it instead. Back on track, we began our ascent of the right mountain. We still had no path and slowly made our way up the grassy, rocky slope towards the summit. Cloud came down again but finally cleared as we approached the rocky tor that marked the peak. It gave us the most breath-taking views and we scrambled for our phones to take a picture.

on the summit of Cock Mountain

I quickly set my rucksack down and sat on one of the rocks to get my Polaroid out. I hadn’t realised that the ground was covered in sheep poo and the rock was soaking wet! I ended up with a wet bum and a smelly rucksack. However, nothing spoilt the spectacular view from the top. We stood in the sun and took in the stunning scenery from the summit. It was beautiful!

taking Polaroid at the top

All too soon, the cloud swirled round us again but not before we had spotted the path that would lead us back down the mountain.

I was so thankful to see it. I didn’t like going off-piste. At least, not when I couldn’t see where I was going. The descent was steep, and we had to take our time and use our poles. Even so, it didn’t prevent my first fall. One minute I was standing and the next, my feet went from under me. The mucky ground was so slippery and it showed me, just how easily it could happen. Thankfully, I didn’t fall on a rock and I had a soft landing. Picking myself up, I made sure I used my poles and took care with every step.

Second summit of Cock Mountain

We knew that we could come over Hen Mountain on the way down. We couldn’t see it, but we knew it was there, so when the ground started to ascend again, we started to climb. It should’ve been a straightforward ascent to the summit. We fully expected to find the path that we had previously come down, but nothing is straightforward in low lying cloud. I understood now how people got disorientated and lost in these conditions.

‘I can see why a map and compass are essential kit,’ I said to Lionel, who had found a narrow, ledge-like path that he was convinced circled below the summit of Hen Mountain.

I didn’t want to be under it! I wanted to be on it! And ASAP.

‘I have those,’ he assured me.

‘Well, why don’t you consult them and find the path we came down before,’ that was wide and walkable. This teeny tiny one was freaking me out.

‘I have the compass but the map’s in the car,’ he confessed.

‘A fat lot of good it’s going to do us there,’ I was not happy.

view from the summit

Lionel had to step up onto a rock and that was when I froze. Vertigo descended like the cloud and swirled around me, shrouding me in fear. I was certain that if I stepped up onto that stone, I would plummet down the steep slope. I was terrified!

‘I can’t do it!’ I cried.

‘Yes, you can,’ and he reached out his hand.

I looked back. I could turn around, which was a perilous procedure in itself or, I could face my fear and trust my partner. I took a deep breath and reached for his hand. He pulled me safely up onto the ledge.

Thankfully a little further along and we saw the tor rise up in front of us.

‘We made it,’ I cried out.

A sheep that had been grazing on the eerily quiet summit raised his head and looked at me.

‘And I’m alive,’ I told him, delighted that I hadn’t fallen to my death from the treacherous track that Lionel had led me up.

Note to self, I was in charge of all essential life-saving equipment on future expeditions.

The sheep looked as surprised as I felt.

This time we decided to descend on the path that most walkers come up the mountain. It was the most direct route back to the car. Heavy footfall over the years had gouged out indentations. Initially we walked the well-trodden path, following in the footsteps of the many others who had come and gone before us. However, this came with its own dangers, as both I and Lionel were soon to discover. Muck is more slippery than stone in the Mournes. For the second time, I took a tumble and Lionel had a stumble. Injury averted we walked down the rest of the mountain and made it back to the car in one piece.

I couldn’t wait to get back home and pop the Prosecco, to celebrate inadvertently climbing not just one but two peaks!

I rummaged around in the backseat.

‘What are you looking for?’ Lionel asked as he started the car.

‘The map,’ I told him.

‘To pick our next peak?’ he looked happy and I didn’t have the heart to tell him, that it was to make sure he didn’t get lost again on the way home.

‘Aha,’ I said as I perused the peaks and made sure that he stayed on the right road.

After all, I had Prosecco to drink!

popping open the Prosecco

Peaks: Two today!

