What’s the first mountain I climbed?
That depends. What do you mean by climb, mountain and first? But that’s a philosophical path I don’t choose to tread here; for there lay sleeping Jabberwocks (in this gentle memoir they will remain untickled). So for this happy, as true as long ago childhood memory story, we’ll stick with a simple physical mountain (a lump of rock, mud, heather etc. over 610m altitude) on the Isle Of Man.
Away we go then, to August 1970 (relax, time travel works in our imagination), at Laxey tram station. Specifically the queue for the Snaefell Mountain Railway (actually an electric tram, but this is the Isle Of Man, so railway it is). And in the queue, with his beloved dad, there’s a very excited small boy; me. Always fidgety, this day I’m close to bursting. I am though on best behaviour (think Pooh holding Tiggerish energy in check) standing politely and outwardly calm.