As I write I feel a bit like a member of a cast that, having just won a prestigious award, is the last to speak as we all pile on stage at the awards ceremony. I should be simply stating "Thank you, you've been great. Goodnight!" and exiting promptly, but . . . there is too much that needs to be said.

I can think of no greater driving force than the various friendships amongst those who raised the sponsorship, and took on the Challenge, to honour Howard and Sebastian; and no greater effort than that shown by Rupert and the team leaders - in particular Chips who rallied us with such an efficient, but light touch (bar, of course, the water bottles incident shortly before Snowdon).

The determination shown by the Peak Earlys was unrivalled. We had such a great combination of: fitness; fatness; a genuine mountain leader; food; conviction; common sense; our own sports massage parlour; team spirit; driving talent; preparation; support; navigation by van; sustenance/more food; chat; japery; self-belief coupled with self-awareness; kit; yet more food; Vaseline; rhythm; navigation on foot; Lycra; optimism; sense of when to push on and when to ease back; grit; soup; sweat; toil; and so much more.

Whilst it is natural that the memory dims the trickier moments of the 21 hours 43 minutes (although not quite dim enough to contemplate doing it again), there are some glorious moments that will stay embedded for ever - the three summits themselves . . . some of the drinking stops and chuckles . . . the views (well earned) . . . the conditions (bar Snowdon) . . . the better conscious moments and banter on the bus journeys . . . sensing us each enter periods of personal struggle and come through them . . . and, best of all, the welcome at the bottom of each climb (three pretty smiling faces whooping as if we were Olympians).

There were other moments. The good fortune of a noisy air conditioner in the Holiday Inn which provided the necessary level of "white noise" to negate a tromboning Bodger. The joy as the girls served us soup at the foot of Ben Nevis. The disappointment at McC's attitude to our soup kitchen and bottle filling efforts twixt Scafell and Snowdon (coupled with camaraderie that helped he and I get each other down Snowdon - albeit still not sufficient to quell his belligerence).

Chips' constitutional issues about which we heard, experienced and endured far too much. Spending the dark hours after Ben Nevis either staring enviously at the slumbering baby-like features of the Vaughan, who seemed to have created a mini boudoir in front of me, or chuckling with Rupe at the 100s of positional variations we had tried in order to extract even 5 minutes sleep for the journey, but failing amid giggles. The contrast between the Charlie after 500m of Ben Nevis, and the Goat on the descents. 

This extract from my mail of two months ago made me chuckle at its unwitting prescience: