Howgills and Limestone Trail

22nd June: Kirkby Stephen – Ravenstonedale: 14km

It is always a good start when the trains work.  Given that I had two connections to get, I had included lots of contingency so it took over 5 hours from home to the finish.  I hadn’t travelled beyond Dent before, so the views up Mallerstang were wonderful, as were those earlier up Dent Dale, which was lush and green.  Jill was waiting at the station and dropped me by the market place in town, where she was going to have a short wander by the river.  I did something similar, following the Poetry Path, though the carved stones were so weathered it was hard to read anything.

John Waller Monument, Kirkby Stephen

After that I curved round Croglam Castle and joined the Coast to Coast Path, where there were a few people coming the other way.  I wasn’t on that route for long, heading towards Smardale Hall and the old railway line, the entrance to which was slightly harder to find than expected.  It was a cloudy day, warm but not overly so.  The track was shaded and lined with a great array of wildflowers: bloody cranesbill, common spotted orchids, buttercups, speedwell, yellow rattle.  There was a glimpse of the viaduct ahead but better than that was the dizzying view to the valley below from the viaduct itself.  With all this vegetation around, I was plagued the whole day with insects, particularly horseflies, who gave me over a dozen welts, even biting through my tee shirt.  It made me paranoid for the rest of the week.

Leaving Kirkby Stephen

Smardale Viaduct

View from Smardale Viaduct

I went wrong a few times in the fields towards Ravenstonedale before finally meeting Jill and getting a pint in the King’s Head.  From there we travelled to our accommodation in Sedbergh – a lovely cottage down a back alley – and then out for dinner at the Dalesman (pricey but very good).  We also met up for a drink or two with a bloke from work who lives in the town.  On the way back to the cottage a swift zoomed out from below the eaves of a building on the corner, passing within inches of our heads in the twilight.

Howgills in the distance

23rd June: Ravenstonedale – Sedbergh: 21km

My basement room was nice and cool, so I slept well.  Breakfast (and lunch) was from a takeaway shop called Number 46.  Jill dropped me back at Ravenstonedale and off I went.  The first turn off the road was a stumble between hurdles and over a collapsed wall.  It was a sign of things to come. After a little more road walking, the path headed into an overgrown bog then into an abandoned plant nursery, also overgrown and boggy.  On the far side, rather than follow the route, I took to a good track which was longer but far easier.  It was already too warm for thrashing around through that rubbish.

A path that isn't boggy

The route was supposed to go up Bowderdale before climbing at the head of the valley, however, given the warmth of the day and the prospect of a cooling breeze, I thought my better option would be to follow the Dales High Way up the ridge instead rather than stay in the valley’s shelter.  The gradient looked absolutely fine and I could take it nice and steady.  Higher up the ridge, the hills rose up around me. They looked magnificent.  Below me a silvery beck snaked up Langdale.  The further I went, the more it felt like the Scottish Highlands, if less high and less rocky.  It was that sense of isolation and remoteness.  And perhaps the bogginess.  I saw someone near Hazelgill Knott but was slightly off-path so passed at a distance.  The next person was at the Calf and then another was pushing his bike up the far side of Calders.  They were the only people I saw before Sedbergh.

Langdale

Arant Haw

The distant views were hazy in the heat but close-to was marvellous, with steep climbs from the valleys and ridgelines strung between the tops.  The breeze was keeping temperatures manageable too.  All good things come to an end and I descended the Dales High Way between Winder and Crook, a delightful valley, back into Sedbergh, running out of water just as I reached the houses.

Settlebeck Gill

That evening we ate in the Red Lion and had a few beers in the Half and Half, which I think was open particularly for the football (which we ignored).

24th June: Sedbergh – Casterton: 21km

Again I picked up breakfast and lunch at Number 46.  The walk began through the famous school and down to the River Rawthey, looking dramatically rocky.  I was feeling somewhat distracted, for  reasons outside this report, and ended up on the wrong path, meaning I did more climbing in the already warm air, and I struggled pathlessly back to the right line.  My motivation was rather low as I approached the start of the day’s proper climbing, the long flog up to Calf Top.  In the distance I could see huge, empty tops and wondered if the far one was my goal (it was).  There didn’t seem to be much wind around as I slowly plodded upwards, first on tarmac and then on ATV tracks.  These multiplied further up and I found myself again off-path.  After some grinding ascents over rough terrain, and a rest stop for food (with good views back to the Howgills), I eventually got back on path.  This was still a bit of a slog but at least there was some breeze.  Skylarks were soundtracking the day, as they had done the day before, and near the summit there were a lot of gulls.  I know they nest on top of the Bowland Fells, so perhaps they were nesting here too.

