As many of my readers know, in 2015 I spent some time in Nepal following the April 25 earthquakes. I spent some time volunteering, and in particular I spent one day working with an organisation called the Nepal Youth Foundation. I was shown around one of their Nutritional Rehabilitation centres, which is a place where malnourished children are brought to stay while the child is rehabilitated back to health. There were two things that made a particular impression on me while I was there: firstly, the fact that it’s not just the child that is brought in but the caregiver as well, so they can learn about nutrition and hygiene, and then take that knowledge back to their communities and ensure that the cycle is not repeated. The second was the passion and determination of the organisation’s president, Som, who I was fortunate enough to meet while I was there. This was a man who clearly cared very deeply about the foundation and the children it sought to protect – the incorruptible sort. (For the story of how he helped to end the practice of indentured servitude in Nepal, check out my previous blog post here)

Since then I have followed the work of the NYF and supported them when I could, until early last year, when my social media feed showed me a post from their UK branch looking for people to take on the British Three Peaks challenge. I looked at it and thought, ‘maybe I could do that’ – and before I could talk myself out of it, I signed up.

And so it was that I found myself, on a fresh but bright Friday morning in June, at Manchester Piccadilly station, meeting six other women from around the country who had also signed up, and our guide Sam.

Looking at the others, I immediately felt out of place. I felt nervous where they all looked relaxed and confident. I knew that I hadn’t done enough training, yet they all looked fit and raring to go. I had about 5 different bags of various bits and pieces getting tangled up and in everyone’s way, yet most of them seemed to have only two or even one. I felt woefully underprepared. Still, I had the whole weekend to get the hang of it, I reassured myself, and it might not be as bad as I expected. Once we were all there – and our bus driver finally arrived – we were on our way.

It was a long drive from Manchester up to Fort William, and the long drive gave us a chance to get to know each other – although it turned out some of them already did. Gerry, our NYF rep who had organised the trip, had obviously talked some of her friends into it, and another two were former work colleagues. Of the seven of us, only myself and one other girl didn’t know anyone. Although that didn’t bother me as much as the realisation that they all seemed to be either personal trainers, gym junkies or seasoned hikers. I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach – I knew, somehow, that I was going to be the slowest in the group, and it was going to be just like it had been in Nepal – me trailing along at the back while everyone else cruised along up ahead, me out of breath and hauling myself up while everyone else stood there waiting, me never getting a rest because they were always waiting for me to catch up. I tried not to think about it, and instead to enjoy the view as we followed the windy Scottish roads around Loch Lomond and up into the highlands. At least I’d picked the right side of the bus for that.

We spent the night in Fort William, and I shared a room with Kellie, a girl about my own age from Michigan, who was living in London with her Scottish husband. We managed to sleep a bit, before we were picked up at 7am the next morning to arrive at the foot of Ben Nevis about ten minutes later. It was chilly, but we kept our jackets in our backpacks – “be bold, start cold’, were Sam’s words of advice as we set off. A thin mist clung to the side of the mountain. A gate marked the start of the path and I could see it leading upwards and into the fog. A quick group photo, and we were off.

Sam’s instructions were to start at a slower pace for about half an hour while we warmed up, then we could open the pace up a bit. Talk while you’re walking, he said, as it would prevent us from going too fast. At about half-way, we would encounter seven long zig-zags, then there would be a brief plateau before a steeper ascent to the top. I took a deep breath and told myself just to think one phase at a time. Half an hour to warm up – surely I could do that.

I started at the back with a girl called Alicia, who was the other girl who didn’t know anyone. She had been to Nepal twice, once to volunteer and once to go trekking, and like me had been looking for a way to help. We chatted about music for a while, but within a few minutes I was already panting slightly and feeling that I should save my breathe. The girls at the front were drawing away and I realised with a sinking feeling that I wasn’t even going to make it past the warm-up without being exposed as the slow one. Sure enough, after half an hour or so Sam stopped us and brought me up to the front, giving instructions that the others weren’t to go past me. It was pretty embarrassing, and I could feel them all behind me, hovering as if they were itching to go faster. Not long afterwards, I heard Sam call from somewhere in the middle that we could stride out a bit more now, and my heart sank – I was already going as fast as I could.

