Monday, 14 July 2025

Peak District Ultra Challenge 2025

28th June: 54km 12hrs 10mins

My 7am alarm was pre-empted by a battle between AC/DC and a chiffchaff at 6am.  I think the chiffchaff won.  Either way, with the music blasting out from the start zone and the announcer giving a pep talk for the earlier starters, I couldn’t really get much more sleep and so I wandered over to the food marquee for breakfast.  There had been a steady buzz from people getting ready in their tents and campervans around me, matched by the low hum of a generator, at the Bakewell ‘basecamp’, with a feeling of energy being held back, ready to be released.

Anticipation building
My time to warm up came just before 8:30 and I had a brief chat in the starting pen with a girl called Becky who was also on the two day, 100km course.  It was warm enough to only need a tee shirt and was forecast to get warmer so I set off at a gentle pace, letting others come past me as they wished.  A few of the heavier-set walkers were soon blowing hard on the steep climb up to Calton Pastures until we reached the open spaces above Chatsworth House and we could catch a little of the breeze.  I had chosen the ‘solo challenger’ option but there were plenty of couples and groups all around me, so I’m not sure it made much of a difference – except it meant us soloists set off later than most two-dayers.  I did get to chat to a bloke who had been camping along the way from me.  He was doing it as a corporate event – they even had a beer tent at the end – but he didn’t know any of the others, so was just walking on his own.  Down near Calver a young couple, who were jog-walking the route, came past.  She was the only one with a backpack so when the lad needed a drink he bent down to her chest and suckled from her supply in an eyebrow-raising spectacle.

Crossing Calton Pastures

Chatsworth House

There was a rest stop at Calver where I ate some of the food and packed some more snacks into my bag, also filling a bottle with electrolyte drink.  Given the sweatiness of the day, I expected I would need it.  The next section, climbing slowly up Combs Dale, was certainly sweaty, being out of the breeze.  I passed some people and a chatty group of lads in Christie’s Hospital tee shirts passed me.  It was a relief to emerge from the trees as the valley opened out and to feel the wind again as it stirred up the dust of the path.  Near the highest section we passed a field of llamas.  Well, the announcer had said to avoid any livestock with young, whether they were ‘cows, sheep, llamas or dolphins.’  The walk was cetacean-free.

Llama
Just outside Wardlow, Becky was greeted by some of her family with a good luck banner, which was sweet.  We then dropped into Cressbrook Dale, with the usual struggles of people unused to rough, steep descents.  Tansley Dale didn’t feel too hard a climb, despite the heat.  I took it steadily but hurried a little near the top as there was a glut of people ahead and a tricky stile to negotiate, which I wanted to be over before them.  There were a lot of folk supping outside the Red Lion in Litton, including the Christie’s lads (doing the half distance).  Fair play to them.  It was Tideswell Wakes weekend so music was echoing out from the village as we got closer to the village and a carnival float passed by as I walked up the main street to our lunch stop at 25km.

Cressbrook Dale

Litton well-dressing

It was a relief to get the boots off while I was stopped, keeping out of the sun in the tent, and to put some fresh socks on for the second half.  Nevertheless, it took a little while to get back into my stride again, walking up roads between fields of hay being mown or gathered in.  As the paths tilted downwards I found my pace and settled down to ‘ride the rhythm’.  We crossed the sun-dappled River Wye just by the Angler’s Rest, towards which I gazed longingly (one of the best pubs in the park), then marched up to the Monsal Trail for a brief period.  We dropped back to the river again by Chee Dale before facing the toughest climb: a short, sharp pull directly out of the valley.  Many people were taking breaks, or plodding slowly, taking their time.  I made sure I held myself back, not wanting to charge up and burn myself out.


