SCARECROWS AND CARMAGEDDON – MAY BANK HOLIDAY IN THE LAKES

FOUR blissful mountain days, two Corbetts and two Grahams, and I never met another soul on the hill. Then I went to the Lake District. On May Bank Holiday weekend.

I know, I know. Why would someone who craves the solitude and emptiness of the Scottish landscape and who feels claustrophobic looking into a tin of sardines do that?

There were mitigating circumstances, of course, a friend's completion of the Wainwrights arranged so that as many folk as possible could be there. Personally, I thought it a bit selfish but hey ho, that's life.

Rebecca's finish was the focus of our annual week away and we were staying on the quieter western edge of the Lakes in the hamlet of Ullock, south of Cockermouth. She had chosen the lowest of the list, Castle Crag, as her final peak and had organised a late afternoon start in the hope that things would be a little less busy.

With that in mind, some of us decided to tackle another hill in the morning. We settled on Seathwaite Fell, a decent leg-stretcher not too far from Rosthwaite, our destination for the big finale.

The early signs were good: the peaks were hidden in the mist and traffic was light. But no sooner had I mentioned how quiet it was when we turned a corner and saw the line of parked vehicles spread along as far as the eye could see.

Salvation came in the form of an enterprising farmer who had opened one of his fields as a makeshift car park, charging £5 a time. Not a bad little weekend earner: there were at least 100 vehicles there at any one time, a constant turnover.

The late afternoon start worked well. By the time we had driven round to Rosthwaite, enough spaces had appeared to accommodate everyone. With the weather now completely flipped and the sun blazing down from blue skies, the company were able to strip off the dark waterproofs although the riot of colour and various stages of dishevelment now on show did bring brought to mind the local scarecrow festival taking place in the villages around our home base.

Castle Crag may be the smallest Wainwright but it is a wonderful, craggy little lump, with sensational views in every direction. The slate maze slalom just before the summit is an unexpected delight. It was an inspired choice for a finish.

The following day started a little dull and hungover and there were some initial problems with parking but as we had stayed west at Loweswater these were small beer compared to 24 hours earlier. It stayed dry and the day finished on a high with the descent by the steep and eroded path along the side of the wonderfully named Scale Force waterfall.

Bank Holiday Monday now loomed but we had a cunning plan for a round of six summits above Crummock Water, a 6am set-off to beat the crowds sure to be lured out by the promise of the best weather of the week.

Our early start worked: the car parks were deserted. The not so good news was that we walked in clag for most of the round. It was just like being at home. Timing is everything and it was only as we started down towards the lowest summit of the six, Rannerdale Knotts, that the gloom lifted. And suddenly we were not alone.

The slopes ahead were swarming with people, every blade of grass covered, every outcrop occupied, dogs and children running around, the roads below choc-a-bloc. The big draw at this time of year are the Rannerdale bluebells, a spectacular sea of blue on the hillside below.

With the rarity of the sun shining, it's easy to see why so many are keen to brave the roads and join the throng and it would be churlish to suggest we had any more entitlement than anyone else to be here. We are all tourists in one form or another after all. The problem is not so much the volume of visitors, but rather the sheer idiocy, ignorance and selfishness of too many. It was if every potential winner of the Darwin Awards had descended on the place en masse.

With the car parks full to bursting, drivers had taken to finding a space anywhere they could, no matter how ridiculous. And with every space along one side of the road taken, there was now only one lane available for two-way traffic. The big winner seemed to be the ice cream man whose van was right in the middle.

We were told the road had already been blocked five times that day, so as we waited for our friends to come off the hill, we bought an ice cream and sat back to enjoy the entertainment. This was Carmageddon.

There was one car half-squeezed on to a verge with its tail sticking out on the road limiting passing space further. We did wonder if this belonged to the ice cream man, strategically placed to slow traffic. One driver was waved out into the stop-start queue only to then try to stop a few yards further on to go and get his girlfriend a cone – obviously she was incapable of walking the extra few yards – to the fury of those behind. He was eventually embarrassed into moving on only to lose a wing mirror in the process.

And there was the man who decided to leave his car in the middle of the snarl-up to go and sunbathe on the grass. Cue lots of shouting and a suggestion that a mob should lift his car and dump it off the road but he didn't seem the least concerned or apologetic when he finally reappeared. Add to this dogs off the lead chasing sheep while their owners yelled at each other and an overdose of tattoos, ill-fitting swimwear and cheap bling and you can see why many believe the end of the world can't come soon enough.

Eventually it all became too much and we wandered off up the road to more sedate surroundings to collect our vehicle and leave the madness behind. The holiday weekend over, the contrast over the remaining three days was stark. It was almost quiet.

With our completist now turning her attention to the Corbetts, I expect her next one will be in much more tranquil surroundings. Unless she chooses The Cobbler on a lovely summer Saturday afternoon of course.