Fortunately, not too long after that the path levelled and I was able to catch my breath a bit. I had a pair of borrowed walking poles and it gave me a chance to get used to them a bit and find a rhythm – I was the only one using them, although some of the others had a pair strapped to their backpacks. I had packed them because I thought they would help coming back down the mountains, but I would never have guessed that they would also be useful going up, as a kind of substitute for a handrail to haul myself up. Unfortunately, it meant that I couldn’t snack and walk at the same time, but I had a Camelbak water bladder that at least meant I could sip water as I went.

We carried on and warmed up despite the chill in the air and a few raindrops here and there which felt refreshing on my arms. We passed a waterfall and looked back over a stunning view – the mist had lifted to reveal a landscape of lochs and valleys stretching off into the slanting morning light. I took a couple of snaps on my phone, wishing I had time to get my big camera out, and then we were off again.

 

Eventually we reached the first of the zig-zags. They were rocky and slippery, slate and granite mostly, I think. Some people were coming down the other way, and I wondered what time they must have had to set off to be already on their way down. But it wasn’t long before my legs really started to hurt, it was getting harder to breathe properly and I had a blister forming on my right thumb.  I could feel myself slowing down even more. As we rounded a short stone column which marked the start of the second Zag, I heard some of the girls approaching behind me, and one of them launched into quite a long story about her love life misadventures. How she’d married and had a child too young, got divorced, dated another man who had been arrested, another who had been kicked out of an apartment for who knows what questionable activities. I found it very diverting, and let my brain tune into the story while my body kept plodding on upwards. There were more people coming down the other way now and lots of them were offering encouraging comments like ‘keep going, you’re almost there now!’ That, plus the odd comment that floated up towards me of ‘keep going Karleen’, and ‘you’re doing great Karleen’ kept my spirits up. Eventually Sam appeared at the front to see how I was going, and I asked him which Zag we were on – it seemed as though we’d been going back and forth on this slaty slope for ages.  ‘Oh, we’ve finished those!” he said. “We’re on the plateau now, just the last steep bit to go.”

We stopped at this point to put more layers on, as it had become properly cold now and visibility was almost nothing – I could see back down the path we’d just come up but nothing much up ahead and the peak was completely obscured. We must be at least a thousand metres up by now, I thought to myself as I pulled on my jumper, jacket and gloves. I felt much better almost immediately. We scrambled up the last bit to the top, which was very satisfying despite not being able to see anything. Another group photo, and we were on our way down again.

The descent was much easier, although the rocks were still slippery, so I paid careful attention as I picked my way down the zig-zags again. My mood lifted, and the view reappeared as we came down below the cloud cover, revealing a vista of lakes and mountains in full sunlight. I felt pleased to be there, and now it was my turn to encourage disheartened climbers trudging up the other way. “You’re almost there, keep going!” I called to anyone who looked like they needed it.

For a while I led the way, and for a time I lost sight of the group behind me. I enjoyed the quiet, and when I reached the waterfall again I couldn’t resist getting my camera out before the group caught up and it was time to move on again. The climb became harder after that and I fell behind as the path got steeper and narrower. Sam stayed with me, and as we diverted off the path we’d come up to take a shorter one down to the bus I felt my knees straining, and was again grateful for the poles. I reached the bottom about ten minutes or so after the others, and I had time to use the bathroom, change my clothes, which were soaked through with sweat, and we were off again. I also managed to find a cup of tea, and I sipped it gratefully as we headed south again.

