Joan's accident

It was my turn next. In April 1977 we went up to the Lake District. After some lunch in the caravan, we went for a climb. It had been snowing slightly and we came to a small rock which Brian, with his long legs, managed without difficulty.

Instead of having the sense to find a way around it, I decided to clamber over it with my little legs. I didn't make it, slipped and fell 80ft back down the mountain. Poor Brian aged ten years and, for the rest of his life, felt that it had been his fault, when in fact it had been my own stupidity.

When I felt myself slipping I had put my foot out to try and stop falling and, landing very hard on a rock, smashed my ankle into small pieces. It also catapulted me outwards, obviously for some distance. I could see the craggy rocks I was about to fall on and, strangely, coolly anticipate my demise.

However, my Guardian Angel had not deserted me on this occasion either and I landed in a gully between the rocks. My forehead was badly cut, so by the time Brian got to me there was blood everywhere, poor man!

Incredibly, the manager of the hotel situated at the bottom of the mountain had watched us through his binoculars and saw Brian hurrying down on his own. Staying in the hotel was a member of the Welsh Mountain Rescue Team, who immediately started up the mountain to meet Brian, to ascertain where I was.


Help had been sent for and, within an hour, six young men from the Lake District Mountain Rescue Team arrived, put a wonderful support round my ankle (which immediately relieved the pain) and carried me down to a waiting ambulance.


I apologised for my weight (about 9-stone) and they laughed, commenting that I was a feather compared with the 17-stone man they had brought down from Jackson's Rake the previous day.

At Lancaster Infirmary most of my luck ran out. A nice piece of stitching was done to the cuts on my face and head, but the Greek doctor who attended to my ankle had never seen anything like it. He screwed as much of it together as he could, but then put on a plaster that stopped at my knee instead of immobilising the whole leg.

My leg swelled inside the plaster and the pain was indescribable. I was transferred to Stockport Infirmary into the hands of an orthopaedic surgeon who described my ankle as “resembling an ironmongers shop”.

Unfortunately the bones had already started to knit together in the wrong place. He did what he could to rectify the mistake, but after three months in plaster, I was left with a permanent limp and considerable discomfort.

Eventually I was in hospital again while my ankle fused, which entailed breaking the ankle again, mashing-up the bones and replacing them so that the calous could fix the ankle in a permanent position.

That worked very well until the 1990's when Brian started to have problems which landed him, from time to time, into Stepping Hill Hospital. Thinking the exercise would do me good, I used to climb the stairs to the top floor where his ward was. My ankle did not take kindly to this and now demands more rest and a strap.

What did Brian and I learn from this..? Certainly gratitude that our lives were spared; that we were not totally crippled ... and patience.