Polaroids: Four

Prosecco: Too many bubbles to mention!

sunrise on Divis Mountain

Divis Mountain

In the Mourne Mountains there is a walk known as the three birds, that take in the peaks of Hen Mountain (354m), Cock Mountain (505m) and Pigeon Rock (534m). I had already climbed Hen Mountain and my next challenge was to climb Cock Mountain but that would have to wait…

I decided it was time to climb something again with ‘mountain’ in its name and I didn’t have far to look, or travel to find it. Divis, like Cave Hill, was right on my doorstep. Plus, it gave me the perfect opportunity to test out my lovely new clothes. I stepped out of the car, looking and feeling like a genuine outdoorsy person. I’d done my homework and ditched Vogue, instead I scoured the pages of Country Life magazine to see what a fashionable look for this season was. I had also avidly watched both Autumnwatch and Countryfile to see what colour palette was en pointe and brushed up on the movers and shakers in this branch of the market before I even stepped over the threshold of Cotswold.

Wintry morning on Divis Mountain

Normally I’m a person who doesn’t need any assistance with shopping for clothes, but this was an unfamiliar environment for me. I had no clue what to buy, so I was very glad when one of the girls asked if she could help me.

‘Yes, I’ve recently taken up mountaineering and I need something suitable.’

‘For base camp?’

I didn’t know where base camp was in the Mournes.

‘Where is it you’re going?’ she thankfully didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Kilimanjaro? Everest?’

full moon over Divis Mountain

My mountain knowledge had a few holes in it, but I was fairly sure that neither of those two were in the Mournes. I desperately tried to remember the next peak that Lionel had told me we were going to climb.

‘K2?’ she was conjuring up mountains at an alarming rate.

No, I don’t think that was what it was called. Why couldn’t I remember the name of the stupid mountain, what was it? This was making me look like an amateur. Come on! Think! And then it came to me.

‘Cock’ I shouted out, delighted that I had at last remembered its name.

Every head in the store turned and stared.

The girl guided me away from all the lovely, fluffy, warm looking jackets I’d been standing in front of and handed me a very light anorak by my old friend The North Face.

‘I really think I need one of these ones,’ I said as I started to shuffle back in the direction of the padded puffer coats that were filled with feathers.

‘No, you need this one,’ she was quite insistent.

‘If I wear that, I’m going to freeze to death,’ and you don’t want that on your conscience now, do you? I wanted to add.

‘You need base layers,’ she explained.

That must be what they wore at base camp, I thought.

‘Let me show you,’ and I was hoping that she was going to lead me to something seriously fluffy looking. ‘You need a softshell to wear under it.’

She gave me a super light zip up jacket.

 I tried another tact.

selfie taken at Divis Mountain

‘I saw Michaela Strachan was wearing a very nice mustard puffer jacket,’ that looked like it was keeping her lovely and warm while she was filming seals off the coast of Scotland.

‘That wouldn’t be suitable for you,’ the girl pointed out that Michaela wasn’t moving, she was standing, ‘and you won’t be doing that.’

Well, I begged to differ! I had spent an inordinate amount of time standing around gasping for breath on all mountaineering expeditions to date. I needed feathers!! I wanted feathers!!!

‘I don’t think you understand,’ I tried to explain to the girl who was ushering me towards the till, ‘I am very sensitive to the cold. I lose circulation walking past the fridges in Marks and Spencers,’ I tried to convey just how critical my condition was.

‘These are exactly what you need,’ she clearly didn’t get it. ‘Now why don’t you take them home and if there’s any problem, bring them back.’

Black and white sign to summit

I reluctantly took the two jackets that without a doubt would give me hypothermia and wondered how easy it would be to contact Michaela and ask where she had bought her lovely warm jacket.

I came home and immediately launched into a full-scale condemnation of the extremely inappropriate clothing the girl had recommended I buy.

‘They’re perfect,’ Lionel took her side. ‘They’re waterproof and windproof. Now all you need is a base layer.’

‘For base camp?’ I would have to Google and find out where this elusive place actually was.

‘We’re not going to base camp,’ he told me.

‘Yet,’ I was confident that if my mountaineering progressed as planned, we would be scaling Base Camp Mountain in the not-too-distant future.

‘Not any time soon,’ Lionel didn’t share my enthusiasm.

Well, first things first. I’d managed to climb Hen Mountain in all the wrong clothes, now that I apparently had all the right clothes (although I was still sceptical) I was ready to take on Cock Mountain.

‘I think we should do Divis next,’ Lionel suggested.

Divis wasn’t in the Mournes and it didn’t look that difficult. People didn’t climb it; they went for a walk up it. My ten-year-old nephew had done Divis, for goodness sake, in a pair of trainers! I wanted a real challenge. I wanted a real mountain.

