The uncertainty over coronavirus has us all leaning into the wind

When the wind blows hard, the gritstone escarpments of the northern Peak District can feel dangerously, wonderfully exposed.

A few years ago we had a family gathering to celebrate my mother’s 70th birthday, returning to the hills of her childhood. We’d found a remote cottage to house seven of us, just south of Hathersage, and I secretly hoped for snow. But while the skies were grey, the clouds held only rain: the River Derwent was swollen and fast-flowing.

We were due to stay just for a long weekend, and only the Saturday held out the promise of clear weather. Even then, walking plans needed to suit all ages: Beatrix, our daughter, was only just four. So we headed to Stanage Edge, which allowed for various alternative routes.

All of us were wrapped up, for while the rain might have held off, it was chilly even in the valley. We began the short climb up to the top of the ridge, Beatrix encouraged by the prospect of conquering her first “mountain”.

The edge was once a trading route. It also provided the raw material for millstones and grindstones, which were slowly chipped into shape by local masons in centuries past. Now it’s a Mecca for rock climbers, despite reaching only 25 metres in height. But there were few climbers in evidence that day, all but the hardiest put off by the wind.

Sure enough, it had been breezy enough in the car park, and as we ascended the gusts came harder, straight into our faces. We pulled our hats down and leaned into the wind.

When we finally came onto the edge itself it was as if we had walked into the path of a giant leaf blower. Mini waterfalls trying their best to descend the rocky face of the escarpment were blown backwards, showering ramblers with icy droplets. Hoods rattled around faces, mimicking the noise of a pneumatic drill.

I felt anxious that Beatrix would be lifted off her feet; but at least she’d be flung only to the dead bracken on the gentle southern slope to our left, rather than off the dark cliff to our right. We sought shelter among some of the large rocks that litter Stanage’s long top, feeling the wind whipping past. Moving on, we were immediately buffeted once again.

We didn’t walk far: the gusts were as cold as they were strong and Beatrix’s face was being blasted mercilessly.

We descended via a path that ran parallel to the one we had come up – the seven of us strung out over a hundred yards or so, with Beatrix walking first with a grandparent, then a parent, then my brother and his wife. All of us feeling grateful for the wood burner we would light when we got back to the cottage, and the sofas we could sit in comfortably and companionably.

My father was 70 this summer. There was no weekend away, no big family gathering. I took the children to see him last weekend, to hand over some belated birthday presents. We did our best to keep our distance, with the children even camping in the garden till rain came through the tent. There were no hugs for anyone.

We’ve all taken a buffeting in the last few months. The best we can do is lean into the wind and try our best not to be blown down.