Looking back to Sedbergh

Calf Top

The summit had impressive, if hazy, views of the big lumps all around, less hunched up together than the Howgill Fells.  After another snack stop I began the descent, which inevitably included a disappointing amount of ascent.  The lower I got, the warmer it got, so I stopped to rest again on the attractively rocky top of Eskholme Pike above Barbon.  The route officially stops in the village but the pub wasn’t open until 5, so I pushed on across the fields to Casterton, where the Pheasant Inn was open.  Coming into the village I met the first person I had seen since leaving Sedbergh, a young woman who gave me a cheery greeting.  Shortly later she appeared behind the bar of the pub, so she was the also the fourth person I had seen (second being Jill and third being the other barmaid).

Eskholme Pike

We drove down to Settle where we were staying for the rest of the week at the King William IV guesthouse.  The hosts were very friendly and the rooms very good, though mine was extremely warm.  Luckily they had provided a mini-fridge for me to store water bottles.  Dinner was two doors down at the Talbot, after which we had a wander round some of the other pubs, the Golden Lion looking promising.

25th June: Ireby – Ingleton: 11km

I had a family meeting in Harrogate in the afternoon, so I couldn’t do my full route, instead just covering the last 10km (more on this in a second).  Jill dropped me off in the tiny village of Ireby and I headed out across the fields.  When I reached Masongill and went to have a drink of water, I found my one bottle absent.  I must have dropped it back on the path, so I had to backtrack – apart from the litter, I couldn’t continue in the heat without water.  Eventually I found it at the place I sort of expected: below a stone step stile over a stone wall with a narrow gap and a viciously-sprung gate at the top.  I must have caught the bottle on a step and knocked it out of the pocket.  This added another kilometre and a load of bother.

Tow Scar

The road climbed steadily before becoming a track and then a trod across the bouldery and attractive top of Tow Scar, with views to the patchwork farmland of Lonsdale.  From there I headed towards Thornton Force where the path quality improved, but the busyness increased too.  A group of schoolgirls in hijabs and long sleeves were slogging up the valley, each of them holding a portable electric fan. ‘There’s an ice cream van at the top,’ I said.  ‘We’ve got no money,’ one moaned.  Oh well.  The waterfall itself was impressive, wider and higher than I had expected, and set in a bowl of refulgent greenery.  There were quite a lot of people around, picnicking or bathing, so I didn’t hang around, instead climbing out of the valley towards Thornton Hall.  The waymarkers here didn’t seem right so I set off across a field before checking my GPS and finding they had been right after all.  In getting back on track I almost stood on a partridge nesting in the long grass.  It eyed me warily and I moved quickly on before I disturbed it (though I still regret not taking a picture).

Thornton Force

After the trip to Harrogate was concluded, we ate a good dinner in the Golden Lion, checked out the Royal Oak (not much good) and had a last one at our ‘local’, the Talbot.

26th June: Ingleton – Settle: 24km

There was some rain overnight which left the morning initially feeling quite fresh.  It wouldn’t last. Before breakfast I popped out for a sandwich at the Dales Deli.  The proprietress apologised that her main fridge had packed in because of the previous day’s heat, but she made me a very tasty ham butty all the same.  Jill dropped me early back at Ingleton before returning to take the train to Carlisle.  My route was up Ingleborough via a route I had not done before.  It started climbing immediately, first on tarmac and then on a track.  It was already blisteringly hot and the high stone walls by the track effectively blocked any breeze.  Ingleborough’s square top loomed up ahead of me, looking steep.  I passed one woman coming down, wreathed in sweat, and another on her way up, seemingly coming to a standstill.  I was surprised to find a farm, Crina Bottom, high up on the hillside, looking rather idyllic.