Haymaking at Tideswell

River Wye and the Angler's Rest

Steep climb out of Chee Dale

The climb didn’t really let up after that, rising through Blackwell and a little more steeply again to Five Wells.  More and more people were stopping by the wayside to get their breath back but I was trotting along very comfortably.  At the top I said to a woman sitting by the gate, ‘It’s relentless.’  She said, ‘You look fresh as a daisy.’  The endorphins were really kicking in as I started to feel I was enjoying myself, thinking how glad I was to have booked the full 100km and not chickened out at 50km.  The long, punishing tarmac trek to Taddington soon kicked this jolly mood out of me.  It’s only 3km but it feels like forever.

Arriving at Taddington

After last year’s experience, I knew I would need plenty of fuel for the final, longest section, so I forced down a Pot Noodle for the first time in about 25 years.  It won’t become a regular thing.  Again it was a struggle to get going again afterwards, perhaps more so than at lunchtime.  Slowly, passing the 42km mark, I got back into it again and felt good down Deep Dale and along Monsal Dale, positively flying up the very quiet climb to Monsal Head.  My mood was helped through Little and Great Longstone, knowing that all the difficulties of the day were behind me, just one more gentle rise to go.  It was evening and the shadows were lengthening, making me think of Eliot’s ‘third who walks beside me’.  There were a lot of tired-looking people but the mood was positive as we were so close to Bakewell.

The town appeared over the hill, glowing golden in the low sun.  There was just a short walk along the river to return to the showground.  It was an odd feeling approaching the finish line to applause but then turning off down a narrow, nondescript side-channel for those who still had more to do.  It was 20:40, the result of that late start, so I made myself eat some veg chilli before searching for a shower (adequate).  There was still time for a beer from the wagon, oddly parked in the supporters’ area not the participants’, before thinking of bed and my 5am alarm.  Not that going to bed helped a lot as the music blasted out right up to midnight, while walkers and runner drifted in.

Evening approach to Bakewell

29th June: 48km 11hrs 20mins

My alarm woke me, bleary-eyed, this morning.  I wasn’t particularly hungry but knew I should get some food down me at the dining tent.  People were still drifting in from the 100km continuous trek, as they had been at 2:45am when I got up to use the portaloo, a few smatterings of applause to acknowledge their effort.  There was no time to hang around as I needed to get my tent down before I set off for the day – a matter of bundling my gear into the back of the car rather than packing neatly.  Andy next door, also in the two-day cohort but jog-walking it, was just about ready to go.  He had gone much slower than he had hoped, completing the first half in 10 hours, and had considered not bothering with the second day, like his neighbour the other side.  Of the 40 or so people to drop out of the two-day event (out of around 150), half of them did so at the mid-point.  If you’re going to drop out, it’s the sensible place to do it as you are back where you started.

The starting area, when I got there at 6:15, was much quieter than the previous day.  There was a mix of us two-dayers, some doing the second half only, and a few who seemed to have switched from continuous to two days.  Just after 6:30 we were released from the pen and set off up the road.  The first climb came quite soon.  Becky, who I had bumped into again, complained, ‘My blisters haven’t even gone numb yet.’  On the walk over fields to Over Haddon and down the length of Lathkill Dale I walked in a loose grouping with her, a couple of bantering lads (‘I had a blister in my groin and thought I’d grown a third bollock’) and a bloke who turned out to be from Boroughbridge in North Yorkshire.  ‘You probably won’t have heard of it.’  Actually, my mother has lived there for the last 30 years, so we had plenty to chat about.


Misty morning above Bakewell

Out of the valley and around Monyash I found I had left the others behind.  The light smirr of mizzle of the morning started to turn to heavier rain as I neared the morning rest stop outside the village.  My back, which had been complaining the previous day, really started to give me gip, especially behind my right shoulder blade.  I was looking forward to getting under cover and getting my bag off.  The rain was still falling after I had eaten my fill of fruit and pastries, but it was so warm a coat would have only made you sweat.  If I had brought a coat, that was.  I had taken most things out of my bag, leaving not much more than a windproof and some water bottles.


