“Oh.” I tip the brim of my cap down. “Well, it’s on the way to my sister’s wedding. And… To be honest, I was drunk at the time. So I think I searched ‘hikes in Scotland’ and now here I am!”
“Do you get drunk and book holidays often?” There’s a note of judgement in Lila’s voice.
“No, that was a special occasion.” I sigh. “I caught my boyfriend cheating.”
“So you booked a hike?”
“I think I wanted to do something that would make me feel strong. Independent. Like I had my shit together. And it’s silly, but I have this memory of a walking holiday my family went on once. I must have been eight. I’m not sure. I don’t know where we were or what the walk is, but we were all doing it together, and I remember that I spent the whole day smiling, holding my mum and my dad’s hands. And at the end, we got fish and chips and sat on the beach and watched the sun go down.” I shake my head. “That was the last time we were all together. I think a part of me wanted that feeling back.”
Lila nods, but there’s a pall over her features, as if something I’ve said has made her feel sad.
“Sorry, that was a bit heavy, wasn’t it?” I say, trying to lighten the mood.Rowan, always ruining nice conversations with her bloody feelings. When will she learn?“What about you? Why are you and Priya here?”
Lila looks away. “We’ve always gone on walking holidays. Ever since she was small. And I… I wanted to give her one last happy memory before—”
“Mum! Come look at this!”
Priya dances back towards us holding a yellow flower. Lila looks almost relieved, her confession pressed behind her lips, as she bends down to examine it.
When we start walking again, I glance at Lila, wondering if she’ll continue, but the moment is over. And all too soon after that we’re turning through a farmer’s gate, the moorland rising steadily beneath our feet.
Then we’re standing at the base of a switchback trail, looking up, and up, and up as it disappears behind grass and boulders, steadily rising in what looks like it will be a hellish ascent. We’ve arrived at the Devil’s Staircase.
And I am not prepared.
There’s nothing else for it. No way over, but through. I take a moment to stretch out my back, and glug from my water bottle to ease my parched throat. The sun, which has been a welcome warmth all morning, is now hot overhead, sending trickles of sweat down my spine. The climb is exposed, and we’ll be in the direct sunlight every step of the way. By the top, I’m sure I’ll be a dripping, red-faced mess. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing but endure.
Lila goes first, then Priya, then me. Angus brings up the rear. Even the first, gentler slope set my calves and hamstrings on fire.Why am I doing this?I can’t help but ask.Why am I torturing myself like this?
I have no answer.
“Why is it called the Devil’s Staircase?” Priya asks.
“It was named by British soldiers building roads here,” Angus says from behind. “Bastards couldn’t hack the elevation. Serves them right.”
“It is pretty steep,” Lila puffs ahead of us, her steps slow but steady.
The conversation lapses as we plough onwards. Sweat pours down my back, and my hair under my braid is wet. My bag feels as if it’s filled with rocks, and if it didn’t contain everything I need for the night, I’d throw it back down the hill.
I can feel Angus behind me, his breathing even and slow compared to my harsh gasps.
“Just… go…” I manage, turning back to him and resting with my hands on my knees. “I’m sure I’m holding you up.”
“Don’t worry about it, London,” he replies. “You keep picking those feet up, one at a time. I’m right behind you.”
The sound of his voice is soothing. Strengthening. He believes I can do this. Maybe I need to believe it too.
So I pick my feet up, one at a time, even though my legs shake, and my body rings out in protest. I count the steps in my head:one, two, three, four…And when I get to ten, I start again, over and over. Anything to distract myself from the agonising climb. We rest every few turns, looking out over the steadily growing view: the road winding below us through the valley, the green grass shoots with hazy gold, the mountains watching over us from either side, craggy as old men’s faces.
We climb until I’m sure I can’t climb anymore. Until my muscles scream and my lungs are iron-hot and screeching and a tear slips down my cheek in pain and frustration.
Angus is wrong.
I can’t do this. I’m not cut out for this. It is too hard.
I need to stop. To go back. To go home.
I don’t do difficult things. I’m a failure. I failed at university. Failed at my early twenties. Failed at my relationship. Failed to build the kind of life anyone would admire. I’m not the sort of person who thrives when the going gets tough: I collapse.
