Considering
the day’s drinking, I woke up feeling surprisingly well. Skipping over the shower room’s muddy floor,
I dodged around under the weak stream of water to finally clean off the
preceding 24 hours’ filth. The gang all
met for breakfast around 8am and I had to do a small amount of pleading to get
my share – having not signed in at the right time on arrival, my name wasn’t on
the list, although I had paid up. The
food was pretty good, especially the sausages.
In
defiance of the weather forecast, a little rain was falling outside, so we
started the walk in waterproofs again.
There was a pause in the village as Martin and I picked up sandwiches
for lunch from the Bakehouse, the rest of the group making do with whatever
snacks they still had in their bags. The
first part of the walk took us along a disused railway line by the
waterfront. The weak drizzle had quickly
cleared up so we stopped again to remove some gear. On the fields to our seaward side, sheep were
grazing on the salty grass. Over the
estuary we could make out the beginnings of the Coniston fells though their
tops were hidden in cloud. We passed
some villages on our way and admired the impressive buildings and their
enviable views across the bay.
Beyond
Milnthorpe we turned into Dallam Park.
For the first time we were seeing more people around – pretty much all
of them accompanied by dogs. It’s a deer
park and after some distance we spotted some pale fallow deer – not bushes as
Eric thought – near the top of a rise.
They kept a close eye on us but didn’t seem perturbed by our presence,
nor that of the endless parade of pooches ushered along by the other walkers.
Outside
the park, on the edge of the village of Beetham, I wandered off the path to
look at a sign describing a renovated corn mill and its hydro-electric turbine
built on the river Bela. An aging hippy,
sucking on an electronic cigarette, pounced on me and started telling me facts
about the place. The others came over
and Wavy Davy quickly found his rhythm.
He had a huge fund of stories and factoids, telling us all about the
salmon spawning in the Bela, swimming up and down the weir and fish ladder; how
he worked for Lady Mary Townley impersonating a 1920’s quarryman, telling tales
of local legends to visiting school parties; how stunned he was to witness the
mating dance of a pair of peregrines in a quarry there; how wind turbines are
iniquitous because they decapitate birds and how water turbines are so much
better. We could have been there all
day. He asked where we were going and
gave his advice about where to go too.
Leaving
our far-out friend behind, we stuck to my original route through the posh
village. We climbed first up the road
and then through woods near Slack Head.
The trees, more coppiced beech and lots of magnificent yews, were
growing between and on top of outcrops of limestone paving. Except this was nothing like that in
Yorkshire, not only because of being in woodland, but it was covered in thick
moss, like a furry green rug pulled over it.
It was quite a sight. The very
top was an exposed ridge of limestone, Whin Scar, and through this cut a
largely natural staircase called the Fairy Steps. The gap, perhaps 18 inches wide at its
narrowest, drops down steeply through the rock over slanting and damp
steps. The legend is that if you can
climb the steps without touching the sides, the fairies will grant you a
wish. Given the precipitous and slippery
nature of the steps, we kicked that idea into touch and grabbed hold of
whatever purchase we could find on the sides.
The rest of the descent was somewhat gentler, though there were still
some exciting bits of soapy rock, handily covered in wet leaves.
It
had been a long day and everyone was starting to feel the effort. Arnside Knott stood between us and the hostel
and its bulk was looming closer all the time.
First we passed Arnside Tower, an unexpected and pleasant sight, then a
farm full of dogs in various states of liveliness and decrepitude. And still the sheer face of the Knott grew
larger. ‘I don’t have a good feeling
about this,’ said Martin.
But
it was all a tease. Our path skirted to
the left of the Knott before striking for the summit in gentle slopes. The views were impressive despite the
greyness and the cloud limiting things.
We didn’t stay at the top too long but found ourselves having to do
quite a bit of wandering to find our way down amongst the many paths, all going
the wrong direction.
Back
at the hostel I dodged around again under the trickling shower (floor still
muddy), got my evening clobber on and knocked on Martin’s door. He woke up and then joined me on the walk to
the village. The football had just
finished (‘Shouldn’t have bothered, neither side deserved to win,’ was Ray’s
opinion of the match). I asked the
barman if the rugby was going to be on and he assured me that it would be. At 4pm, I asked again and he gathered up a
pile of six or seven remote controls then started pressing them to try and sort
the channel out. He hit the right one
for the screen in front of us and we found the game had just begun. Our man carried on pressing remotes and
somehow switched our screen to a DVD.
Luckily it was nothing embarrassing but I called him over again and, at
last, we were back on the rugby. We had
only missed Australia’s first try. The
match was a little more one-sided that the previous day’s had been but was
enjoyable anyway in the display of dominance that Australia gave.
Slowly
everyone else arrived. Haydn had been
down to Leighton Moss for the day but was disappointed with what he saw. He had walked out to the far hides only to
find the water had been drained so there were no birds there. I told him we had seen curlews and cormorants
in the estuary. ‘You’ve seen more than
me then.’ A woman at the next table was
telling her friend about a great book of poetry she had found, ‘100 Poems to
Save Your Life’, and quoted from one.
‘They mix you up, your mum and dad.’
Wait a minute, mix? Mix? Good job she didn’t quote John Cooper
Clarke. ‘The mixing beer is mixing flat,
the mixing flats are full of rats…’
Dinner
that night was at the local fish and chip shop, which has a good reputation and
an adjacent café. Alan placed himself
outside – the only way to reserve a table.
It was worth the wait as the food was delicious. Martin did especially well, getting Haydn’s
unwanted peas and Alan’s leftover chips.
After
eating, we retired to the Albion. Alan
and Eric switched to wine (how sophisticated) and there was a heated debate
about the dubious merits of the Daily Mail.
Outside the pub, after an early finish, I turned right towards the steps
down from the front terrace. Eric,
because that wasn’t in the direction of the hostel, asked me if there was
another way out. I turned and said I
didn’t know. He swivelled round and
walked straight into a glass partition between the tables. The glass took the blow without shattering,
as did Eric’s specs. Unfortunately the
toughened lenses stabbed a crescent moon cut in his eyebrow and blood came
gushing out. A smoker stood on the other
side of the partition gazed on in horror.
Eric blamed Alan for switching him to wine and walked back to the hostel
with a tissue pressed to his head. The
day’s efforts must have got to everyone as, with Eric bandaged up, we were all
in our beds by 10.
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