Over Haddon well-dressing, part collapsed in the hot weather

The next section was going to involve 14km along the High Peak Trail, the old Cromford to Whaley Bridge railway line, albeit with a lunch stop along the way.  I hadn’t been looking forward to it at all, knowing I would find it dreary to walk a straight, level, unvarying track for the best part of three hours.  Because of this, I had brought earbuds so I could listen to music while I marched, something I very rarely do when out walking – I prefer to hear the natural sounds of the countryside.  Head down, music on, off I went.  The scenery, outside the cuttings, was beautiful, a burgeoning, lush green explosion, lit by intermittent sun now the rain had stopped.  But the trail was as punishing as expected.  My knees groaned at the pounding and my back was screaming, almost to the point where I thought I wouldn’t be able to carry on – a strange reason for retirement perhaps.  As I walked I stretched, twisted, fiddled with straps, concentrated on my posture, anything to relieve the ache.  The lunch stop at Pikehall (21km) could hardly come soon enough.  As I checked in, a girl who I had noticed behind me when I was passing through gates, came up and enthusiastically thanked me for pacing her over that section.  Like me, she had found it boring though she had originally thought it was going to be a doddle.  It was my pleasure to help someone through it (my time per kilometre varied by 30 seconds at the most over the first 8km to the rest stop, which was pleasingly consistent).

View from the High Peak Trail
After a decent pulled pork toastie and a good deal of stretching, I waved goodbye to one of the bantering blokes from that morning (the other had pulled out at Monyash) and to Becky (checking later I saw she finished two hours behind me, so must have had a bit of a mare), and hit the trail again.  The stretches seemed to have done the job for my back but nevertheless I was glad to turn off the track at Longcliffe and get onto some decent, undulating paths again.  There was more haymaking taking place and we were diverted all the way round the boundary of one field as it was being actively mown (I waved at the farmer and got a thumbs up).  This was to be the longest section of the day at 17km so I had planned a stop along the way for a bit of food and time off my feet.  There was a handy bank alongside the dusty track of Blakemere Lane where I plonked myself down for five minutes amongst a lovely display of wildflowers – kidney vetch, bird’s-foot trefoil, yellow rattle, wild thyme, small scabious and lady’s bedstraw.

As there were fewer people on the trail, it felt like there was more camaraderie between us.  Everyone was very supportive and encouraging whenever you passed or were passed by someone.  A random bloke in the little village of Wensley even applauded me, as did some people outside a pub in Darley Bridge.  The steep descent through those villages was hard work and my knees were really getting secondhand.  Pounding pavements from the bridge to Darley Dale and our afternoon rest stop (38km) was very draining, and I felt myself flagging for the first time.  It was going to take an effort to get to the end.  The rest area was relatively minimal with a few leftover bits of food.  I didn’t fancy another Pot Noodle, so nibbled at what I could.  The tent was like a battlefield hospital with bodies strewn around, groaning and limping, bandaged and strapped up.

Moorhen and chick at Darley Dale

Just 9km to go, starting with another 4km of dull trudging beside the Peak Railway heritage line.  More aches in the knees and pain in my back.  A woman I had seen at the rest stop, nursing one of her calves, was sat down.  ‘A treat stop before the climb,’ she said.  ‘It’s a mental game now.’  And indeed what came next was 100m of vertical ascent out of Rowsley.  The sky was overcast but it was still very warm and very humid, so I was pouring with sweat, and plodding at a crawl.  It’s not a track I am very familiar with and I found myself slightly disorientated at the top.  What village was that I could see down that unknown valley (probably Baslow)?  It started to feel slightly unreal.  I was walking along, shaking my head, hardly able to believe that I had almost walked 100km over the last two days.  It seemed such a ridiculously large number, far beyond my usual distances.