Climbing out of Ingleton

Crina Bottom and Ingleborough

Towards the top there were a couple of steep, stepped sections which had me walking at a crawl and puffing like a knackered engine (it took me about 20mins to do the last 100m of ascent).  It was a relief to reach the wide open space of the summit.  A lad taking pictures passed a word and then made his way down, making me the sole possessor of the entire plateau.  Unprecedented!  To make the most of my efforts I had a good wander round, a stop at the shelter for food (sitting in the windiest seat I could find, contrary to normal practice), and took some pictures out to Ribblehead before finally deciding I should push on.

View from Ingleborough

From there I headed to Sulber and them Moughton Scars above Crummack Dale, again somewhere new to me.  It was beautiful: the limestone pavements, the cliffs and crags, the tumbled boulders. Lovely stuff.  The paths were a little sketchy though as I wound my way towards the trig point, hopping from faint trod to faint trod across limestone blocks and past twisted juniper trees.  All very nice to look at but punishing to walk over in the heat of the day.  I found my way pathlessly to Moughton Nab where a narrow, steep path took me round the great scar of Dry Rigg Quarry.

Beggar's Stile, Crummack Dale

Moughton Scars

Juniper

The day was feeling long so I stopped to gasp for breath and eat a snack.  The next section was a long one on tarmac.  The tar-blistered roads reflected the heat back.  Passing cars popped the bubbles on the surface.  Up the road rose, endlessly.  When it finally dipped and turned towards Stainforth, I felt much relief.  This was short-lived as I heard music blasting out.  By the river path, a number of cars were parked on double-yellow lines.  By Stainforth Force itself were big crowds of people: family groups, young people sunning themselves or swimming, and one group with a huge speaker stack, the source of the music.  I didn’t stop to look at the falls, just heading immediately away.  It isn’t my way to enjoy the countryside.

Moughton Nab

 Along the river path I could hear rolls of thunder and see dark clouds massing to the south-east.  I had a mission to get to Settle before it all kicked off.  It was a mission that did not succeed.  About 20 minutes out of town the rain began, cranking it up to 11.  It was possibly the heaviest rain I have ever walked in.  At times I was checking it wasn’t hail.  Sheltering beneath trees, as the sheep were doing, didn’t seem to help so I just pushed on.  I was soaked through by the time it relented, which was just as I entered the town.  Dripping wet, I walked into the Lion and sat on a mat to prevent the seat from getting wet while I had my pint.  We returned later for dinner and finished the evening listening to music at the Talbot.  A difficult week done.

In memoriam: Eileen Beman

Mum and I were quite similar in many ways.  Our love of literature and of art; our shyness; our fondness for a silly joke; our care for each other.

We kept each other company throughout our lives.  As a child, I would take her morning cup of tea up to her in bed and have a quick chat before going for the school bus.  After school I would join her in the kitchen and chat about my day while she cooked the dinner, baked something or did one of her other chores.  Together we would try different kinds of food that the others wouldn’t touch – liver in gravy! pasta! curry!  That helped form my taste for exotic food, though I do regret once trying pig’s ears.

She used to read to us as children and I would find myself in later life watching, say, an unfamiliar Shakespeare play but hearing a familiar line.  When I would ask about it, she would say, ‘Oh yes, I read that to you from Palgrave’s Golden Treasury’ or some such book.

She bought me books my whole life, from the Septimus ecclesiastical mystery novels right up to this last Christmas when she gave me a book about sheep.  We used to discuss books and swap them, praise them and damn them.  She was an endless resource of literary knowledge.

In later years there were tough times, but we would have a lot of fun too when I went to stay with her and Richard.  One Boxing Day when the roads were closed with snow, we sat in the Black Bull in Boroughbridge while one fella sang folk songs and Terry the landlord crooned some of his favourite tunes – for the price of a donation in the charity box.  Another Christmas when we drove down a long, rough track to Ivan and Jean’s remote house in the Yorkshire countryside.  It was a house full of characters.  There was Ivan with his vats of homemade wine, and a bloke called Ghandi.  I ended the evening eating cheese and drinking whisky with a blind waterskiing champion.  One day, one of their friends in Boroughbridge, Paddy – whose real name was Naomi but she was Irish – came round and seemed to get drunk without drinking anything.  She proceeded to act out various scenes from the Full Monty before I escorted her home. As a thank you, she gave me a marrow from the fruit and veg shop below her flat.  It tasted rather bland.  I will miss reminiscing about those times and laughing at the memories.