‘I want to go to Cock Mountain!’ I stamped my foot but Lionel didn’t agree.

It was probably because I still hadn’t got the right clothes for a proper, big mountain.

So, here I was at Divis, dressed in my brand new North Face parka jacket that I had to admit was quite a flattering fit. The forecast predicted strong winds, so it was about to be put to the test and I fully expected it to fail.

It had said on the weather forecast that the winds would strengthen at 11 o’clock and exactly on cue, 40mph winds hurtled down the mountain towards us. I was in shock! First off, the weather forecast is almost always wrong and secondly, my new jacket and layering system was giving me complete protection from the hurricane force winds that were hammering us.

A trigonometry pillar marked the 475m peak of Divis Mountain and I was determined to get there come hell or high water. Well, it wasn’t actually raining but the hellish high winds were impeding our progress and I nearly lost my footing, more than once because of them. Eventually we reached the summit. I would have loved to have stood there, taking in the views across to Slemish Mountain but I was struggling to stay standing. I signalled to Lionel that I was going to have to go back down before a gust quite literally blew me off my feet!

View from Divis Mountain

The winds were getting worse and I worried if we waited any longer, we would be stranded up here. I never should’ve climbed a mountain in this weather! I scolded myself as I struggled to stay upright. It was a stupid, daft decision to go mountaineering in these conditions. I mean, what other numpty would put their life in danger, just to scale a summit.

‘Morning,’ a man and his wife greeted me on their way up to aforementioned summit.

I turned round to warn them of the looming danger and tripped over their Pomeranian prancing up behind them. Luckily neither I or the pooch were injured in the incident and I watched as it nimbly skipped on up over the rocky path. The wind gave me another shove and I wobbled, how on earth did a little fluff ball like that, not take flight! I thought it very irresponsible of its owners to bring it up here on a day like this.

Two steps later and another small dog casually sauntered past me, closely followed by a man dressed for a day at the beach.

‘Fresh this morning,’ he smiled as he walked past me.

That was an understatement! And FYI, not a day for shorts!! I continued down the mountain passing hardy Northern Irish walkers who were in no way fazed by the windy weather. Maybe, more mountaineering would make me stronger and steadier on my feet, I mused. Only time would tell.

I arrived back at the car delighted that another peak had been conquered and thrilled that my new jackets had passed the windproof test with flying colours. I was confident it was time for my next Mourne mountain. I turned to Lionel with rosy red cheeks and hair that looked like it had been dragged, then blown through a hedge backwards and he agreed.


Peaks: 1 (3 in total)

Polaroids: None because of windy conditions!

Prosecco: A cheeky little glass or two.

Photos: from a windy first visit and an icy return visit.

Next time…

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black and white Cave Hill McArt's Fort

Cave Hill

I was quite enthusiastic about doing my next peak, but time and circumstances meant that a trip to the Mournes would have to wait a little longer. Instead, I decided to walk up Cave Hill, which was closer to home, and while it wasn’t a mountain, it was still a steep climb. Our destination was Napoleon’s Nose, a promontory that jutted out from the cliff face and offered fantastic views over Belfast. So, basically, I picked a nose and not a peak!

At Belfast Castle Cave Hill

We parked at Belfast Castle, which has lovely gardens and a café! Under normal circumstances we could’ve had a coffee after our climb, but sadly, we weren’t living in normal circumstances. We were living in a lockdown and the café was closed.

Lionel had never done the walk before, so after layering up, I led the way. We walked through black, wrought iron gates and took the gravel path to the left. In the winter months, or after any rain, the path can be very muddy in places. I was glad of my boots! The first part rose steeply, and I had to dig deep into my lungs to haul myself up it. As I slowly dragged myself up, other walkers, small children and dogs, strode past me, barely breaking breath!

I suggested we stop for a photo op, after a stepped incline.

‘But there’s no view,’ Lionel pointed out, as I leaned on my poles, panting.

‘There’s trees. I love trees!’ I couldn’t go any further until I’d gotten my breath back.

walking through forest Cave Hill Country Park

I knew there was worse to come and the rest helped prepare me for the brutal climb through trees that took us to the first vantage point. I wanted to collapse onto one of the four stone seats, but it had been raining and the bum shaped indentations on top of the columns had filled with water. Instead, Lionel took in the views and I took in much needed oxygen!