Rowsley well-dressing

Just before dropping back to Bakewell

The route wound its way along, Bakewell taking forever to arrive, and I found time to get introspective and emotional thinking about what I had done and what it meant to me.  Not just taking part in a big event, which I love doing, and raising an amazing amount of money for the BHF, but the personal motivation too.  It could just be an act of defiance, less than three years after my heart attack; it could be proving something to myself about not letting that limit what I can achieve.  Partly it’s not wanting to let that define me – I’m not the kind of bloke who has heart attacks, I’m the kind of bloke who does tough physical challenges.  As much as anything it was a roar of anger against whatever led me to have my heart attack, a roar almost saying, ‘how dare you do that to me?’

Thanks to the 'Walking with Dinosaurs' fellas for this picture

Eventually I heard the familiar hum of the generator and re-entered the showground.  Dry-eyed, I crossed the line to applause and punched the air before receiving my medal and the rest of the bits and bobs to celebrate my achievement.  I was overjoyed, delighted to have made it, and very thankful to be able to sit down and not walk any further.  As I ate my post-event fish and chips, I saw the woman with the dodgy calf cross the line and burst into tears as her husband greeted her.  I went for a back massage (both painful and relieving) then headed to my car for the drive home.  The event was being packed away and at the far end of the showground, a funfair was waiting to take over for next weekend’s carnival.  Things were moving on but the experience will stay with me for a long time.

Made it!


 

Tuesday, 10 June 2025

Cumbria Way 2025 - part two

 29th May: Keswick – Caldbeck 29km

The weather forecast was full of doom – ‘You may struggle to stay upright at times’ – so it seemed sensible to take the low-level route, avoiding the summit of High Pike.  I hadn’t actually measured that route but guesstimated it wouldn’t add too much.  That prediction wouldn’t age well.  After breakfast in Booth’s I set out in light rain to pick up a sandwich at Jan’s (very good) then headed towards the old station.  There was no one much around as I plodded my way up Spoonygreen Lane round the back of Latrigg (which people seem to pronounce luh-TRIG not LAT-rigg, as if it were French). feeling rather boiled-in-the-bag in full waterproofs.  There were only three cars in Gale Road car park, some people on Latrigg, some ahead of me on the path and, as I turned off below Lonscale Fell, some very misguided people heading towards Skiddaw.  Mad.

Below Lonscale Fell

It was pretty hideous going in the driving rain and low cloud over Glenderaterra Beck, although I was pleased the wind was at my back, as it was supposed to be all day (talking of predictions aging badly…)  I caught and passed a couple of lads and then, towards Skiddaw House, a couple who might have been the father and daughter we saw at the ODG but, being swaddled up and not wanting to hang around, I didn’t quite confirm.  Nonetheless we did agree between ourselves that low-level was the way to go today.

The view above Skiddaw House
Just after I left them I came to a gate that was under at least half a foot of water, with no way round.  I shuffled along a fence and swung the gate open, swooshing like a lock gate on a canal, and danced my way over some submerged rocks as quickly as I dared.  I wondered about stopping to eat at Skiddaw House but wasn’t sure of the protocol so pushed on.  Finally the rain was easing and some of the lower tops, Great Calva for instance, were free of cloud.  It was still windy as the path had reached 480m, which seemed fairly high but is 180m short of the high-level route.  Views opened up to the north-west, though Binsey was invisible.  Dash Falls thundered down and it is disappointing there isn’t a good viewpoint of it from the path.  A little further down I found a sheltered spot in an old quarry for some lunch.
Leaving the fells

The weather, it seemed, had just been gathering its strength for the next onslaught.  Heading north-west, the ‘southerly’ wind roared into my face, blasting me with heavy rain.  I hunched myself over, like a scuttling figure from a Hiroshige painting, gripping the front of my hood to stop it blowing off.  The waves of rain continued and I shouted curses against the weather.  By a stone wall a sheep was hunkered down in the lee, its head pushed far down into the corner and its face a mask of glum suffering.  ‘Same here, mate,’ I said.

