Ten years is a long time to carry a landscape in your mind, but the Edale Skyline has always stayed locked in there for me.
It was October 2016 when I first walked it. Back then, I wasn't just carrying a rucksack; I was carrying the heavy, suffocating weight of raw grief. I had lost my mother ten months prior. I went up there seeking sanctuary - a place where the external harshness matched my internal storm - and I did it with the quiet company of three good men.
This past weekend, those same men - Mark, Barry, and Dan - returned with me to that same gritstone ridge. We went back older, ready to face the 19.1 miles and the 3,999 feet of elevation once more, this time in the high light of June, just a week before the summer solstice.
But the hills don't honour anniversaries. They offer no easy nostalgia. The ridge simply looked at us and said, “Come out and play.”
The Fog and the False Start
A decade ago, we carried heavy tents and wild-camped in the shadows of the pine forest above Ladybower. This time around, looking for a bit of hard-earned comfort, we booked a cottage directly on the trail. The universe however had other plans! Just a week before the trip, the owner cancelled the booking and thoroughly ghosted us.
Frustrated and mildly panicked by the lack of last-minute alternatives, we resorted to type: we grabbed the gear and booked a campsite.
This hitch forced a change of plans too. We set off in Dan’s van at 7:00am on Saturday, parking at Hope Train Station. The sky was heavy with grey, billowing clouds, but the air was warm. Packs on, we set off down the road and straight up our first major climb: Lose Hill.
When you have thrown yourself into nature for many years, it shouldn't come as a surprise when conditions flip from pleasant to hostile in a heartbeat. As we gained height, we entered a thick cloak of mist. Water hung in the air, coating us instantly. That warmth at the station was mocked as it was chipped away, until we were entirely at the mercy of the elements. By the time we hit the summit, the wind was slamming into our faces. A wall of rain and suffocating fog claimed first blood.
The Retreat
As we stepped into the gale from the summit, a sudden gust jolted Dan on the wet, slick rocks underfoot. I saw his face tighten immediately. Mark and Barry had already headed down the slope toward the dip before Mam Tor to get out of the exposure, leaving Dan and me standing in the full force of it.
"My back just tweaked," he said.
I knew the gravity of those words. I stood with him in the roar of the wind as his mind played out the options. Continuing meant taking a step at a time further away from safety. If that tweak became a full spinal seizure ten miles in, we would be as far from help as anyone can be up there. The only thing at risk by turning back at the three-mile mark was his pride.
The Peak District had swallowed us whole on the very first ridge. Standing on that mist-choked peak, my heart ached for him, but it takes immense courage to look at a mountain, look at your own limitations and choose to retreat. It was the right call.
He had gotten up there on his own steam, so I furnished him with my walking poles, handed him a hefty lunch I’d prepared for him and told him to enjoy it back at the safety of the van. After a parting hug, I set off at a trot to catch the others.
Mark and Barry were waiting in the dip, sheltered slightly but still shivering. I broke the news. We all looked back up the trail just in time to see Dan’s shape disappear slowly over the edge of the mist. His day was done, but ours was just beginning.
Howling at the Shivering Mountain
We pressed on into the wind. By the time we reached Mam Tor, the gales were ferocious. On any normal weekend, the sky above the Shivering Mountain is alive with the colourful silks of paragliders. Right then the air was empty.
The gusts were massive, literally taking us off our feet. Icy darts of sleet stung our skin, and our voices were completely lost in the roar. It was no place to linger. From the summit, we could see the onward route entirely cloaked in thick, menacing cloud.
But as we came out of the worst of the wind, I realized something: I was howling as loud as the gale. Unrestrained laughter was pouring out of me. The smile on my sleet-slashed face was broad and unmovable.
We crossed the lone road that intersects this remote route and headed up toward Lord’s Seat, finding mirth in every single blast of weather. This was not the march of a decade ago - silent, heavy, and morose. This was a walk of light steps and merriment.
