The sheep are always watching

Bogeys at six o'clock... outgoing...

My brain feels as if it's being sucked out through my nose. I'm reeling back against the mountainside, the wind like a huge hand trying to pluck me from my perch and smash me into the rocks below. Through teared-up eyes, I can just about see a six-inch tendril of snot growing longer and longer... until it slaps back across my cheek and the hood of my raincoat. I giggle a little hysterically and check that Marianne, a few yards below me on the path, is still on her feet.

We're not in Whistler any more.

There are no skis on our feet, no snow beneath us; we're hundreds, rather than thousands, of miles from home. It's midsummer in the Lake District. Despite the rose-tinted name, this is some of Britain's harshest terrain. The altitudes are a little lower than we're used to, but the mountains and weather are the real deal. Lose respect at your peril.

In London, one is allegedly never more than six feet from a rat. After four days in the Lake District, it's clear to me that the same is true of sheep up here. In every shade of grey, in every location from verdant lakeside field to rock-strewn scree slope; spot one ten yards away and you can guarantee that there'll be three others within five. These are the 'stealth sheep' that are only visible when they care to be.

Yes, I know. Too much mountain air, perhaps. Or it could be the copious daily intake of red wine.

But today, at the northern end of Kentmere Valley, I'm beginning to think we've found a place where even sheep fear to tread. As we eat our lunch on a rough bench at Nan Bield Pass, low stone walls protecting us from the worst of the wind, we feel like the only people on Earth.

The view over Small Water to the southern end of Haweswater, seven hundred metres below, defies description; we're humbled, inspired, a little scared. As we tighten our straps and prepare for the tricky descent to Kentmere Reservoir, I spot a flicker of white among the rocks above us.

Of course they're up here. This is their patch. We're the trespassers. I only spot one, and only for a moment. But as we start downhill into the tearing wind, I know the others are watching.