Below Dash Falls
There was some micro-navigation through farmland for a while, made more difficult when being lashed by a tempest, until I came to the road at Orthwaite.  I could have done with more food but didn’t want to stop in those conditions so stomped off up the road.  I finally got a chance to eat just near the little parking spot at Longlands, sitting on a low rock under a dripping tree.  A couple of fit-looking blokes marched past.  ‘Bit moist,’ one said.  They were taking the low-level route too.

The path went east along the north edge of the fells, dipping and weaving between farmland, moorland and roads.  There was an ‘interesting’ ford which would have flooded my boots had I not found a jump-able stretch of beck just downstream.  The rain, thankfully, had stopped so I delayered somewhat and set to the task of grinding out the remaining kilometres.

Caldbeck in the distance

Caldbeck, in view for a while, took an age to arrive and was a relief when it did, around 17:00.  The Oddfellows Arms, where Jill was patiently waiting, was busy, hot and humid so we were soon on the road back to Keswick where it was a relief to fall into a hot shower and put on dry clothes.  The day finished with a superb meal at Merienda (whole roast trout) and a few pints at the Dog and Gun.


30th May: Caldbeck – Carlisle 25km

The day looked fair, even if the ground was damp, but I knew well enough to keep the waterproofs in the bag.  Breakfast was at Booth’s again, and so was lunch as we were driving back to Caldbeck for the final day.  The journey through the moorland around Uldale was quite pleasant in decent weather.

River Caldew


Many trees near Caldbeck

The first part of my route took me through Caldbeck campsite and out of the National Park.  There was a lot of woodland, full of birdsong, and no people at all.  My legs felt all right, except for any incline when they reminded me of the distance I had done.  My first crowd was a green lane full of ewes and lambs just below Sedbergham Hall.  I stood to one side to let them nervously past but got bored of that and just squeezed along one side.  They soon raced by as they were being chased by the shepherd in his pickup and his family on foot.  Mrs Shepherd apologised as they had been delayed by one sheep getting stuck in the hedge.  ‘They go everywhere they’re not supposed to.’

Ovine rush hour
Beyond there I followed the River Caldew’s lazy wanderings through fields full of sheep and cows.  Swallows skimmed across fields full of buttercups and sand martins danced over the river.  The Bridge End Inn looked tempting but I had places to be.  I should have gone in as I lost the path twice in Buckabank, arriving 10 minutes later about 10m from where I started.  The path carried on through the attractive red stone buildings of Cowen’s toy stuffing (amongst other things) factory and into the busy Dalston.
Near Welton

River Caldew

Following the path

Earlier I had looked online to see if there was anything about path closures around the new Carlisle south bypass.  ‘AI’ had said it was open, so naturally I was dubious.  There were no signs as I joined the Caldew Cycleway at Dalston and no one wandering or cycling around offered any advice, so I carried on.  The Cycleway proved to be tarmac all the way (8km), which was pretty relentless on feet and legs, stomping on and on.  AI was right and the path curved its way around the works at the foot of the new road bridge over the Caldew.  On and on I plodded.  Clouds kept coming and going so the temperature swung between hot in the sun and cold in the wind, making it impossible to select the right clothing – either be too hot from time to time or be too cold.  I tried both and went for ‘too cold’ which worked out quite well as it got warmer on the way into town.

New bridge over the River Caldew

With an ache in my back and for a break from the constant stomping, I took a short rest just outside Carlisle before marching on again through the outskirts.  As is typical, these seemed to go on much further than the map would suggest.  Once I crossed the river my first goal was the West Walls Brewery tap, where Jill had just arrived.  Some pre-celebration beers later, we walked into the centre to the market square.  This was quite a challenge as the entire town was being dug up and half the roads were fenced off.  I had to laugh at the ignominy that greeted my triumph as I finally reached the end of the Cumbria Way.