It took most of the afternoon to reach the Lake District, and we chatted at times, dozed at others, and snacked on protein bars and sandwiches. The girls at the back were well organized, and I watched, amazed, as one of them pulled out a bowl and a knife and made them all a salad of avocado, chickpeas and tuna, putting my Tesco pasta salad to shame. I tried to rest, but it was hard to get comfortable with all my bags around me – where did all my stuff come from? – and my legs were aching – I longed to put them up and close my eyes, but it was impossible and eventually I gave up and fell back on the time honoured technique of hoping for the best.

We stopped to refuel and stock up on supplies, and I came back to find my seat was sopping wet. Someone had put my backpack up on the seat to move past, and the Camelbak was leaking. I wanted to get all my stuff out and sort it out, but I already felt that I was inconveniencing everyone enough by being slow and having too many bags, so I dropped the Camelbak into another plastic bag and shoved it under the seat. Fortunately my camera was dry, but my jumper wasn’t, and after ten minutes of driving, neither was my bottom.

Just when I thought I couldn’t be any more uncomfortable, we arrived at the edge of the Lake District and the road became noticeably windy. Our driver, in a hurry to get us there in the shortest time possible, was hurtling around bends at an alarming speed, and I began to feel distinctly queasy. I really didn’t want to be causing any more awkwardness, but on balance I that was better than asking them to stop so I could be sick on the side of the road, so I hauled all my bags up to the front of the bus, where there was a free seat behind the driver. It was better, and it was a double seat so I had a bit more room – not to mention it was nice and dry. I wanted to sort out my stuff, but felt too ill to do anything more than close my eyes and take deep breaths until we were almost there.

At around 7.30 we arrived at the Scafell car park, and the cool air was lovely and refreshing. As we went through all the steps of getting ready – using the portaloos, checking shoelaces, hitching bags onto backs, I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t ready – my legs weren’t recovered from the first mountain – but I had to lead the way, there was no choice about it.

“Karleen up front!” Sam called, confirming what I already knew. One of the girls – Katie I think –  looked me in the eye and said, “Come on, Karleen – you’ve got this.”

“I’ll do my best guys,” I said. Then I gritted my teeth and we set off again.

The path to the top of Scafell Pike peak went up, and up, and up. It didn’t take long before my determined starting pace had reduced to a forced walk, but to the girls behind me it must have felt like a crawl and I could sense their frustration. Every so often one would creep past me, and Sam would call out and they’d drop back again. But they were never far behind, and if I stopped, even for a second, they would walk into me, and every time I tried to pull my shirt down, hitch my trousers up or grab a snack from my pocket I heard a squawk from behind me as my poles swung back and caught them on the leg or the hips.

And still the path went up, and up, and up. We crossed a stream, and Sam came forward to lead us over before dropping back again. He got us playing word games, which distracted us for a while, but still the path went up and up.

The weather was fine, and the setting sun was turning the sky a glorious orange as we climbed. My knees were holding up – the tape was working – and the poles helped, and I couldn’t help thinking that in another situation this would be a wonderful experience – if only I had time to admire the view, stop for a snack, close my eyes and breath in the scents and sounds of the mountain. But we were on the clock, we had a target to make, and the only things I was aware of was the burning in my legs and the constant presence of someone close behind me, ready with a ‘come on Karleen’, or a ‘keep going Karleen!’ every time I hesitated or took too long to breathe in between steps.

For a while, Gerry and Sam walked behind me and I could hear them talking. It seemed that they had known each other for a long time, and they were comparing stories about gyms, workouts and exercise regimes, which unlike the lurid love life stories weren’t in the least distracting, and only reminded me of how unprepared I had been for this challenge and how much I was hurting. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any longer and had to beg them to please, pleeeease talk about something else!

They looked taken aback, but they were quiet for a while and eventually Gerry came up to join me for a bit. I asked her about the NYF, and told her about my day at the centre, and as I felt myself getting fired up on the subject I got a little energy boost and was distracted for a while.

As we were getting nearer the top, we had to stop for Sam to tend a blister for Katie. The view was spectacular, and I took the opportunity to take a few more photos before grabbing a quick rest. One final climb up, and we were at the top, two hours after we’d left – on target, which was a great relief to me, at least.

The view was spectacular, and we reached the top just as the sun was setting, sending sparkling orange rays over the mountains and reflecting off the still lake. It reminded me of Hogwarts. We stopped to admire the view for just long enough to appreciate how lucky we were – every one of us knew that if the weather had been bad, the climb would have been not just hard, but absolutely miserable.

Sam was hoping to be down again in another two hours, and I was determined to make it. I set a much faster pace going down, determined to prove I could do it and that I wouldn’t hold everyone up if I didn’t have to. I chatted to Gerry a bit more, who besides being able to tell me stories of the NYF was being very encouraging and refused to listen to my laments about how slow I’d been going up. “Don’t worry, you’re smashing going down,” she kept saying. “We’re all fit, but you’re doing really well and you’re much fitter than you think you are, and you haven’t complained, you’ve just kept going.” I thanked her for saying so – it meant a lot, especially when I couldn’t help feeling that they probably all wished I hadn’t come.

At one point, Sam noticed that my backpack was dripping, and it turned out my Camelbak was leaking through the plastic bag. He got it out and emptied it and we carried on going down, at a good pace, and I was pleased with myself. The poles helped enormously, and my balance held, and finally I didn’t feel like I was too slow. The sun had set, and the evening grew darker, but a full moon appeared in the clear sky and lit our way for a bit longer. I was concentrating hard on where I was stepping, but there was space in my mind for me to appreciate how lucky we had been with the weather, and how much it was saving our energy for the final peak, when it wouldn’t matter so much if we were soaked and dirty at the end. We reached the stream we had crossed going up, and Sam came forward to lead us across it. It was getting darker now, and the path was narrower, so for the last stretch we got our head torches out. Most of the other climbers also had theirs on, and looking back it seemed like a Christmas procession coming down the mountain behind us. Some people were still heading up it, some even jogging, and it occurred to me that they must be even madder than we were.

When we got close to the end Sam must have given the others some kind of signal, and they all zoomed off ahead of me towards the bus and the loos. I sped up a bit too, but still couldn’t go as fast as they could, and so as usual I was the last to finish and had the least time to sort my things out. I had time to use the toilet, but not to change, so I got back on the bus in damp underwear and feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Still, Sam reported that we’d got down in an hour and forty minutes, which was bordering on fast, and everyone was pretty impressed. I still felt like the others would be managing so much faster without me, but at least we were still on track to complete the challenge, and I almost managed to convince myself that it was better for us to pace ourselves anyway than to push so hard that someone does an injury (I even almost believed it).

I sat back up the front again and I was grateful I had, because the road was even windier heading out of the district and the driver seemed to be in a desperate hurry to get to our service stop, where he would be handing us over to another driver and heading home. He hurtled along like a rally driver, careening round bends, speeding up and slowing down, tailgaiting and swearing at slower drivers. I tried to eat – I needed to eat – but the queasiness was setting in again and my stomach seemed to have closed itself. I drank some water and slowly and painfully got through a protein bar. I tried to rest, but even when the road straightened out I couldn’t get comfortable with my underwear still damp, and wasn’t about to try and change when there were two men in the front with a large rear view mirror giving them full view into the back. I changed my socks, and was pleased to find I had no blisters, and only a couple of hot spots. I propped my feet up on my bag for a while, then closed my eyes in the hope that exhaustion would help me sleep.

We drove through the night, but it was not a happy journey.  The bus grew quieter, heads nodded and blankets came out. Some of the girls were whispering quietly to each other, others were looking at their phones. Some got a bit of sleep – I could see their heads nodding – but I was not so lucky. I turned one way and then the other, tried leaning on my bag, using it as a pillow, but I just couldn’t get comfortable, and the windy road didn’t help. After a little while Sam climbed into the back and lay down for a nap, which meant I couldn’t stretch my legs out, and as the hours ticked by I began to feel cold. Wretched thoughts filled my mind and I had no strength to push them out again. I was cold, tired, uncomfortable, seasick and I had wet underwear.  I was underprepared for this whole thing, when everyone else was fit and capable, and I stuck out like a sore thumb. I had too much stuff, and couldn’t get organised, I had a leaky water container, the wrong kind of snacks, and had no idea what I was doing. I felt like a great heffalump. Or perhaps a woozle, or anything else unpleasant that was annoying everyone else. Why had I suddenly become that person?

We stopped in the small hours to change drivers and have a quick toilet stop. Our new driver was slightly more sedate, but I gave up on sleeping as the sky began to lighten and the mountains of Wales came into view. I had just started thinking that we must be getting close and I’d better try to eat something, when Sam called “right everyone, let’s go!”

There were exclamations of surprise from the back – what had happened to our 15-minute warning? No one had shoes on, no one had eaten breakfast, no one was even properly dressed. Thank goodness I had plastered my feet already, and I shoved my shoes on and ran to the toilet as quickly as I could. Once again, there would be no time to change. I tried to eat a protein bar as the others were tucking in shirts and checking bags, but it was no good – fatigue had set in, and I couldn’t stomach anything, and there was no way I would be able to go up this mountain without the poles, which meant no free hands to eat. I would have to tackle Mt Snowdon, the last and most difficult of the peaks, with damp underwear, no sleep and an empty stomach. I was not looking forward to it. My only consoling thought, not that it was worth much, was that at least, for once, I wasn’t the only one who didn’t feel as though they’d had enough time.

We set off before the sun was up at around 4.30am. It was cold, and we started in t-shirts with our jackets on this time. The first half an hour or so was not too bad – there some flat bits, some rocks to climb over and a ladder to scale. Sam came up front with me and chatted for a while, which was nice. But it wasn’t long before the familiar burn in my legs was back, the queasiness returned, and my chest heaved. I was running on empty, I’d taken in no fuel, and my energy was zero. I pushed myself on.

“Not puffing already are you?” asked Sam jovially.

I cursed him in my mind for announcing my weak condition to everyone behind me. “No, no – just psyching myself up!” I replied. It was a lie. I was out of steam, and there was a whole mountain to go.

There were two routes up the mountain, Sam told us, and he’d picked the harder but quicker one, in the interests of completing the challenge on time. I made a mental note to myself that if I ever climbed this mountain again I’d be taking the other way, and I clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so – I could hear mutters of discontent from behind me, including from one or two who had used the other path before and were finding it wasn’t what they had expected. The view, at least, was pretty, and though the peak was obscured in thick fog the valleys and lakes below us came into view as the sun rose behind us. I had no energy for taking photos, but I did at least have the strength to appreciate that in any other circumstances I would have been thrilled to enjoy such a moment of nature’s splendour.

It was tough. With every step my mind was repeating over and over ‘It’s hard. I can’t. It’s hard. I can’t’. My shoulders began to ache with the effort of pulling myself up, a blister was forming on my left palm and my trousers had started to chafe, but it was nothing to the pain in my legs, the squeezing of my empty stomach, and the burning in my chest. I hauled myself up, step by step, gritting my teeth, hauling one foot up one step at a time and then dragging the other one up to meet it, swapping feet every few steps. With each hesitation a voice came from behind me – “Come on Karleen, keep going, don’t stop, one foot in front of the other, that’s it, keep going”, as if I didn’t already know that’s what I was supposed to be doing. And still there was that voice, repeating over and over, “It’s hard, I can’t. It’s hard, I can’t.” And yet, I did.

We stopped for a drink, and someone said, “Are you ok Karleen? You look a bit white.”

