Went hiking in the Peak District at the end of October for the first time in more than fifty years — yep, you read that right, last did it with my first serious girlfriend, a lass from Hazel Grove.
Went out first day (had a whole week's great hiking, circuits planned out with my mate), hiked along Mam Tor ridge, lovely weather, crisp autumn day, very lucky, stupendous views of course, fairly mild walking really (nothing too strenuous about the gradients), came down off the ridge, heading for Hope for some sandwiches and preferably a good pint or two, stood saying hello, hello, hello to passing hikers to be polite, boot well ensconced in a particularly deep piece of turf, turned abruptly to go without lifting my foot, and completely buggered my knee like a fucking clown!
By God but it was painful! My mate says he heard it pop. At first I thought I'd done my cruciates (I think subconsciously I wanted to be in the same company with heroes like Lakey), nothing as dramatic. It fucking hurt for the whole of the first day, and I was limping badly for the rest of the week, but the woman who saw me in Buxton hospital was barely able to suppress a yawn. She must see this kind of thing a hundred times a week. She said, no, you can't have a crutch, you can put your full weight on it (which I could!), you've strained your outer ligament fairly fiercely, you might have pinched your cartilage at the front with the kneecap, you just rest it, put an ice pack on it at night, and that's it!
I was well pissed off about ruining the holiday. No matter, my mate was driving, and we made it into a pub visiting holiday for the rest of the week. Which was pretty good too (terrific pub in Chapel-en-le-Frith, excellent pint, and everybody very friendly, forget the name, I'm afraid).
And my knee, I'm a bit ashamed to say, is just fine…