I KNOW it’s unfashionable amongst fellow hill-goers – a lumpen thing lacking the excitement of gnarlier Lakeland peaks further south – but I’m rather fond of Skiddaw and not ashamed to admit it. I particularly love it in winter when its white bulk dominates the northern Lakes in paternalistic style.
I headed on to England’s fourth highest mountain from Keswick last winter, a rare (for me) trot up the ‘tourist’ path. At Jenkin Hill, though, I left the well-trodden ways to climb Skiddaw Little Man, an
