My Yorkshire 3 Peaks Fiasco: A Comedy of Errors (and Near-Death Experiences)

Let's be honest, I'm not known for my meticulous planning. "Winging it" is practically my middle name. But even by my standards, this Yorkshire 3 Peaks thing was a new level of unpreparedness. A few weeks prior, the challenge was just a vague notion, something I'd heard whispered on the wind (or maybe it was a YouTube comment, the details are hazy). The Yorkshire Dales? Never been. Terrain? Who cares, right? My local hill, Pen y Fan, was taller, it didn't look too far on the map, so how hard could it be? Famous last words...

So, there I was, bleary-eyed at 6:40 am on a Tuesday morning, rolling into Horton in Ribblesdale with the kind of confidence that can only come from blissful ignorance. The village was shrouded in a thick fog, straight out of an "All Creatures Great and Small" episode. I half expected to see James Herriot himself emerge from the mist, shaking his head in disbelief at my silly large backpack.

The car park was dotted with a few other cars, which I took as a good sign. "See," I told myself, "I'm in the right place. This is going to be a piece of cake." Ah, the naiveté. My first hurdle, and I kid you not, was leaving the car park. I confidently strode off in what I assumed was the right direction, only to end up in an overflow car park, fenced off like a maximum-security prison. Here I was, about to tackle 26 miles of unknown territory, and I couldn't even navigate a car park. Top-tier adventuring, right here.

After some embarrassed backtracking and a close encounter with a bemused dog walker (who definitely gave me the "you've got no idea what you're in for" look), I finally found the trail. Almost immediately, I was confronted with a sign pointing towards a train station and another with a big, fat "NO ENTRY." My internal compass, never the most reliable instrument, started spinning like a top. I opted to ignore the no-entry sign (rebellious, I know), crossed the railway line, and found myself face-to-face with a field of sheep. Now, I'm no sheep expert, but these weren't your average woolly fluffballs. These were massive beasts with gloriously curly horns that reminded me I hadn't seen a curly worly for ages. I gave them a wide berth.

The path was well-worn, which was reassuring, though some sections were more "mud bath" than "path." I tiptoed across slippery stepping stones, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity (and dry feet). As I climbed, the ground turned into this cracked, brittle limestone that looked like it could crumble beneath my feet at any moment. Informative signs popped up every now and then, explaining how glaciers and whatnot had shaped the landscape. Fascinating stuff, but I was too busy trying not to break an ankle to fully appreciate it.

The fog clung stubbornly to the peak of Ingleborough, making it feel like I was walking on the edge of the world. I knew there was a trig point up there somewhere, but visibility was about two feet. Cue frantic fumbling with my map app, which eventually led me to the elusive marker. Quick selfie at 9:00 am (because, proof), and then I was off, hurrying down what looked like a dried-up stream bed towards the next peak.

And that's when things got interesting.

The path abruptly ended at a sheer cliff face. No gentle slopes, no warning signs, just a vertical drop. Below, through the swirling mist, I could hear voices. Peering over the edge, I saw a group of three hikers clinging to the rock face, looking like they were about to give up and build a nest. Great, just great.

With a deep breath and a silent prayer to the hiking gods, I began my descent. It was basically rock climbing in reverse, with the added challenge of mini-waterfalls trying to wash me off the cliff. The hikers below watched my progress with a mixture of awe and pity, probably wondering if they'd have to scrape me off the rocks later.

Eventually, I made it down in one piece, feeling like I'd just escaped from a mountain goat obstacle course. The next peak, Whernside, was a long slog, but at least it didn't involve any impromptu mountaineering. I reached the summit at 12:30 pm, only to find the trig point was on the other side of a wall, guarded by a group of lunching hikers. Of course. With a dramatic (and slightly embarrassing) heave-ho over the stile, I claimed my selfie and braced myself for the long trek to Pen-y-ghent.

The Ribblehead Viaduct was a welcome sight, a magnificent sweep of stone arches that looked like something out of a fantasy film. I snapped a few photos, promising myself I'd come back and properly admire it later (spoiler alert: I didn't). Then, disaster struck. Again.

Following the path along the road, I somehow managed to take a wrong turn. It wasn't a major detour, but the fact that I got lost on a clearly marked path after navigating a near-vertical cliff was a serious blow to my already fragile ego. The path I ended up on seemed to be someone's driveway, and I half expected to be greeted by an angry farmer with a shotgun.

Thankfully, the driveway just kept going, eventually leading me back to the trail. By this point, the weather was threatening to turn nasty. My weather app flashed an amber warning for rain and wind, and I briefly considered calling it quits. But the stubborn (or perhaps idiotic) part of me decided to push on.

The final ascent to Pen-y-ghent was a blur of fatigue, aching muscles, and the growing fear that I might actually get blown off the mountain. I reached the trig point at 5:30 pm, just as the storm clouds were gathering. Victory was mine! Or so I thought.

The descent was brutal. A steep, slippery, 18-foot drop down a cliff face that would have been challenging even on fresh legs. My tired mind and battered body screamed in protest. I inched my way down, clinging to the rocks like a limpet, convinced that one wrong move would send me tumbling into the abyss.

Looking back, I realized that doing the challenge in reverse would have been much easier and starting somewhere between the first 2 peaks, doing the rock climbing on fresher legs, would have been the sensible thing to do. But hey, hindsight is 20/20, right? And who needs common sense when you have sheer determination (and a healthy dose of self-loathing)?

I finally stumbled back into Horton in Ribblesdale as the streetlights flickered on, just scraping in under the 12-hour time limit. 67,000 steps, countless near-death experiences, and enough self-inflicted embarrassment to last a lifetime. But I did it. The Yorkshire 3 Peaks had been conquered (or perhaps they had conquered me).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a very large bath and an even bigger drink.