Carlisle Cathedral
The week had had its challenging moments, particularly the suffer-fest on the way to Caldbeck, but the walk up Langdale and down Langstrath had been wonderful.  Jill and I had had lots of laughs in the evening, and plenty of excellent drinks and food.  The route was cleverly contrived, taking in a few sights and avoiding any monster climbs.  The ‘Cumbria Way‘ signage was better outside the National Park, though often it was hand-painted by the landowner, although I wasn’t too worried about drifting around the ‘official’ route.  Despite the weather I had thoroughly enjoyed the walk and came away feeling like I had added another layer of connection to the area.
Carlisle market place


Cumbria Way 2025 - part one

26th May: Ulverston – Coniston 25km

The train rolled over the Kent Viaduct, reminding me of the time I walked across the estuary some 10 years ago, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before I was in Ulverston.  As we crossed the Leven Viaduct, I stood to gather my gear and to face the anxiety that had been churning inside me for days.  Not just the usual concerns about the arrangements, the weather and how I would cope physically, but also doubts about the whole enterprise.  What was I doing there?  Why was I doing it?  For all that, there was nothing else to do but go on.

Ulverston was quiet on the Bank Holiday with many places shut still at 10am.  I wandered through town to the Gill, where the Cumbria Way begins.  A few snaps then I was off by the beck and soon into the fields.  The first part of the day was all like this, rolling farmland and small villages; fields and minor roads.  Not at all unpleasant.

Ulverston


Hoad Hill, Ulverston

Near Gawthwaite I caught up with an oldish bloke, backpacking along the Way, and had a chat.  He was planning to wild camp; ‘Farmers don’t mind, I’m the least of their problems.’  I passed a few other solo walkers and couples.  This point marked the start of the National Park, and the landscape started to feel more Lakeland with rock, scrub and Herdwicks.  The Coniston Fells had been in view all day, inching imperceptibly closer, but were now looking darker and cloudier.  The rain began to fall as I approached Beacon Tarn, where I sat under a tree for lunch and watched a woman on the far side enter the water for a swim.

Approaching the Blawith Fells

The ground was rougher and boggier across Torver Common before dropping down, finally, to Coniston Water.  The path was through trees at first and this made for tough going with climbs and drops, and lots of slippery tree roots.  The rain just got heavier as I passed campsites and boat clubs.  It was still mild – I was just wearing a waterproof over my tee shirt – but I hurried through the weather, glad I hadn’t opted to climb any of the minor fells on the way.  My knees were feeling the strain, probably through rushing, when I gladly plonked myself down, dripping, at the Yewdale Inn where Jill, who was my non-walking, baggage-transporting companion, was waiting.

Heading to Torver Common

After a quick pint or two we drove to our accommodation at the Old Dungeon Ghyll and had an excellent evening in the Climbers’ Bar.  Some very wet lads stood around the open fire nursing hot chocolates for a couple of hours before they could face heading back to camp.  There was impromptu music from an accordionist, a guitarist and a, um, digeridoo-ist (is that a thing?).


27th May: Coniston – Great Langdale 20km

It was a bright morning with a few spots of rain while we ate our breakfasts.  Jill then dropped me back at Coniston, where she was having a mooch around.  I found my way out of town and into the countryside where the rain started to pick up the pace.  Across the valley on the Yewdale Fells, the waterfalls crashed down the crags.  There was a delightful path through Tarn Hows Wood, past the very desirable Tarn Hows Cottage, and onto Tarn Hows Lane before reaching, well, Tarn Hows, would you believe.  Despite the falling rain, the car park was rammed and families were all over the paths nearby.  The scenery was very pretty but I was glad to turn away from the screaming kids and find myself alone again on the far side.

Yewdale Fells


Tarn Hows Cottage


Tarn Hows
Good paths took me down to Colwith Force which thundered through a series of cascades, half-hidden in the woodland.  Given the rainfall, it was no surprise that there was a lot of water roaring down the falls.  There were quite a few people about here, an easy walk away from Skelwith Bridge, I suppose.  Skelwith Force was similarly busy so I passed by without stopping and hit the superhighway to Elterwater.

