When I last walked on Scout Scar, some 20 years ago, I helped my mum scatter Grandpa's ashes.
I should remember the day clearly, but I don't. There was wind, straggly hawthorn and a sense of completing a task, I think, but this vertiginous ridge of limestone with preposterously fine views everywhere is lodged in my memory from other walks with Grandpa.
In his latter days, slowing up, he eschewed the
