[kiasusam]

Ambleside was, as Dave had predicted, busy. Busy? The small town was packed. It was also quaint if rather commercial . . . but not at all tacky.

'What's that?' I said excitedly, pointing at a house built on top of a bridge over a stream.

'It's Bridge House. Nowadays it's a National Trust information centre. I think it used to be an apple store.'

'People work in there?' I was amazed. 'Isn't it a bit precarious?'

'It's been there three or four hundred years. It's already come through everything Mother Nature has to throw at it.'

Dave turned into a decent-sized carpark and exclaimed, 'Halleluiah!' as a family of four pulled out of a slot.

'Kismet,' I murmured, casting around, seeing that every other space was taken.

Dave beat me to the pay and display machine and wouldn't accept the handful of coins I tried to press on her.

'Boots on and let's hit the track,' she said.

While I adjusted my backpack I noticed her rooting in the Mini's glove compartment, finally extracting an Ordnance Survey map and a compass on a lanyard. She put the map in her backpack and secured the compass around her neck, in the manner of a school games teacher.

'We won't need either,' she assured me. 'I know the route like the back of my hand.'

'So why bring them?' I asked sceptically.

'Because sudden mists have been known to descend.'

I scowled at that but she was ready for the off. No way was I backing out so away we went, easing a passage through the bustling streets.

Ambleside is, in my opinion, a marvellous place. Every other building seems to be a pub or a restaurant, a B&B or a small hotel. And the bustling pedestrians all had that smiling virus too. The only downside I could find was in those plentiful B&Bs and hotels: every last one of them was displaying a NO VACANCIES sign.

Boo! Hiss!

Fortunately, I knew how holiday areas worked from my two and a half years in Cornwall. If we looked hard enough we would find something, somewhere. Just not there in Ambleside.

Assuming my begging, beseeching and imploring paid off, that was.

Walking in companionable silence, spending more time off the pavement than on, we made our way out of town. Soon we came to an impressive-looking iron gateway. The gates were closed and, judging by the lodge behind them, were protecting a large country estate.

'Here we go,' said Dave, pointing to an almost invisible signpost.

'Are you sure it's a public footpath?'

'That's what it says, isn't it? Come on. Onwards we go.'

We pressed on, starting to go gradually uphill, eventually coming to a kissing gate (where we kissed, naturally!), seeing our first titchy mountain looming ahead of us.

'That's Nab Scar,' Dave said as we broke for air. 'As you can see, the path zigzags all the way up. We won't need crampons and pitons.'
'Klingons?' I echoed, still dizzy from our kiss.

'No, silly, crampons.' She chuckled. 'They're a climbing aid. So too are pitons, although they are frowned upon these days.'

'Climbing,' I said, still holding on to her.

'I've gone right off the idea,' Dave said, her eyes enormous behind her specs. (Don't ask me what colour they were just then; I was hypnotized and in no condition to notice minor details). 'Know what?' she resumed. 'If I didn't think you'd had enough of the outdoor life, I'd call it off tomorrow. Try to get you to stay here with me for another night.'