Warton Crag is ten minutes from the house, which is the point. Not every walk is a Wainwright. Most of them, honestly, are this: an hour up the local crag with the dogs, back in time for tea.
The resident cows treat the footpath as a suggestion and personal space as a rumour. There is a particular field where the herd likes to arrange itself directly across the route and watch you negotiate. The dogs have learned diplomacy. We have learned the long way round.
The view from the top takes in the bay, the sands, and on a clear day the southern fells lining up on the horizon like a to-do list.
This is where the fleece does most of its actual miles — not the postcards. If it only worked on the big days it would not be worth making.