Mum was always a great supporter of mine, praising me for the photos I took on my walks or for the writing I produced.  I will miss her support; I will miss sharing pictures of Herdwick sheep that I always made sure to take in the Lake District; I will miss her being there for me to turn to but I will always be grateful for what she gave to me, what she did for me.

In her papers, we found she had kept all sorts of things of ours: letters, postcards, Mother’s Day cards.  Paper effigies, Philip Larkin might say, ‘that prove our almost-instinct almost true, what survives of us is love’.

One Mother’s Day card contained a poem I had written as a present some 25 years ago I guess.  If you’ll pardon the self-indulgence, I’ll read it now.

Folding Sheets

Folding washed sheets with my mother
Was something I often did.
It was to do with being left-handed,
A complementary partnership.
The sheet would billow out between us,
A corner in each hand.
We would step back and fold it
Lengthways once.
Then, like mirror images,
We would drop a reflected arm
To grasp and shake the crease,
Not twisting the sheet around
As a right-hander would,
Before moving together,
Handing the bundle over.

Picking from the basket,
We would work through the pile,
In the kitchen or the garden, if fine.
And then, when we had finished
Following our steps,
Perhaps I should have bowed,
And thanked her for the dance.

Buxton – Ravenstor YHA – Hathersage: June 2026

14th June: Buxton – Flagg – Ravenstor YHA: 18km

Wondering where I might go away, for various logistical reasons I decided on a night at a YHA in the Peak District rather than a couple of nights in a tent in the Lake District.  To that end, I got a late morning train to Buxton to find it slightly chillier than expected.  I pulled my hood up to get a feeling of anonymity in the busy town and slipped quickly through quiet backstreets into the countryside. 

Deep Dale

Chelmorton

Flagg

Out near Sladen, on the Limestone Trail, some swifts were swooping above a field of new-mown grass, and beyond that, crossing a field full of wildflowers, I felt my heart open up and my mood lift.  There were voices below me in Deep Dale, seemingly heading towards the closed section, then a bloke on the far side, a couple of DoE groups in Chelmorton, and then no one until Taddington, apart from farmers raking hay or scooping it into trailers.  Just outside Taddington, in the sunshine, I sat by a small pond on the Jarnett (a road) for a sandwich amongst tall marsh orchids and skimming dragonflies.  With plenty of time before check-in, I called into the Queen’s Arms for a pint.

Taddington

Marsh orchids near Taddington

Taddington

Brushfield above Miller's Dale

More lovely field-walking took me across the serene High Dale then down the valley side, which was covered in common spotted orchids, to Litton Mill.  A Dutch couple in a campervan were catching the late afternoon sun and watched me go the wrong way through a miniature forests of butterbur leaves before I got to the steps up Bellamy’s Bank (named after the late naturalist).  The path took me through the grounds of the YHA, which is a grand house built in 1907 by the owner of Litton Mill.  I had a burger at the hostel then walked down to the Angler’s Rest, sitting out by the river and watching grey wagtails jump for insects.  The landlady called time early as I was the only customer left, so I headed back to the hostel to read my book, happy with a satisfying day.

Ravenstor YHA in Miller's Dale

15th June: Ravenstor YHA – Hathersage: 23km

After breakfast in the restaurant, I heaved by bag onto my back and set out back to the mill.  It felt chilly in a cold breeze and I wondered if I should have brought gloves.  Once I had passed a couple of dog walkers near the houses, I saw no one until Coombs Dale about 2½ hours later.  Water-cum-Jolly Dale was pleasant with the gurgle of water and the calls of birds.  Cressbrook Dale was shaded in the lush tree-cover but I was rather put off by the smell of the rotting wild garlic.  I climbed up and round Wardlow Hay Cop, using the concessionary footpath up to Castlegate Lane.  I had various options here and I chose to go over the top of Longstone Moor.  It was a good choice as it was a delight to walk there amongst the heather with somewhat hazy views north to Abney Moor and south around Bakewell.

