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BB2533
: A Short Play About A Walk
Wednesday
20th August 2025
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Title:
"Not Scafell and Back Again"
Characters:
• John
– retired IT man, fiddles with gadgets even
outdoors. Likes to lecture about technology
no one asked about.
• Terry
– retired CEO of a global shoe company.
Talks a lot about shoes, footwear, and how
people get it wrong. Mildly pompous but
good-hearted.
• Ian
– retired actuary. Obsessed with numbers,
probabilities, and risk. Always calculating
things nobody else cares about.
• Mike
– retired hotelier. Knows about food, wine,
and “proper service.” Carries far too much
lunch.
Setting:
Seathwaite,
Cumbria. The men are slowly making their
way up the path towards Sty Head Tarn (and
later Sprinkling Tarn), with their packed
lunches. The weather is overcast, mild,
and benign. Other walkers pass by, many
ill-prepared.
ACT
ONE
Scene
1: The Lane at Seathwaite
(The
four men trudge along. John fusses with
his walking poles like they’re computer
hardware. Terry keeps looking disapprovingly
at other walkers’ shoes. Ian is squinting
at a small notepad, scribbling sums. Mike
is carrying a rucksack bulging with food.)
John:
(tapping his poles) It’s all in the wrist
action. Like coding. You don’t need brute
force, just precision.
Terry:
(snorts) Coding? We’re walking, not programming.
And for heaven’s sake, look at that lad!
Trainers! On Scafell Pike!
Ian:
(peering at his notepad) Probability of
slipping in those shoes is… hmm… 63 percent.
Mike:
(struggling with his pack) Probability of
me needing a hernia operation after carrying
all these sandwiches is about 100 percent.
John:
What have you packed?
Mike:
Choice. A man needs choice. Ham and mustard,
cheese and pickle, egg and cress… plus emergency
pork pies.
Terry:
This isn’t a hotel buffet, Mike.
Mike:
Old habits. Besides, one of you lot will
forget lunch.
(All
three look at John. John sheepishly produces
a single cereal bar.)
John:
It’s got chia seeds. Very modern.
Terry:
(rolling his eyes) Modern’s not much use
if you’re starving halfway up a mountain.
ACT
TWO
Scene
2: Halfway up towards Sty Head Tarn
(They
pause on a rock, out of breath. Other walkers
pass by, some in flip-flops, some without
water.)
Ian:
Look at that group. No food, no jackets,
no sense.
Terry:
No proper footwear! Those soles will delaminate
before they’re halfway down. I’ve seen it
a thousand times.
John:
I could start a walking app. Warn people
about poor shoe choices. Call it “Sole Survivor.”
Mike:
You’d get sued the first time someone in
flip-flops claimed they survived.
Ian:
(still scribbling) Risk of blisters at current
gradient… approximately 1 in 4. Unless,
of course, you’re carrying egg sandwiches,
in which case…
Terry:
(interrupting) …in which case you’re more
likely to smell of sulphur.
(Laughter.
They watch the other party, older and fitter,
striding ahead towards the summit.)
John:
There they go. Full of energy. Straight
to the top.
Mike:
That’s where he is. Can’t believe it’s his
eightieth.
Ian:
Statistically speaking, most men his age
would be at home with slippers, not scaling
England’s highest peak.
Terry:
(with a grin) He’s always been contrary.
That’s why we like him.
John:
So we’re here to celebrate… by not quite
keeping up.
Mike:
Exactly. We climb as far as common sense
allows. Then we eat sandwiches. That’s civilisation.
ACT
THREE
Scene
3: At Sty Head Tarn
(They
sit down. John fiddles with a phone trying
to get signal. Terry takes off his boots
to lecture on proper lacing. Mike lays out
a picnic cloth. Ian continues calculating.)
Mike:
(producing pies) Nothing says “birthday
celebration” like pork pie at altitude.
Terry:
(gesturing at passing walkers) Look at that
girl! Ballet flats! She’ll regret it by
the first stone step.