The wind was really getting up and I struggled to take a photograph with both the phone and the Polaroid camera.

A black and white polaroid Cave Hill

This was a much more gradual climb around the Devil’s Punchbowl. We walked up a narrow path that circled the deep hollow, stepping up onto the bank to give way to sure-footed runners coming down from the top. Another short flight of steps led us up to the second vantage point. Cave Hill rose up behind us and below us, the city was spread out. A hazy morning light falling on the iconic landmarks that we were able to pick out from our lofty viewpoint. But there was still higher to go.

A flight of waterlogged muddy steps took us up to the top, where we turned left and followed the path that continued to climb along the cliffs. The wind was howling now, and my eyes and nose were streaming. My neck warmer prevented me from doing up the top button of my coat, so my hood wouldn’t stay up. My cashmere woollen hat did nothing to prevent the wind chill. So, by the time we fought our way to McArt’s Fort (Napoleon’s Nose) I couldn’t hear, see or breathe!

standing on top of Cave Hill

Unfortunately, the wind continued to pummel and punch us, preventing us from appreciating the panoramic views of Belfast, that can be enjoyed on a good day. It goes without saying that no Polaroid was taken. The camera as well as the photo, would have been blown away!

A panorama landscape of Belfast from Cave Hill

With the wind now thankfully at our backs, we retraced our footsteps and made our way back down. The path along the cliff top is quite rocky, so we took our time. I didn’t want to slip and land on my bottom. As naturally padded as it is, it still would hurt falling on sharp stones.

Even in the inclement conditions, there was a steady flow of walkers and excited dogs making their way to the top. Cave Hill is a popular walk, all year round and in all weathers.

A black and white photo of tree on Cave Hill

We squelched our way through muck and like the stones, I took care and tried not to slip. I didn’t want a wet bum, any more than I wanted a sore one, thank you very much! My lovely grey boots had turned a muddy brown colour, but my feet were still dry, so I knew they were waterproof. Yay!

Before long we were walking through the trees again and shortly after that, we arrived back at the car, windswept but victorious. Another peak/promontory had been scaled and I would celebrate later with a glass of Prosecco. Right now, all I wanted was a coffee!

Black and white photo looking out over Belfast

Although I had walked Cave Hill before, today’s venture up made me realise the importance of dressing appropriately. If I was going to pursue my mountaineering adventures, then I would definitely have to think about what I was wearing. Nothing I owned was designed for a hill walk, let alone a mountain. So, I was going to have to go somewhere I had never been before, an outdoor shop!

I have only ever owned one piece of outdoor clothing, a North Face fleece and that was a present from my brother, years ago. I remember it well because I was horrified when I opened it. I had no earthly use for it back then but now, I wish I’d kept it. It would be one less thing I’d have to buy before my next expedition. Maybe I should have a glass of Prosecco, in preparation for my shopping trip because right now, that was a much more intimidating prospect than any peak in the Mournes!

Wish me luck, I’ll keep you posted!

Peaks: 1 (2 in total)

Polaroids: 2 today

Prosecco: 1 glass

Join me next time…

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view from top of hen mountain

Hen Mountain

My birthday had been compromised by the Covid situation. Pampering and partying were no longer an option, so I had to come up with a plan B. For some strange reason I came up with the idea to climb my first ever mountain. Replacing pleasure with pain and celebrating with a challenge seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still not sure why!!

Unfortunately for me, I made the mistake of sharing this idiotic idea with my partner who got very excited and immediately went in search of his map. Before he met me, Lionel had a passion for hillwalking that I unfortunately didn’t share. I struggled to walk up a flight of stairs, let alone a big rock formation. I watched and listened as he pointed to a lot of wiggly lines and large numbers that I discovered were the inclines and altitudes of the monumental monstrosities that I had stupidly suggested climbing.

Map of route to Hen Mountain

The numbers ranged from 354 to 850, they weren’t just big, they were huge!! This was insanity. I would never make it. I don’t know why I’d ever come up with the crazy idea. Maybe I’d been drunk. Or had a fever. Oh no! I quickly ran to get a thermometer and check. All was normal. In the meantime, Lionel had dug out his walking boots and was brushing off the cobwebs from his Berghaus. I looked at his excited face and realised that I couldn’t let him down.


