My mum was sixty-five last year; she spent four seasons, winter to autumn, trecking through the Lake District after sixty-five named tarns (and, inevitably, one Innominate Tarn). Throughout the year I got the progress reports, by phone, as I walked the backstreets or tow-path home at the end of every working week. I swapped tales of unexpected woodpeckers and regattas for her latest tarn conquests; "I've visited four more, but I haven't drawn them up yet." With humorous inevitability she made her sixty-five months early, and with half a book unfilled. I remember the conversation, and urging her to carry on, as she hadn't got to autumn yet. So, there are a lot more than sixty-five tarns in this book, alongside walks, poems, and a marvellously thorough index. I finally got to see it last week, when mum dropped by on her annual Tour of Daughters. We ate tasty pie and I flipped through the book, juggling a camera while the Brookes girls at the next table hopped in and out of their chairs, blocking my light with their tousled masses of just out of bed hair. This year she's doing paths less travelled, although she has yet to meet the full challenge; can they walk all day in the lakes without seeing another person in high tourist season?