Cressbrook Dale

Looking down to Eyam

Bretton Clough

Coombs Dale actually felt a bit of a drag, I always forget how long it is, and there was a short time when it got busy with a number of couples and some DoE groups.  I cut across to Stoney Middleton and up to Eyam where I called into the friendly village shop to get some lunch, which I ate in the main square.  My cue to leave was a group of young kids being led round on a school trip.  The next section was slow as I climbed up and up...and up to Sir William Hill.  It was also at this point that rain started to fall.  I put my coat on but the rain was very light and I was soon stuffing it back into the bag again.

Rabbit keeping very still

Hathersage was in sight as I dropped into the greenery of Bretton Clough.  High Low Wood was busy with wood ants as usual, building huge mounds of pine needles as nests.  The final section along tarmac and pavements was a drag again but soon over, and before long I was supping a pint in the Little John, waiting for my train home.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable couple of days, passing through some of my favourite countryside and seeing some gorgeous sights.

Ambleside February 2026

Sunday 22nd: High Newton Fells 10km

The forecast wasn’t good so my enthusiasm to get going wasn’t high.  I had booked YHA Ambleside on a special offer (£22 a night!) so had taken a gamble on the weather, a gamble it looked like I was going to lose.  To make something vaguely silk-like from the sow’s ear, I was going to tick off some more of Wainwright’s Outlying Fells, starting with a short walk in the south.  The motorway was strangely quiet and I arrived a little before 10am, parking at the top of a narrow road by High Newton reservoir, more popular with dog walkers than anglers on this morning.

Saskills

The wind was blowing but it was sunny, with the forecast now showing rain later in the afternoon.  On the far side of the reservoir I stepped over a fence, as many others had done, and followed the wall through dead bracken up to Saskills.  The map shows a trig point but, according to the website, there has never been a column here.  Carrying along by the wall I eventually made my way to White Stone, the Wainwright top, where there were excellent views over Morecambe Bay.  The wind was very strong here so I didn’t stay long, finding my way back to a PROW and descending steeply, occasionally slipping on wet mud, down to the caravan site and onto the old A590 (bypassed in the late 2000s) to High Newton.  I avoided the road a little of the way, through muddy fields full of sheep and geese, separated by the narrowest gap stiles I have ever encountered (not wide enough for my boots to get through, never mind the rest of me).

The sign by the crumbling old buildings at Low Newton warned you to keep out, but I carried on anyway as it was perfectly easy to keep clear of the danger.  It was a pleasant walk between the stone wall and craggy woods, and out of the wind too.  Just near Eller How a very good engineered path led up towards Dixon Heights, from where I turned through rocks on soft grass to the summit.  There was a bloke ahead of me at the collapsed tower, though he soon moved away with a wave, only the second person I had seen, apart from the bric-a-brac browsers at Yew Tree Barn (‘ruin-bibbers, randy for antiques’, Larkin might say).  There were lovely views all round, with Whitbarrow Scar looking particularly commanding.  The hill ‘next door’ was higher than Dixon Heights but wasn’t on Wainwright’s list, oddly.  Perhaps not accessible then.

Looking west from Dixon Heights

I retraced my steps back to High Newton and had a look at ‘Heft’, what was once I presume the village a pub but now a pricey gastropub.  Pleasingly there was still a public bar, with a good selection of beers, nice décor and a warming fire.  I could have stayed longer but still had a drive to do.

Check-in wasn’t until 3pm and I was still somewhat early, so I parked in the centre of Ambleside and had a mooch round the shops for a while.  When I got to the YHA I squeezed into what looked like the last parking spot, thankfully.  After a quick shower (in a tiny cubicle), I sat down to watch the rugby at first in a tiny lounge and then in the more sociable setting of the bar with a coffee.  It was around a 15 minute walk, in light rain, into town where I had a drink in the Golden Rule (as is the law, though it was busy and noisy) before moving on to the new Lakes Brew bar, which had excellent beers and so-so food.  I got back to the almost deserted bar of the YHA fairly early for a last drink before bed.

