Looking ahead I could see the small shapes and colours of Rab clad hikers on the ridgeline. The vivid purple jacket, now faded to the pale lilac of windswept thistles by long walks in the wilderness was my Mum, the light green - my Dad. I could just make out the urgent hand gestures of a frustrated parental conversation about whether to employ the carrot or the stick. A dark cloud was cleaving across the otherwise cotton wool sky threatening family harmony, but all was lost on the wind. I couldn’t see my brother but I didn’t need to. He was already by the tarn, setting the scene to show he’d been waiting for hours, gleefully tucking jam sandwiches between smug smiles. I pictured my dad ruffling his hair and making comparative exclamations about his eldest and mountain goats. I uncurled the silver paper of my last fruit pastille and wished I’d heeded the age old wisdom about not eating the full packet on the drive over. Holding the promise of its energy to the roof of my mouth I tried to subdue the raging medley of adolescent hormones and emotions that had started a chemical reaction that was sure to end in an explosive tantrum. I sat, withdrew into my oversized waterproofs, and began my hopeless but passionate protest against the mountain.

Its probably a common story, such emotions often run high in the lakes on a sunny bank holiday. I’ve watched it from the other side, seen flushed faces and rucksacks getting flung to the ground as over exuberant trig bagging gets pitched to tired legs, dividing families and stretching relationships.  The morning of my own desperate sulking had started with lectures in using compass bearings to navigate between points and the day hadn’t got any better on realising the terrain between said points was the steeper side of Bowfell. On reflection there was probably other lessons in there about map scales and the density of contours but these were likely lost in the attention deficit of my post-car sugar spike.

I’m sure I’m exaggerating, and jokes aside owe everything to my parent’s unique definition of character building but I do remember that moment vividly. The feelings of inadequacy, of feeling useless, empty, trapped by my own lack of motivation. As the adage goes – ‘no one conquers the mountain’, but at this moment I had definitely been defeated. I remember a burning anger directed at the long dewy tufts of grass and patches of thigh high bracken that stood between me and the ridge. I remember swirling winds, tall clouds and the weight of the full flasks I’d proudly declared I’d carry. I remember the red trailing laces of stiff boots that refused to tie and the uncomfortable prickle of sweat in polyester, most of all I remember the lack of empathy on the blotched and gormless faces of passing sheep as I wallowed in my own self-pity.

I remember this moment specifically because it was the time I decided the mountains weren’t for me. I no longer wanted to do this every weekend.  I wanted mates, to be ‘normal’, be a teenager, wear hoodies instead of fleeces, and jackets that weren’t from Peter Storm. I wanted to taste brightly coloured alcopops, buy equally bright trainers, and go to those young farmers parties I’d heard so much about.

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The price of my new fleece is testament to the amount things have changed in the 15 or so years between that moment and now. I think I am proud in saying I’ve come full circle even if I did, quite recently, buy a large round of bubblegum WKDs. It didn’t take too long from moving away from Kendal to realise that I inherently missed the freedom of these fells. Missing them however and truly enjoying them are perhaps two very different things for me and enjoying them again for my own reasons has probably been a longer journey owing a lot, if not everything, to a genuine love affair with riding bikes. I’d sooner be pushing a bike up Whernside than without one and though I’ve grown into hiking with boots and bag packs, something always feels amiss without a bike slung over my shoulder for good measure.

Over the past 5 years I have been privileged enough to ride bikes through some of the worlds famed and most dramatic mountain ranges, but truth be told it is in the Lake District that I feel most humbled, most small – most inferior. Growing up with the Pindaric stanzas of Wordsworth as gospel and the heroics of fell runners and local climbers as verse I’ve always felt quite intimidated by the outdoor exploits of ‘Proper Cumbrians’ in proper limestone houses. In other words, or as your part-time pub therapist might call it; 'Daddy issues'. Whilst I pedal my identity as a northerner in the big smoke, waxing lyrical about how the purists only eat their mint cake without the chocolate coating and tell tall tales of rescuing sheep up ont’ moors the truth is that I probably couldn’t recognise a single hill from atop Scafell Pike. Ask any Keswickian and they’ll tell you this is the true litmus test.

I am always worried when I’m back ‘home’ that the mountains will somehow figure this out, reveal me for the fraud I am; the skinny little waif clinging to that hillside on that day or the crepe soled, pas-agg emailing city boy I have become. It is extremely likely that deep down my biggest fear of all is being alone once again, clutching that last frosted gem of Rowntree’s on the steep flanks of Bowfell, full of my own self-worth, pity, and indignity at being found out.

But alas, this is all fantasy of the mind, the psyche, the human condition for the mountains don’t care. They don’t care about any of this. They have no definition of success, pay no regard to fast times nor far distances, expensive group sets and my new wick-able base layer. Whilst I refuse to fully write off the possibility, it is highly likely that Bowfell doesn’t remember the lone protester of 2005 during my adolescent summer of discontent. The hills definitely don’t care that every time I’m back I’m still trying my hardest to prove to that little boy I am worthy of comparisons to mountain goats.

When all is said and done, the mountains know no ego and this, in its essence, is why I keep going back. The fells know nowt.