My ageing house is like a Beaufort Scale for the wind. Gentle flutters at the windows, 2. Windows start to rattle, 4. Whistling down the stove flue, 6. Cold draughts through any gap, 7. Constant rattling windows, 8. Slates are falling from the roof, 9. I dread to think what a 12, hurricane, would feel like.

Today, a strong breeze is forecast, building this morning with sharp rain showers. There is a yellow wind warning with gusts up to 40mph in exposed places  I stay in watching my holly and yew bending outside the window

By afternoon, the wind is stronger, but the rain has passed. Time to wrap up and get out for one of my 52 Walks. I try the back garden first. Tree branches are waving violently at times, with a ‘whooshing’ rather than ‘rustling’ sound, as there are no leaves on the trees. Quite hypnotic.

On the street, the wind is strong enough to buffet me, and with one arm in a sling, I feel somewhat vulnerable. But striding out confidently with the wind at my back Imake good time to the supermarket. Being Britain, all the talk in the shop is of the wind.

Returning by a longer route, I feel the full force of the wind through my body as well as on my face. Any hat would be in danger of taking flight. Indeed, paper litter is being blown in eddies around the streets. I look up at the fells and imagine how exhilarating it would be up there.

***

  Today is just one of my local walks, but I do feel very refreshed even from this short exposure to the wind. In the past, I have had my fair share of gale-force walks and camps.

As a greenhorn backpacker on the early Pennine Way in the sixties, pre-Wainwright’s Guide of 1968, I had reached the Northern Pennines and was camped high on Knock Fell. The inevitable happened in the night as the notorious Helm Wind did its best to blow me and my tent into oblivion. I remember I was scared, and at first light packed up and braved the roaring gale back down to Dufton. I reached the pub to phone home and arrange a rescue. The locals in the bar were impressed that my tent, a cotton Black’s Tinker, had stood up to the force; it can blow at 100mph.

Still young and foolish, we set off to walk the Kentmere horseshoe one winter when gale-force winds were forecast. I’m sure there was probably a warning to stay off the hills; there certainly would be these days. The fells were covered in ice and snow, but we were equipped with crampons and ice axes. At the top of Garburn Pass, we started on the ridge to Yoke. The wind became fiercer as we gained height. The ridge is very exposed, and we had difficulty keeping on our feet. Any fall onto the icy surface had us being blown along horizontally towards the steep drop into Kentmere. Ice axes were needed to prevent us from disappearing. I have no idea why we didn’t turn back, but I vaguely remember enjoying the challenge. We reached the imposing Thornthwaite Beacon, where there was some shelter from the westerly. At least we could almost hear ourselves discuss our escape plan. There was no possibility of continuing the horseshoe over Kentmere Pike. There are not many easy ways off the ridge at the head of Kentmere in winter, and reading the map was impossible. To add to our problems, we were now in a whiteout. We needed to get down to  Nan Beild pass, where there is a stone shelter and an easy way off the fells. On a compass bearing, we were literally blown down towards it, but a few degrees out, and we found ourselves descending on very steep ground. Fortunately, a break in the clouds revealed Blea Tarn directly below, and we realised our mistake before committing to dangerous territory. With relief, we changed course and reached the shelter at the pass, from which we could slowly descend out of the worst of the wind, battered physically and mentally by the experience. There was no other person to be seen out that day.

My latest memorable experience of gales was on our high-level traverse of the Pyrenees. Having crossed over from an icy France to sunny Spain, we were enjoying a high camp just off the ridge at about 2,500m, sitting around watching the sunset and distant peaks. We were unaware that a deep low-pressure system was approaching from the west. The lightning strike on the ridge above woke us in the early hours. Deafening thunder, a gale-force wind, and torrential rain followed. We battened down, dressed and packed rucksacks for an emergency exit. We must have been in the eye of the storm, as there was no respite for about two hours. We didn’t expect the tent to survive; it is still torn where we were hanging onto its flaps. Our plan was to escape down the valley to Torla in the morning and lick our wounds. But dawn broke without any further damage, and we headed to the Goriz refuge for sustenance. All in a day’s mountain travel.

So much for taking a windy walk.