Let’s be generous and say we’ve made it as far as the shoulder of Castle Knott. The summit’s still a good quarter mile away, and another two or three hundred feet of ascent. But the day’s actual objective, Calf Top, lies a mile beyond that, its form as yet unseen, I presume, hidden by this shaggy bulk of Castle Knott. It sounds dramatic, but it’s more of a squat moorland hill, with a meandering quad track leading to the top. There’s not much to recommend it as an objective, then, and certainly not worth killing ourselves for. As for Calf Top, is it worth pressing on?

We let the walking pole dangle loose from the wrist by its strap, and the wind takes it out to a generous angle. It’s probably gusting up to forty miles an hour here. It’ll be stronger and colder, the higher we climb. We crouch low and consider the options, though a little voice tells us the decision has already been made.

A wild upland of endless moor, there’s no shelter here – not a rock or a tree – no respite from this thuggish wind. To the south and east, the hill falls away into Barbondale. Beyond that, marching across the Dales, there looks to be some weather coming in – possibly hail mixed in with it. And the wind’s driving it all in our direction. As for us, there’s nothing left in the legs, and the long climb so far, over one false summit after another has sapped the will. On a better day it would be a good place settle down, to rest, take some nourishment, let the strength and spirit catch up, then carry on. But not today. Today we bail.

We left the car down at the village hall in Barbon – the most perfect little village. Then we came up through the manicured parklands of Barbon Manor. On reaching the farm at Eskholme, and beyond the intake walls, the path rises seemingly near vertical, making for the little crown of a cairn on Eskholme Pike. That short, steep section betrayed all too soon the paltry number of hills we’ve climbed this year. It’s all right, totting up the miles in our little black books, but if we’re not climbing hills, they’ll let us know how soft we’ve become, as soon as we step out on one.

So, it’s back to the Pike, the wind roaring at our backs, helping us along while trying to snatch our hat off. Here, we catch some shelter among the crags, hunker down and rest a while, break out the flask and the energy bars. From here, we gaze out across the broad, verdant valley of the Lune, towards the hills of South Lakeland. The sky is a blue-grey slate, sliding by in great wind-blown slabs, breaking into fantastic textures overhead. Below, the trees shed the last of their leaves in showers of red and gold.

It’s not cold, now we’re out of the wind, and with the path pointing down rather than up, we can relax and better appreciate the energy in the day, knowing the hard work is done. The battle is over — neither won nor lost. It’s simply good to be out in the air, on a fell, even if it’s given us a good hiding.

And then, as we sit here, we’re reminded how most walks are about gaining a sense of perspective, as much as they’re about reaching a summit — my walks, at least. The summit is more something to christen the day, but it’s always best to bend by the path whichever way it chooses to meet us. We don’t always get the best views from the top anyway.

I suppose we could trace this idea back to Francesco Petrarca, known to history as Petrarch – in a sense the first recorded fellwalker, and to whom we pay tribute. Fair enough, he reached the summit, walking up Mount Ventoux in Provence that day – in the early spring of 1336. But rather than climbing it because “it was there”, he framed it more as a moral and spiritual exercise. In his account he reflects on the vagaries of human ambition, vanity, and the relationship between the self and God.

They thought he was mad for doing it, but not because of any physical danger – it was more that a man leaving the ordinary path to climb a hill just to see the world from above was considered an act bordering on hubris – at least to the medieval mindset. Yet Petrarch’s climb captured something of the changing spirit of the age. Indeed, his telling of it helped reshape both culture and history, ushering in the Renaissance– a great flowering of humanist art and spirit.

One of the things to come out of the Renaissance was how artists started placing people in their landscapes: no longer as outsized saints and sovereigns dominating a flat world, but as figures set more faithfully in space and light – human life in its proper proportion to the world. It marked a shift of perspective, yes, but also a shift in consciousness and perception too.

And yet, in other ways, you wonder if we haven’t begun to slip backwards – the world becoming flat again, figures inflated against backgrounds, out of all proportion, our souls traded for clicks and the search for an interior life considered next to madness. It’s a curious juxtaposition – all these techniques of vision at our disposal, yet a creeping perspective that no longer reveals the world’s depth.

And so, back to us here on Eskholme Pike…

It’s actually quite pleasant, out of the wind, the clouds rushing by. Down below, the Lune flashes silver through autumnal trees. Sure, we didn’t make the objective but we can see plenty from here. Perspective isn’t always a summit cairn; sometimes it’s just sitting on a rock, catching your breath, and the world wide open at your feet.

Thanks for listening.

“I looked back, and my gaze turned inward” – Petrarch