There was no way round it, my birthday would be spent ascending one of these perilous structures that I’d spent a lifetime avoiding. Friends and ex-boyfriends had tried and failed to get me to join them on hiking expeditions. I’d never seen the attraction. Mountains were cold, desolate, dangerous places. One ex had even suggested camping, which I discovered entailed a tent and not a hotel. There was no plug for a hairdryer and worse, there was no en suite bathroom. Needless to say, that idea and relationship came to an abrupt end.

And now, here I was, preparing to spend my birthday tramping up the side of Hen Mountain, which was one of the smallest peaks in the Mournes. Lionel reassured me, that like its name, it was small in stature and really quite harmless. He was confident that I would have no difficulty in climbing it. I, on the other hand, was not quite so optimistic.

The big day arrived and instead of putting on my glad rags and getting dolled up, I reached for my thermal underwear and the 67 layers that I knew I would need for my expedition. All mountains were cold, windswept places, so I was dressing appropriately.

After taking a wrong turn, Sally the Sat Nav guided us to the car park, which was full. I took that as a sign, that we should turn back and go home but Lionel was having none of it. Cars were parking along the side of the road and a steady stream of walkers were making their way towards Hell Mountain. Now that I had seen it, I thought that a much more appropriate name. There was nothing teeny, tiny about it and it looked downright dangerous!

‘Apparently on a Sunday, a lot of people like to go mountaineering,’ I remarked as I looked at a line of ant-like people marching up to the top.

‘It’s not mountaineering,’ Lionel told me.

‘Yes, it is! The clue is in the name. It’s a mountain and we’re going to ‘eer’ up it.’ Doh!

He shook his head and went to put on his boots. He didn’t argue because clearly, he knew I was right. A young girl got out of the car in front of us wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I mean really! The youth of today, going out half-naked. She was going to catch her death mountaineering in that outfit. Oblivious to the impending pneumonia that awaited her at the top of Hell M, she trotted off in her trainers.

I squeezed my feet into walking boots, that I’d recently purchased for the occasion. Apparently, the mainstream stalwarts of the shoe world have not yet diversified into designing footwear for the foothills. In the absence of a Christian Louboutin or Jimmy Choo, I had to settle for the prettiest ones I could find in the shop. A light grey pair with pink laces, that looked cute.

I was wearing two pairs of socks and had a spare pair in the rucksack Lionel had lent me, in case my feet got wet and I needed to change. I looked up at the sky. It was bright blue, and the sun was shining. But this was Northern Ireland, rain was never far away.

Families filed past us and there wasn’t a coat in sight! It might be sunny and warm down here but up there was a different story. I had no intention of getting hypothermia, so I pulled on my woolly hat and ignored the strange looks from the passing masses.

Selfie on top of Hen Mountain in black and white

‘Right, let’s do this!’

‘That’s the spirt,’ Lionel said and set off at a brisk pace.

I was out of breath less than half-way up the path and had to stop three times. Once through the gate Lionel said we shouldn’t take the same route as everyone else. We should go left and weave our way up the mountain.

‘Is that an easier path?’

He had climbed this beast before, and I was hoping he knew a short cut.

‘Of course, it is,’ he lied and like a lamb to the slaughter, I followed behind him, stopping every five minutes to catch my breath and moan that I’d never make it.

I huffed and puffed my way over the grassy tufts with the help of my walking poles, which were a godsend!! Lionel had got them for me, and I was so grateful! They gave me support, balance and they stopped me from falling flat on my face when I was bent over gasping for breath! This had nothing to do with a complete lack of fitness, it was because the oxygen levels were dropping as we approached the peak. There were times as we got near the top that I thought I was going to pass out, it was that bad!

Thankfully, I spied a great big stone that made a perfect place for me to rest my weary bones. I clambered up and collapsed onto it as I tried to pop my ears that had blocked from the altitude.

rest break climbing Hen Mountain

‘Are we there yet?’ I whinged as I wheezed.

‘Nearly at the top,’ he assured me, looking down as I lay prostrate on the rock.

I sat up and looked around to see that there was still a long way to go.

‘No!’ I cried, when I realised that he had told me another big, fat lie.

My wailing spooked one of the sheep who’d been happily grazing on the grass below me, the other one who hadn’t stopped chewing since I’d collapsed in front of him, continued to munch away, unperturbed by my outburst. I’m saying ‘he’, but it could’ve been a ‘she’, I’m no sheep expert. After a rest, I girded my loins and carried on with the ascent.

