Andrew Okey
Basic
My favourite top can vary according to where I am in any exact moment, but I always ultimately settle on Little Stand, a barely-known little patch of heaven (Wainwright didn't even bother to classify it, but then he was a miserable git) with perfect views across the boggy moat of High Eskdale to the Sca Fells. And there is never anyone there!
Pan pipes, though? Now that is weird. The closest I can offer is the experience of a friend of mine, a keen fell-runner. He was once humping up Heron Pike in deep fog when two people opened up a gentle conversation right in his ear. Though he was sweating and gasping, these voices effortlessly kept pace with him without the slightest indication of any exertion of their part. He'd just convinced himself that ghosts exist when he broke the fog bank to find, five feet above his head, the basket of a hot air balloon and its two passengers, that had been tracking alongside him all that time...
Pan pipes, though? Now that is weird. The closest I can offer is the experience of a friend of mine, a keen fell-runner. He was once humping up Heron Pike in deep fog when two people opened up a gentle conversation right in his ear. Though he was sweating and gasping, these voices effortlessly kept pace with him without the slightest indication of any exertion of their part. He'd just convinced himself that ghosts exist when he broke the fog bank to find, five feet above his head, the basket of a hot air balloon and its two passengers, that had been tracking alongside him all that time...