It wasn’t so long ago that a Big Year of Tough Hikes seemed likely for one of the years between age 65 and age 70. Certainly, that’s what my 60-year-old self had envisaged. But now at age 65, the notion, once attractive, of tackling the Tour du Mont Blanc, traversing Sicily’s central spine, and mastering the Western Arthurs in Tasmania, all in the one year, has vanished. I know this decision rings true. I’ve got better things to do than hike – it’s the book, stupid. Executing and preparing for big hikes is just so time consuming! Family (read: five grandchildren) looms larger now. And a dodgy knee means that what once seemed a matter of exertion is now risky. But I can dream, right? I’ve a coffee table book Lonely Planet Epic Hikes of the World – I can leaf through it now and then, surely? What’s the harm in gazing at vistas of trekkable alpine peaks? At the fag end of a deskbound day, is fantasizing so wrong?