Finally, the ground plateaued out. I’d made it!

‘Yes! We’re at the top!’ I could’ve danced for joy; except I had no energy left.

I was ecstatic. I’d done it. I’d conquered a mountain.

‘Not quite,’ Lionel burst my bubble and pointed up. ‘That’s the top.’

reflection in pool top of Hen Mountain

I looked over at the rocky tor and wanted to burst into tears! There wasn’t just one but two tors that marked the summit. People stood on top of both of them and more waited at the bottom of each. It was like Piccadilly Circus! Lionel suggested we find another nice stone and wait until it got less crowded. A very good idea!

Tor on top of hen mountain black and white

It was the perfect opportunity to take some photos. I had wanted to bring my Sony camera with me, and I would’ve loved to have had the opportunity to do some photography, but I was worried both by the extra weight it would mean to carry it and also, if I fell, it would be bye-bye camera. So, instead, I brought my Polaroid, that I’d had since I was little girl. It was a birthday present from my dad, and I remember taking it with me on a family holiday to Switzerland. One of the first photos I took was on top of Mount Pilatus and now, the first photo I was going to take, years later, was on top of another mountain. And this one, I’d actually climbed!

I wasn’t even sure the camera still worked. I tentatively pressed the button, out popped the Polaroid and after an anxious wait, it was a joy to see the image develop. It brought back so many memories and now I was making a new memory.

I took a moment to take in the beautiful views, looking out over rolling green fields and other mountains in the Mournes that were still to be conquered. It was then, that I decided, that was what I wanted to do. The sense of pride and achievement that this first birthday peak challenge had given me was inspiring me to continue on. Yes, I was going to ‘eer’ up other mountains but first, I had to get to the official top of this one.

It was still busy with climbers wanting to reach the summit and the top was packed with people taking photos. The short walk up was steep, which I managed fine but then I turned round and panic set in. I felt like I was going to fall! Grass had given way to stone and not only did I think I was going to fall; I was also convinced that I was going to slip. It didn’t matter that young children were gambolling up and down it, like newborn lambs, or that men, with babies strapped to their backs were effortlessly advancing up and then down the steep, stony peak. I was going to fall!!!

‘I’m going to die on this mountain!’ I silently screamed.

‘Are you okay?’ Lionel realised something was wrong.

The colour had drained from my face, my eyes were wide with fright and my feet were frozen to the spot. However, my pride was still intact, and I did not want to cry like a baby, in front of everyone who was pushing past to get a selfie at summit. Taking baby steps, Lionel guided me back to terra firma. The good news was, I had survived both the climb and the descent, the bad news was, I discovered en route that I had vertigo. This could put pay to my dreams of climbing any more mountains in the Mournes.

I tried not to think about that, as we began our descent. To avoid the mountaineering masses, we decided to go round the back of the mountain. I thought coming down would be a doddle, but it was a lot more tiring on muscles that I’d clearly never used before and which were now turning to jelly as I tramped over the grass and through the mud. Even though it was a warm, dry day, there were still boggy bits, and I was thankful for my boots.

Selfie after coming down from Hen Mountain

When we reached the path again, all that was left, was a leisurely walk back to the car. We went to sit at a picnic table and celebrated my first climb with a glass of Prosecco, that Lionel had brought because it was my birthday.

‘I think I should have a glass of Prosecco after every peak,’ I said, sipping my drink under the shade of a tree.

‘So, there’s going to be more?’ Lionel looked pleased by the prospect.

I took the Polaroid out of my pocket and looked at the grainy black and white photo, proof that I’d scaled my first peak. I might’ve clambered and crawled, rather than climbed Hen Mountain but I felt proud that I had achieved my goal. And I did struggle for breath on the way up but the view from the top, took my breath away.

‘Yes, there’s definitely going to be more peaks and more Polaroids.’

‘Here’s to peaks and Polaroids,’ Lionel toasted.

‘And Prosecco,’ I said, raising my glass.

So, that is how my blog, ‘Peaks, Polaroids and Prosecco’ came to be.

I hope you’ll join me again soon for my next mountaineering adventure!

Peaks: 1

Polaroids: 2

Prosecco: 2 (glasses, not bottles!)

Coming up…

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