Colwith Force
I was starting to feel a little chilly as my waterproofs were no match for the constant downpour, so I was glad to call into the Britannia for an excellent pint of their eponymous Blonde.  Thankfully, by the time I left the rain had eased off so I didn’t rush the walk up Great Langdale.  I caught a bloke I had seen earlier when we had both stopped for a sandwich by the river.  He asked about the ODG and when I explained (rough and ready, basic but good food), he said, ‘I don’t think my friends would like it.  They’re from London.’

Heading into Great Langdale
Langdale is a very familiar place for me, from countless daytrips and weekend stays, so I felt the comfort of the well-known fells around me.  Being a short day, I could afford extra stops, including another pint at Lanty Slee’s, aka the Stickle Barn.  It gave me another break from the returning rain too.

After some chillout time at the ODG, we spent the evening in the Climbers’ Bar again, enjoying a bit of people-watching as families and friends came and went.  A couple of lads came in with ropes and racks of gear; they must have had quite a challenge on the crags in the wet.  The bar staff and regulars asked if they could get to the dartboard as things quietened down, which gave us the welcome excuse to move to a table nearer the fire.


28th May: Great Langdale – Keswick 27km

As we were staying at my stage’s start point, it meant I was on the trail earlier than the last two days.  Breakfast dealt with and packed lunch, at least partially, stowed in my rucksack, I set off along the path behind the pub, just ahead of an older couple who were also on the Way.  It was a cloudy but dry day with a fresh breeze, especially towards the head of the valley.  The last two days’ rain had left plenty of puddles and running water across the path.

Langdale

A young American couple ahead of me headed towards Rossett Gill while I turned up the Stake Pass.  Clearly they had meant to go my way too as I heard them behind me, having realised the error of their ways.  I really enjoyed the climb; it was mostly fairly steady with just a few short steep sections, and I was feeling pretty good.  The views to all the fells were excellent and again it was a joy to be in such a familiar place, only feeling a slight tug on the heart that I wasn’t going to any of the felltops.  An air of contentment came over me as I made my way through the drumlins in Langdale Combe, despite a slightly chilly breeze.  This contentment proved short-lived as I somehow found myself heading towards Rossett Pike instead of Langstrath.  Cursing, I cut across country feeling less smug than I had earlier when the Americans had gone astray.


Langstrath

Sundews
Langstrath was gorgeous from the top, down the knee-jarring descent, over the busy beck and all along its lovely, long length.  I think I have always used the western side of the beck but the official Cumbria Way route is along the eastern, so that is the way I went.  There were some nice boulder fields below Sergeant Crag and a delightful area by the river, framed by a mix of pine, oak and birch.  The water was clear, with a greenish tinge, showing the rocks below.

Langstrath


Langstrath


Langstrath

The bottom end of Langstrath

I have never been much of a fan of the path by Stonethwaite to Rosthwaite and as usual it proved awkward and slow, which at least gave me chance to listen to a cuckoo calling for the third day in a row.  The sky had cleared too and it was starting to feel warm.  I sat down to eat by the ‘new bridge’ over the Derwent and slapped on some sun cream from the meagre and probably expired supply I found in my bag.  The forecast hadn’t suggested this would happen so I hadn’t come prepared.  The warmth after the rain had brought out the damselflies and dragonflies all along the river.  Families were playing around, some kayaking, some just paddling.  Derwent Water shone in the sun, with Skiddaw, Bleaberry Fell and all the rest around it.  There were colourful redstarts near Grange.

Derwent Water
From here it was a bit of a stomp.  I could feel the distance in my legs and my left heel was twinging somewhat, but I got into a steady pace, passing people idling along.  It was busy at the foot of Cat Bells, the ice cream van being a draw, and I hurried to get away from a group of lads who all seemed to be part of a football team.  When I finally arrived in Keswick I was still at ‘fell pace’, ducking and diving round dawdlers, drifters and gawpers, but glad at last to sit down in the Crooked River Brewery tap.  Our apartment, just behind the Co-op, was quite nice and very conveniently located so we could nip out for an excellent tea at the Wainwright.