“No no, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Did you eat anything before we left?”

“No, there wasn’t time. But I’m ok, I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are; do you want some flapjack? There’s some left.”

“No, no.”

“No, I think you should eat some.”

Someone – it might have been Katie again – put a piece of flapjack in my hand and I nibbled it slowly, and to my great relief, I felt some energy creeping back into my muscles, and my stomach unclenched a bit. I thanked whoever it was, and on we went, with me in front as usual, and all I could see ahead of me was rock, and dirt, and more mountain.

It began to rain, and we stopped to pull on hats, gloves and waterproof trousers which did, at least, hold my other trousers up and ease the chafing. On and on we went, and the voice came back louder than before: ‘It hurts. I can’t. It hurts. I can’t’. The rain grew heavier, and my borrowed jacket and trousers did their job and kept me dry, but I began to worry about my camera, as I didn’t have a waterproof covering on my bag. I hoped it was wrapped in my jumper, but I didn’t dare ask to stop if I could check. Eventually we crested a small peak and met up with the tram track that takes visitors to the top. Oh, how I would have loved to get on a train and go down! But we were near the top – though we couldn’t see it – and Sam urged us on.

We were exposed now, on the other side of the mountain, and the weather grew fouler. We could see a few meters in front and that was it. Rain came at us sideways, and then hail, battering our arms and poking us in the eyes. Ahead was only dense fog, and every time I asked Sam where the peak was, he refused to say.

“Is that it?” I would ask.

“No.”

“Is it that one?”

“No.”

“That one?”

“No. don’t ask, just keep going, don’t think about it.”

But I needed to know, I needed to see how far it was, and to see the distance getting smaller, not stare into a cloudy abyss with no knowing when it would end. The last stretch was awful. Each step was a strain, each breath an effort. I wanted to stop, I wanted to turn around, I wanted to shelter behind a rock and wait for the sun to come out, but I kept reminding myself that people had donated money for me to do this, and how would it be if I had to go home and tell them I didn’t do it? I thought of everyone who’d donated, everyone who’d loaned me clothes and equipment, and I thought of the children in Nepal who’d be able to eat and go to school because of that money. I thought of two girls I’d met in Tansen who might be able to follow their dreams, and I thought of the girls behind me who’d been pushing me and supporting me all the way.  Finally, finally, there was a peak up ahead and it had people on it.

“Is that it?” I asked Sam.

“Yes, it is.”

Hurrah! I pushed on, and we were at the tram stop, with one set of steps to go. I pushed on again, one last time, and we were at the top.

The relief in the group was palpable. We’d done it! There was a plinth, one of those one that have arrows and distances pointing in every direction. I collapsed onto it, never so grateful for the cool feeling of metal on my face. We took another photo, with the wind swirling around and our hair going wild, and then it was time to head back down, past the tram stop, along the track, turn at the plinth to go down to the right. Nobody could remember which one it was, so we stopped to wait for Sam, then down we went, through the mist, over wet rocks and across streams. It was hard, but so much easier than the way up, and I told myself that once I was down, that was it, I could relax, there would be no more mountains. Sam had hinted that he had something to celebrate when we got down, and I had an idea what it was, and I thought of that. the voice in my head was still there, but it had changed its tune, and now it just said ‘It hurts. It hurts’.

The others pulled ahead of me and Sam let them go. I didn’t want to arrive ages after everyone else again, but I couldn’t go any faster. Sam stayed with me, and I tried to get him chatting, as a distraction, but perhaps he thought talking would wear me out faster. I slipped on a rock and my knee slammed against the stone wall, but the path was narrow and I stayed upright. My calves began to protest and finally I could feel blisters on my toes. I ignored them, I told myself it didn’t matter, I could rest after this.

We caught up to Kellie and Alicia for a bit, but then the path became steep and treacherous and they pulled ahead again. They were chatting as they went, and for a little while I felt sad and lonely that I hadn’t had someone to chat with – not that I would have been able to. It was like the mountains in Nepal all over again.

“Do you think the other would be there by now?” I asked Sam.

He frowned. “Maybe. I’m not really happy that they went ahead, where’s the team effort?”

“I don’t mind”, I said, which was mostly true. “They must have been bursting to go at their own pace the whole weekend, and they’ve been good about not showing it, but I know they’ve been frustrated.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he replied in his broad Yorkshire accent. “Don’t worry about it. You shouldn’t feel guilty, it’s about you and what you can do and prove to yourself. You can only at your pace, and you’ve done really well, you should be proud of yourself.”

“Thanks.”

I was, it was true, but I’d be more proud when it was all over and I’d stopped hurting. Lots of people were passing us now on their way up, and I offered words of encouragement, like I had on Ben Nevis. We were so nearly there! I started to feel hungry again – surely it must be nearly lunch time? I couldn’t check my watch without impaling someone behind me, so I asked Sam – it was only 9am.

The path flattened out, and I heard Sam behind me say: “Do you see that gap in the wall where the others are going through? If you can get to that in two minutes you’ll complete the challenge in time.”

I looked up and saw Kellie and Alicia clambering through a small gap in a dry-stone wall. It was about 100, maybe 150 metres away.

“Ok, I can do that.”

And I did.

I stepped through the wall, raising my poles above my head as I did so, but there was no applause, no hugs, no pats on the back. I felt Sam raise his eyebrows. No one else even noticed. But it didn’t matter, I’d done it, and that’s what counted. We made it back to the bus, where the others were busy sorting stuff out, grabbing snacks, brushing hair. Some had even had time for a shower. Sam went immediately to the back of the bus, and I discovered my hunch was right – out of his bag he pulled a bottle of prosecco and some plastic cups. He handed it to me and I opened it like a pro, pleased to finally be good at something. We shared the bottle around and it was wonderful, despite the fact that it was warm and it was only 9.20am. I didn’t care. I felt we had earned it. Belatedly I remembered the nip of whisky I had packed into the bottom of my backpack, and wished I’d remembered it for the last struggle up Snowdon. Oh well.

I grabbed my bag and went inside to change, savouring the luxury of dry underwear, clean socks and tracksuits. I didn’t really want to put my boots back on but it was too cold to go barefoot, so I pulled them on, leaving the laces undone, and treated myself to a very large cup of tea from the canteen. Ah, it was wonderful! I would have loved to sit there for a while, enjoying the tea, looking back at the mountain and savouring our victory over the three peaks. We were only two hours away from Manchester, and I had no plans for the rest of the day, so I didn’t feel the need to rush. However the others were all keen to get back, to catch trains, to get return to their families for Sunday lunch, so we bundled back onto the bus one last time, and very soon we were back where we started, at the train station in Manchester. It was still only a bit after midday, but I was desperate to sleep, so I rang my hotel and thankfully they said I could check in early. It took me a long time to walk the one mile to the hotel, with my legs seizing up and my too-many-bags. But I made it, took another 20 minutes or so to get up the two flights of stairs, sent my parents a message to say I’d made it, and crashed into bed.

It took me several days to recover from the challenge (not to mention it took 15 minutes to get down the stairs in the morning) and it took a full three months for my big toenails to fall off, but it was worth it. I proved that I could do it – despite being unfit and unprepared – and I didn’t prevent the others from completing it in time either. But most importantly of all, I raised £1,000 for the Nepal Youth Foundation, which is a fantastic amount in a country where our currency goes a long way.

I’ve been asked many times since then if I would ever do it again, and the answer is, probably not. If I were to climb those peaks again I’d like to do them one at a time, without being on the clock, and be able to stop more often, enjoy the views, and take more photos. But I’m glad I did it though, and I’m even more glad I was able to help a worthy cause along the way. If you’re one of the people who donated, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.