Monday 23rd: Ambleside – Great Langdale 18km

Another day with a gloomy forecast ahead.  Light rain was already falling but the suggestion was that it wouldn’t get much worse.  The wind would be as bad though.  My outline plan was to walk to Great Langdale and get the bus back but I hadn’t decided on the exact route.  In the end I thought I would just see how things went as I walked.  After a cooked breakfast, I walked through the rain into town to pick up a sandwich from the Picnic Box (tasty) and then turned towards Loughrigg Fell.  The rain stopped at the start of the climb, there was even hints of blue sky, and the wind didn’t feel too bad, so I pushed on to the summit, rather than diverting to Loughrigg Tarn (Plan B).  It seemed to take an age to get there, but in fact it was only an hour.  The only other person I saw was an e-biker charging up past me and churning up the path.  From the top I could look across to the cloud-capped summit of Fairfield, whose sides were still streaked in old snow.  It was very windy so I didn’t hang around.

Fairfield group from Loughrigg Fell

Looking towards Great Langdale from Loughrigg Fell

One plan was to carry on beyond High Close to climb the ridge to Blea Rigg and drop down Stickle Ghyll.  However, I was already annoyed at being buffeted by the wind, so I sacked that idea off.  I could just walk down Langdale, but I’ve done that a million times before, so I thought I could visit Cathedral Quarry, as I had never been there before.  If I was in luck I might get a pint at the Three Shires Inn, which I hadn’t visited since its takeover by Lanty Slee’s.

Little Langdale

The rain made its return as I passed through a busy Elterwater and kept on coming unpleasantly for a while.  I was still too early for the Three Shires, so I carried on past and found my way into the quarry.  It is a popular spot, presumably because of social media, so there were a few people milling around but not many.  To be fair, it is quite an impressive place, a narrow tunnel leading to a high-ceilinged cavern, supported by a broad, rough-hewn pillar.  Light comes in from a wide, jagged hole high above.  I stayed a short while before moving on.

Cathedral Quarry

Beyond Slater Bridge, the crowds, such as they were, disappeared, and I followed the track between whitewashed cottages, some looking abandoned, some claimed by groups like the Fylde Mountaineering Club and the Yorkshire Ramblers.  Water slooshed down all the paths.

Back on the Wrynose road, I started to feel the day’s effort in my legs and cut across boggy country behind Castle Howe to save some distance.  I had forgotten how rough the path up to Blea Tarn was, so it made for slow going.  The reward, as I passed Side Pike, was the view of the head of the valley (cloud-topped) and the magnificent bulk of the Langdale Pikes (cloud-free) ahead of me.  The familiarity of the scene, with its rush of memories, gave me a warm feeling, like being hugged, and I wanted to hug the Pikes back in return.  Instead, I did the next best thing and headed into the bar of the Old Dungeon Ghyll, which has the feeling of being my spiritual home.  There were a few walkers in, a bloke in motorbike gear noodling on a guitar, and a fire in the grate (which didn’t seem to be generating enough heat to warm the room).  There was a bus in 25 minutes, or another two hours after that.  Only one choice.  The hours passed by too quickly, catching up on messages, sharing photos, reading my book.  A bloke came in with a whippet and two jack russells, his pint already on the bar.  One jack russell leapt up on a seat and onto a table, the other cocked its leg.  The bloke calmly walked behind the bar for cleaning spray and a cloth.

Close-up of the Langdale Pikes

Boggy shortcut towards Blea Tarn

The bus and a few passengers were waiting ten minutes before time and the journey went smoothly, dropping me at the Waterhead, practically at the door of the hostel.  In the early evening I walked into town for dinner at Jintana (Thai, tasty, filling) and a couple more pints at Lakes Brew.  Walking back I was tempted by the 555 waiting at Kelsick Road and regret fought with the thought that the walk would help my over-stuffed belly as the bus passed me by on Lake Road.

