Sex dating in frizington cumberland
He doesn't, in a phrase, look after himself, but leaping bogs and crashing down scree requires its own kind of fitness.
What he recognises in himself is that he "carries no weight" (at about 6ft and nine-and-a-bit stone, he is indeed "as thin as that", as an admirer says, holding up a single finger) and that he has "a tremendous amount of power": a power which is not built up in a gym or fuelled by food or rest, but seems in some slightly disquieting way to generate itself.
One bank of it is formed by the Screes, a rampart of rock half a mile high, in which broad red streaks are folded through the grey stone, the whole plunging and crumbling to the water's edge.
On the opposite bank, with more fells massing behind, there is a solitary farmhouse, the home of Joss Naylor, sheep farmer, fell-runner and modern Lakeland hero: a man whose work and play is so bound up with the landscape he inhabits, you might compare him to Wordsworth's Lucy, "Rolled round...
This happens each year on the second Saturday in October, the last show in the Lakeland calendar, the chilliest, drizzliest and heaviest-drinking.
To lay a hound trail, two runners head off in opposite directions, each dragging "a sock full of other socks" soaked in aniseed, to meet somewhere halfway round the course as the owners let their foxhounds off the leash.
And as the farmers disperse from the beer tent, over the wavery PA a little girl sings a song, written by a local teacher, in honour and praise of "our Joss".
And "their Joss" is how they see him; everyone here is pleased to tell you how they know him; proud, too, of his being not quite like them or ourselves, invariably reaching for extra-human terms - a "whippet", a "cougar", a "man of steel", a "bionic shepherd" - to describe him.
At the head of it, a wet little hamlet with an inn and a field for climbers' tents shivers beneath a horseshoe of big, bare mountains, Yewbarrow, Kirk Fell, Great Gable, Lingmell and Scafell Pike, the highest in England.On runs of more than two days, he will take three hours' sleep a night on his mattress in the back of a van.Neither, by the way, is he too careful about his diet.There are extra surprises - clouds of midges, minutes-long, that invade the mouth, the nose, the ears; and the black joke of the summits, the oatmeal scatterings of old fell-walkers' ashes underfoot.And the best endure these not for hours but for days, pressing past exhaustion until, sleepless and swollen-jointed, the stumbler loses his appetite for food, his ability to swallow, and can only report, as Naylor did of one escapade with his blood-coughing support team, "I do not have the words...