Alfred Wainwright Quotes

There's no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.

You were made to soar, to crash to earth, then to rise and soar again.

The fleeting hour of life of those who love the hills is quickly spent, but the hills are eternal. Always there will be the lonely ridge, the dancing beck, the silent forest; always there will be the exhilaration of the summits. These are for the seeking, and those who seek and find while there is still time will be blessed both in mind and body.

Give me a map to look at, and I am content. Give me a map of country I know, and I am comforted: I live my travels over again; step by step, I recall the journeys I have made; half-forgotten incidents spring vividly to mind, and again I can suffer and rejoice at experiences which are once more made very real. Old maps are old friends, understood only by the man with whom they have traveled the miles.

One can forget even a raging toothache on Haystacks

Oh, how can I put into words the joys of a walk over country such as this; the scenes that delight the eyes, the blessed peace of mind, the sheer exuberance which fills your soul as you tread the firm turf? This is something to be lived, not read about. On these breezy heights, a transformation is wondrously wrought within you. Your thoughts are simple, in tune with your surroundings; the complicated problems you brought with you from the town are smoothed away. Up here, you are near to your Creator; you are conscious of the infinite; you gain new perspectives; thoughts run in new strange channels; there are stirrings in your soul which are quite beyond the power of my pen to describe. Something happens to you in the silent places which never could in the towns, and it is a good thing to sit awhile in a quiet spot and meditate. The hills have a power to soothe and heal which is their very own. No man ever sat alone on the top of a hill and planned a murder or a robbery, and no man ever came down from the hills without feeling in some way refreshed, and the better for his experience.

The precious moments of life are too rare, too valuable to be forgotten when they have passed; we should hoard them as a miser hoards his gold, and bring them to light and rejoice over them often. We should all of us have a treasury of happy memories to sustain us when life is unbearably cruel, to brighten the gloom a little, to be stars shining through the darkness.

There is much quiet joy in writing: there is exercise for the imagination, escape from the shackled body, solace for the troubled mind.

Clouds are the most transient of nature's creations. They come out of a clear sky, disintegrate before your eyes, vanish. You never see the same cloud twice. Every moment of its brief existence brings a change, a change of form or tint or texture; but its beauty remains constant to the end. The beauty of the clouds is there for us to see every day, if we are not too busy to look up....

Morning is the best part of the day for walking. The air is freshest then, the earth sweetest. The flowers preen themselves after their bath of dew, and stand erect with rare self-assurance, proud of their bright clean colours. The birds are happiest in the morning, and most lively then. They dart across the path before you, wheel and soar above the trees, swoop unerringly to their nests. They chatter and chirrup and sing in unending chorus, blithely contented and gay, and so very very glad to be alive.

Cuando un joven que se declaraba incel (un «célibe involuntario»), después de que una chica lo rechazara y de llevar «más de dos años» sin tener relaciones sexuales, mató a treinta y dos personas en Canadá (porque que no conseguía «hacer» que ninguna mujer se acostara con él, pobrecillo), les pregunté a las mujeres de Twitter qué hacían ellas cuando llevaban más de dos años sin tener relaciones sexuales. «Hacía calceta», «Leía poesía», «Aprendí capoeira y me apunté a clases de baile», «Me compré todos los libros de Alfred Wainwright y me aficioné a hacer senderismo por el Distrito de los Lagos», «Adopté un gato», «Escribí un libro», «Aprendí cerámica», «Aprendí a cocinar», «Me masturbaba». Hay cientos de miles de mujeres faltas de afecto y rechazadas sexualmente, y ni una sola ha protagonizado una matanza en un colegio, una discoteca ni un centro comercial. Ninguna mujer ha matado a un montón de gente porque se sintiera rechazada por la sociedad, pese a que me atrevería a afirmar que las mujeres sufren desengaños amorosos como mínimo con la misma frecuencia que los hombres.

I continued on my way towards Hexham, very slowly, at what I call hymn-speed. I have not mentioned that I sing as I go along. I always do. Seldom loudly, more often in a murmur. I recognise few limits in my repertoire; I can treat myself to anything. I bellow in opera, warble in ballad. My choice on any particular occasion is governed by my speed, and governs my speed; my feet march in tempo. My favourite uphill song is "Volga Boatman," which suits my movements admirably: I find I can grind out a note with every step, and each verse earns a pause, a brief halt. For slow travel, or when I am tired, hymns are best; not the noisy modern tunes, but the old ones, the softer melodies: "Breathe on me, breath of God." "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." "When I survey the Wondrous Cross." "Nearer, my God, to Thee." "Lead, Kindly Light." and best of all, "Abide with me'" old familiar tunes which can never lapse and be forgotten; quiet tunes and comforting words learnt in childhood, and later loved. . . . Last of all are the rousing marching songs, which usually end the day, unless I am very weary, when my choice is invariably "Lead, Kindly Light.

Be that as it may, the river proceeds like an unwilling boy to school: it deviates from a direct course on the slightest excuse. It prefers to loop, twist and curve, and often almost doubles back in its tracks, so that you may walk miles along its banks and find yourself after all not very far from where you started. On the map, it is a curling snake. And it is a snake that needs no occult power to keep a beholder entranced; it is itself a charmer.

... I came across a gipsy encampment, the first of many I was to see....I never saw any of these Romany folk working; always they were squatting before a fire, doing absolutely nothing at all but gaze in the embers. What their philosophy of life is, I cannot guess, but it must be perfected at a very early age, and I imagine none but those who are whispered the secret in their cradles can ever hope to understand it. Idleness has no defence; it cause mental and moral and physical stagnation; but the me I saw in these camps were completely inactive. They were not resting from their labours, but simply lounging killing time. It was almost pathetic to see them, for theirs were not happy faces, but the hopeless, expressionless faces of men sunk deep in melancholy....They were as men without hope, waiting for the end; they were refugees, outcasts, yet neither.