On the back of the UK's fifth heatwave, I had initially planned to walk High Raise from Grasmere, but the forecast favoured the east and far east of the park, so where better to walk than High Street. Instead of making an ascent from Mardale Head, I opted to start from the hamlet of Hartsop, based purely on the fact I can reach it now that Kirkstone Pass reopened a couple of weeks back. Don't get me wrong I could still have reached Hartsop from the north or via Ambleside and The Struggle, but I wasn't about to get caught up in that mêlée given how narrow The Struggle is.

It was overcast and cool when I left home, a theme that continued the further north I drove, and by the time I arrived at Hartsop, cloud was obscuring The Knott and beyond. The car park was less than half full, and I kitted up in peace and quiet, the silence disturbed only by a cool wind that confirmed I'd definitely be wearing a softshell over my long-sleeved baselayer. Within five minutes of arriving I was ready to leave. After a final sweep of the boot, I locked the car, dropped four pound coins into the donor box, and in doing so disturbed two dozen grazing sheep including a couple of tups on the opposite side of the gate.

I left the scattered sheep behind and further up, crossed Hayeswater Gill via the familiar footbridge before joining the steep, stony track alongside the gill. It was here I was passed by the first of two wild-campers heading back to Hartsop and my memory drifted to a couple of years ago when David and I were ascending this very track wearing head torches in the dead of winter, also during an ascent of High Street.

The gradient eased once I passed through the first gate, although it remained rutted underfoot. I soon reached the Hayeswater outflow, which I crossed via the new wooden footbridge standing on the original foundations. I think it's the third time in memory the bridge has been washed away, only to be replaced by an identical one the latest version standing quite high above the water level. I joined the opposite embankment just as I spotted two more wild-campers approaching the bridge, their packs laden and across the distance we managed a nod.

I began my ascent with firm ground underfoot, my view widening over Hayeswater over my right shoulder when a tent came into sight on the tarn's eastern shore. Whoever had pitched it had taken the trouble to travel a good length of the shoreline pitching up directly below the Straights of Riggindale.

Shortly after descending Two Penny Crag I spotted three more tents pitched in a grassy lea on the south shoulder of Rampsgill Head hearing the occupants music long before I saw their tents.

I'm just going to leave that there and let you make up your own mind.

I got stuck into the ascent of High Street, opting to ascend to the left of the summit wall. By this time I'd noticed cloud approaching from the north‑east, and within ten minutes the temperature had dropped further, the wind had picked up, and visibility was down to around a hundred yards. If ever I needed a reminder of how quickly conditions can change on the fells, this was it.

I quite enjoyed my time at the summit, where despite the wind a stillness had settled broken only by gusts blowing through the wild grasses. After a few minutes of taking it all in, I drew my wedding ring across the concrete trig followed by at friendly tap then left.

I opted to descend Gray Crag via the nose of the fell rather than take the pathless descent towards Hayeswater as I've done many times in the past. It was during this descent that I started to pass walkers the first two an elderly couple, followed by a younger couple after the path switched east to avoid the steep crags on the nose. The path is steep but easy to follow and soon the track alongside Hayeswater Gill came into view. I could see dozens of folk in ascent; some were resting at the side of the path while others pressed on. Either way, it was looking busy down there. The gradient eased over the last of the slope, smooth grass underfoot and dozens still heading up.

I was still wearing my softshell, so before reaching the track I stopped beside a large boulder and de-layered why I didn't do it sooner is anyone's guess. After folding my jacket under the lid of my pack, I joined the track and continued my descent, still passing hoardes in ascent, before remembering the sign saying the local farmer had opened up a field earlier this morning. That's where everyone was coming from. Fair play. I reached the familiar gate and passed through, only to be held back when the hood of my softshell got caught in the gate's clasp forcing me backwards with a jerk. How the hood didn't tear off is beyond me.

The air remained mild though the sun had disappeared behind cloud; it reappeared by the time I reached the sheep pens. The car park was full, but thankfully, with cars still arriving, others were leaving. One guy couldn't believe his luck, slotting his car into a newly vacated space seconds after pulling in. I arrived at the back of my own car just as a BMW showed up; the driver politely asked if I was leaving. "Give me five," I replied, but another car left and he went for that space instead. The hustle died down as I began to kit down, still not quite believing how I'd managed not to rip that hood clean off. I inspected it again for the third or fourth time before folding it away thinking you lucky begger.