Men and Mountains

I like big men.

Tall, broad, burly, massive men. I'm talking in romance hero terms, of course, and should clarify that I don't mean the sort of massive heart-attack-waiting-to-happen World's Strongest Man muscle bound hulk sort of big. Although the blond Icelandic Jon Pall Sigmarsson* shouting, "I am a Viking!" in his classic nordic accent has a certain appeal.

Put it this way. I get hot flushes watching rugby. I'm five-seven, and when I once bumped into a man a foot taller than me I almost fainted. I can't imagine writing a hero under six foot tall. How shallow is that?

All the important men in my life are, if not burly, then certainly tall. Dad's six foot, Brother is six-two. Husband is six foot (on a low gravity day, and if we count his hair) AND burly (Hallelujah!).

I was musing on this preference today as I drove to work. I went a different way, which brough me round the foot of the Skiddaw massif. Wainwright described Skiddaw as the patriach in a Victorian family portrait, austere and upright in the middle of his family group, and a good view of this familiar panorama always fills me with a sense of wellbeing and serenity.

I looked up at the massive, immovable mountain, constant and enduring, equal parts strong and savage, and got an idea why the hero-who-looms makes me weak at the knees.

* Since I just googled the delightful Sigmarsson and found out he died at 32 of a heart attack while doing deadlifts in the gym, I should point out I mean no disrespect... eek.