John:
(still tapping his phone) If I angle it
just so, I might get 4G. Then I could track
our progress digitally.
Ian:
Progress? We’ve been sat here twenty minutes.
Mike:
Precisely. Which is progress of a sort.
John:
(muttering) Back in IT, downtime was the
enemy.
Terry:
Up here, downtime is the whole point.
(A
group of red-faced, gasping walkers stumble
past. One is drinking from a tiny bottle
of cola. The men exchange knowing looks.)
Ian:
Probability of finishing the climb? Twelve
percent. Probability of regretting it? One
hundred.
(They
all chuckle. Pause. They watch the mist
rolling over the fells.)
John:
Funny, isn’t it? We’ve worked all our lives.
Now we sit here, watching others dash about,
and we’re the ones content not to reach
the summit.
Mike:
It’s not about the summit. It’s about the
company. And the sandwiches.
Terry:
And the shoes.
Ian:
And the maths.
John:
And the Wi-Fi signal, if it ever arrives.
(They
all laugh. Fade to them slowly tucking into
lunch as the camera pans across the tarn
and up to Scafell Pike in mist. Gentle music
in the Last of the Summer Wine style swells.)
Final
Scene (Short Epilogue)
(Later,
as they amble back down, they see the birthday
group returning from the summit, triumphant.
The 80-year-old is sprightlier than any
of them.)
Stan:
Where’ve you lot been?
Mike:
(smiling) Celebrating at sea level. Well…
half sea level.
Terry:
(gesturing to footwear) At least we’ve still
got proper soles on our shoes.
Ian:
And statistically, we’ve maximised enjoyment
per calorie expended.
John:
And I nearly got a signal.
(All
laugh. The old friend shakes his head at
them fondly. They walk back together as
the sun briefly breaks through the cloud.)
[FADE
OUT. Music plays.]
Episode
2 – “The Tarnside Tea Crisis”
ACT
ONE
Scene
1: On the path back to Seathwaite
(The
men are straggling along. Mike is complaining
about the lack of a proper tea stop on the
mountain.)
Mike:
You’d think by now someone would’ve built
a café up here. Tea, scones, little
tablecloths.
Terry:
Health and safety would shut it down in
five minutes. Slippery floors, tray accidents.
Ian:
Probability of tea spillage on uneven ground:
eighty-three percent.
John:
You’d just get people charging their phones
and asking for Wi-Fi.
Mike:
(brightly) Exactly! And that’s where you’d
come in, John. You provide the signal, I
provide the scones. Partnership!
John:
A mountain hotspot? Might work.
Terry:
(grimly) Not unless you make them wear decent
shoes first.
ACT
TWO
Scene
2: Beside a drystone wall
(They
sit to rest. Mike unveils a flask of tea.
It promptly leaks all over his rucksack.)
Mike:
Oh, for heaven’s sake. That’s my spare socks
ruined.
Ian:
Statistical inevitability. Ninety-two percent
chance of flask failure if carried upside
down.
Terry:
(sniffing) Don’t waste it. Pass me a cup.
John:
(fussing with a gadget) I’ve got a self-heating
smart mug.
Mike:
A what?
John:
Keeps the tea at the exact temperature you
want. Controlled by an app.
Terry:
Ridiculous. Tea should be drunk hot, not
calibrated like a nuclear reactor.
Mike:
(sighs) And people wonder why civilisation’s
going downhill.
ACT
THREE
Scene
3: Back at the car park
(The
four men are slumped on a bench. A coachload
of tourists in sandals disembark. Terry
shakes his head in despair.)
Terry:
Look at that footwear. One good puddle and
they’re finished.
Ian:
Probability of soggy socks: one hundred
percent.
Mike:
Probability of me getting a proper cup of
tea round here: zero.
John:
(holding up phone) I’ve got one bar of signal!
Shall I look up the nearest café?
Mike:
Don’t just look it up — drive us there!
(They
all laugh, shuffling off toward the car.)
[FADE
OUT]
Mike
B, Wednesday 20th August
2025
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