Tuesday 24th: Green Quarter Fells 10km

Yet another day of shonky forecasts so I packed unenthusiastically.  There were hints the rain would ease up but the wind wouldn’t so I went with my plan of picking up more Outlying Fells.  Parking at Kentmere is at a premium so I thought a wet winter Tuesday might be my best bet.  As it was, I got the penultimate spot by Kentmere Institute.  The light rain had fizzled out but I still put on all the gear and then boiled as soon as I started climbing towards Green Quarter.  As I headed out onto the fell, the rain started coming down, driven into my face by the muscular wind.  The paths were churned up by sheep so I slipped and squelched my way onwards until thankfully I could turn north and have the wind at my back.  At this point I entered the clag, so I skipped a visit to Skeggles Water.  I also managed to fall over on wet rock, choosing instinctively to go into a roll rather than doing the splits, so I bounced back up unscathed.  I like to think I styled it out.

Kentmere

Rain-spotted shot

Impressive cairn on Hollow Moor's east top

Looking across the Kent valley

It is all open access but there are still fences that need stepping over, which I did to slog my way through pathless, energy-sapping tussock grass onto Hollow Moor.  I was blowing like a broken engine at the top, where there were no views, and just a clump of marsh grass marking the summit. A quad bike track led me towards the next top, with a boggy fence crossing.  This top had two stones as a minimalist cairn.  Which was about all I could see.  I tracked my way over bouncy sphagnum moss down to the fence (clamber across the gate) and to a PROW.  The rain had stopped and I had only walked for 90 minutes, so I decided to add a little bit extra, aiming for the pass that comes up from Longsleddale.  At the furtherest point, the rain returned and lashed down on me for the rest of the walk, making me question my life choices.  At first walking in rain is quite a thrill, but the novelty soon wears off and, once you’re soaked through, it starts getting cold.  At least the misty view across the Kent valley to crags, mossy walls and bare trees was picturesque.  I wondered how the couple who I spoke to as I set off were getting on with their plan for going up Yoke and beyond.  Mad idea.

Borrowdale November 2025

Sunday 16th: Grasmere – Borrowdale 16.6km

£28 for a room at Borrowdale YHA was too good to resist so I got it booked and then, after a little deliberation, booked my trains.  The earliest Sunday train got me into Windermere at 10:50 so I had chosen a walking route I could do within the available daylight.  That time was even further reduced when the busy train emptied and I joined the queue for the busy 555 bus.  With traffic in Ambleside, we didn’t arrive at Grasmere until 11:45 but at least the journey gave me time to eat half my lunch.

Helm Crag

There were lots of people milling about in the village and it felt a little chilly, so I set off as quickly as I could.  There were quite a lot of people walking in Easedale too and it didn’t really get quiet until Stythwaite Steps, where I guess most people were walking down from Easedale Tarn.  I stayed straight on into the remote and rugged Far Easedale.

Far Easedale

Far Easedale

Far Easedale

The effort of the ascent meant I was just wearing a fleece over my new merino baselayer, which was generally ok except when the wind made its occasional appearance to send a chill through me.  I have been struggling a little on climbs recently and this one was no exception, especially with my bag weighing in at 10kg first thing (I don’t seem to be able to pack light).  I was blowing quite hard after the first steep section, so sat down to eat the rest of my lunch while admiring the view.  From this point I slowed my pace right down to make the work easier and it really did the trick, feeling much more comfortable.  All the same, the bloke who greeted me at Greenup Edge did seem to have a look of concern on his face as he said ‘hi’.  ‘Steep pull,’ I gasped.

Greenup Edge

It was a somewhat cloudy day and the wind was cutting across the top so I didn’t hang around and was soon starting the descent of Greenup Gill.  Last time I came this way it was raining and the rock steps were treacherous.  This time it was dry but it is still an awkward path, particularly around Lining Crag which is quite eroded.  The compensation was the wonderful views into the valley with Eagle Crag standing proudly to one side.

Eagle Crag over Greenup Gill

I passed one other person on the way down then swung left at Smithymire Island to follow the western bank of Stonethwaite Beck, partly because I don’t like the loose rocks on the eastern side and partly because I thought the eastern side might be more prone to inundation with lots of gills running off the fellsides (there had been flooding recently and there was a flood alert in place).  Whatever the case, the western side was pretty good.