We passed the burnt-out shells of two cars that had somehow been abandoned right on the ridge line. It was an eyesore, sure, but it felt like an echo of human chaos. We aren't saints and for some in their lives, the wind howls constantly. I decided to leave judgment behind and simply pushed on toward the path across Horsehill Tor.
Feathers and Stone
The next section is mind-boggling. Almost three kilometres of stone path stretches across the marshy peat floor, high up in the clouds. Every single one of these massive flagstones had been flown in by army Chinook helicopters and lowered into place to save the fragile peat from erosion.
The result of that monumental effort is beautiful: unblemished stretches of cotton grass, whipped by the same wind that harried our legs and faces. It is an engineering masterpiece built for a humble cause. I drank up every single step with relish. It’s a sight no camera can truly capture because of the sheer scale of it, so I traced that path into my heart again, but this time, I wrote it in happiness rather than grief.
As the flagged path dropped down, it brought us to the base of the climb up to Kinder Low and Kinder Scout. People began to materialize out of the fog again. Among them, drifting through the mist alongside us, were the ultra-runners of the Spine Race.
Watching them endure, placing one mud-slicked foot in front of the other under the pressure of strict race cut-offs, was a stark reminder of what the human spirit can withstand when stripped of all comfort. I recognized that quiet fellowship of suffering. You stop talking (the wind steals your voice anyway). You just breathe, watch the heels of the person in front of you and keep moving.
The French Lunch
We finally took a break at Kinder Scout, finding shelter from the gale behind an iconic stack of gritstone. Out came the provisions. For me, it was flatbread with cheese and piccalilli I’d prepped the night before. Mark and Barry each pulled out standard, shop-bought triangle sandwiches. And then came the real surprise: Barry reached into his pack and pulled out a full bottle of red wine.
We roared with laughter. In 2016, our packs had been loaded with an inappropriate amount of alcohol. We consumed it when we stopped to camp, but back then, carrying that extra weight felt like a self-punishing decision that suited the dark mood of the time.
Here, in the shelter of the gritstone, smiling with my two friends, that green glass bottle was a pure gift. It elevated our hillside break into what we have since dubbed "The French Lunch," eliciting a few envious chuckles from the passing Spine runners.
And right then, everything changed.
Litha and the Weight of the Light
We are approaching June 21st - Litha, the Summer Solstice. It is the longest day of the year, the moment when the sun reaches its absolute peak before beginning its slow, inevitable descent back into the dark.
It felt fitting to have walked our own longest day just a week before the solstice. Ten years ago, my world was entirely dark. This weekend, even wrapped in fog and rain, we were walking in the high light of summer.
Perhaps that bottle of wine shared among buddies acted as a peace offering to the weather gods, because as we finished it, the clouds suddenly parted.
The heat beat down upon us. The very same light that had ripened the grapes in the bottle now put life back into our limbs. We stopped again near Madwoman’s Stones, just to sit among the bilberry bushes, soaking in the warmth and gazing at the blue ribbon of Ladybower Reservoir far below. If Dan had still been with us, I don't think we ever would have left that spot. It was a seat among the clouds and we had earned the reward.
What We Carry
The solstice reminds us that the light always returns, but it also reminds us that endurance is required to see it. Sometimes, the longest days aren't the ones spent basking in the sunshine from morn till night. They are the days spent grinding through the mist, counting the elevation and trusting that the ridge will eventually lead us home.
But what we carry in our hearts is often what we find on the trail. Our thoughts and feelings are the lens through which we witness the world. When you are dark of heart, the wind is harsh and punitive. When you are light, joyful, and surrounded by friendship, that exact same wind is just something to make you laugh (even when it slams you to the ground).
The height of the sun and the length of the day are forever changeable. We humans must learn to embrace the dark just as much as we do the light.
Darkness is not a failure; it is just a moment in the natural cycle of a life lived in love.
Bones
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