Lower reaches of Greenup Gill

My legs were feeling the effort of both the up and the down and I contemplated my options.  I was too early to check into the hostel so I could go to the Langstrath Inn at Stonethwaite or the newly reopened Yew Tree Inn at Seatoller, which I was curious to visit.  Without looking at my watch I decided that if it was 15:45 I would stop at the Langstrath, otherwise I would push on to the Yew Tree.  I rather hoped for the former.  It was 15:42 so on I went.  That said, a glance through the Langstrath’s windows seemed to show no hand-pulled beer was available.  The Yew Tree was a lovely place, lots of slate decorating the bar (it is owned by the Honister Slate Mine family), decent beer, and toilets you have to cross a yard to visit.

Of course it had got dark now, so I got out my headtorch and hi viz vest to walk along the road to the hostel.  After a shower I headed to the bar for more refreshment and some food (a very good steak pie).  While lounging on a sofa with my book I half-recognised one of the other people round the table.  ‘Are you Richard?  Do you have a dog called Tess?’  It was indeed Richard from the Walking Forum, who was camping at the hostel, and we spent the rest of the evening having a good old chinwag.  An excellent way to finish the day.

Monday 17th: Borrowdale – Keswick: 14.8km

With another day of travelling ahead of me, I didn’t lie in too long (not as much as I might have done) and was in the dining room for breakfast at 7:30.  A number of people were self-catering so the meals were cooked to order.  The lad behind me, when asked how much he wanted, replied, ‘As much as you can do.’

Borrowdale

It was frosty outside, so I put on lots of layers before stepping out and bumping into Richard again.  He was heading low-level to Keswick, after a hard day, while I was heading to the tops.  We waved goodbye then I immediately delayered, feeling much warmer than expected.  I was delayering again by the time I arrived at Rosthwaite, with the stiff ascent of Puddingstone Bank ahead of me.

Watendlath

This time I chose a slow pace for the climb from the off, having learnt my lesson from the day before, and was pleased to reach to top without feeling I had taken too much out of myself.  The views back to Borrowdale in the slowly-rising sunlight were lovely but the views to Watendlath were rather hidden by trees.  It was quiet in the village, just ducks scattering, a dog barking, occasional banging from a yard somewhere.  It felt tranquil and idyllic.

Watendlath

The climb back out of the village had looked fearsome from the other side.  Once more I engaged my low gear and plodded on up, and once more it did the trick.  I might have been slow but I got to the top without over-stressing.  My reward was superb views around the whole of the National Park, though the bright sun in the clear sky made it had to look south.  From High Tove I took the flagged path over the Pewitts to High Seat.  The ground was partially frozen and in some places verglas covered the flags, meaning I had to risk the bog to avoid slipping over.

View west from High Tove

At High Seat I saw the first people since I had said goodbye to Richard two hours earlier.  It wasn’t a place for hanging around as the wind blew coldly across the top.  The good path had finished so the route to Bleaberry Fell involved a lot of bog hopping and trusting in the frozen ground to keep me from sinking.  I stopped to eat at Bleaberry, staring over the Helvellyn range and remembering my two visits this year.  My onward progress was further slowed by a chatty bloke from Lancaster and another from Glasgow.

High Seat

The paths improved on the way to Walla Crag, guided on by excellent clear views of Skiddaw and Blencathra, though I managed my only fall of the day – on frozen turf while fiddling getting my water bottle back into its pocket and not paying attention.  After a quick admiring glance from the top of the crag to Derwent Water and Keswick, I turned my feet downhill again.  Many more people were now out, I suppose walking up from the town, while I passed them in the opposite direction, feeling in a good mood, knowing the hard work was over and just enjoying the beautiful weather.

Derwent Water from Bleaberry Fell

Derwent Water and Keswick from Walla Crag

There was plenty of time for a couple of pints at the Crooked River Tap, a bus to Grasmere for a necessary stop (blame the pints), a beer in Tweedie’s then another bus (open top 599!) to Windermere, where I had a rather too heavily topped pizza and some so-so beer in the Crafty Baa.  The train home was quiet, so I read and listened to music and mused on my trip.  It felt emotional somehow, having had worries about my health and ability, but receiving generous gifts in return from the landscape and from the company of the people I encountered.  It had been a superb couple of days and was everything I hope to continue doing for as long as I can.