Thursday
It
was wet and very windy overnight. I
slept badly as my room was overly warm and I couldn’t open the window because
of the racket. It was still windy when I
went down for breakfast. Apparently it
was Storm Hector passing through. The
forecast promised better things for later, so we didn’t hurry over the meal or
rush to get going afterwards. I wandered
out to the shop to buy some snacks.
‘Excuse me, marra,’ a delivery driver called to get my attention as I
was passing.
Getting
ready in my room I felt in a foul mood for some reason, the weather perhaps. I clumsily dropped things and sent my open
suitcase flying from the bed. It would
help to get going.
There
was a lot of debris on the road to the Newlands Pass but nothing major. Waiting until later had probably meant that a
number of other people had been through and cleared anything up. Jill went off to do her thing, which was
climbing Binsey to bag another Wainwright, while we turned onto the blustery
path by the lake. The skies were grey
and there was a threat of rain in the air, though only a single proper shower
hit us, and even then it was hardly worth putting a jacket on for. There were more trees fallen along the
lakeside but only one across the path.
We battled our way through the foliage to carry on our way.
The
climb up by Warnscale Beck, using the old path as indicated on the map rather
than the better one on the other side, was hard work. It was steep, poorly surfaced and
indistinct. I was feeling the pace of
the last few days as Pete forged on ahead.
There was a lot of water cascading down the gill and the breeze
increased in strength as we gained height.
When we got to Dubs Bothy, we went inside to shelter from the wind while
having a snack. I was also curious to
see what changes had been made now that the building had been taken over by the
Mountain Bothies Association. The main
change was that there was now a wood burner to heat the place up. Previously people had just started fires on
the floor, presumably smoking the place up and risking torching the whole
thing.
To
get to Honister Slate Mine, we followed the old tramway, which had an
unforgiving surface. Beyond that, the
old road, running parallel to the new one, was no better under foot most of the
time. At least the day was beginning to
brighten up and the views were improving.
Marching along, deep in conversation and following a wide, clear track,
it occurred to us that we had missed our proper turning, which must have been a
sketchy thing somewhere in all the bracken.
Never mind, we would pick the path up at some point. The diversion ended up being rather long, with
rather more climbing, than would have been desired. We passed through ‘Johnny Wood’ below High
Doat, which was dappled green and mossy in the filtered sunlight. Clouds of tiny, pale green moths fluttered
around us, sometimes settling on our clothing and hitching a ride for a
while. It was quite a magical place.
After
a tiring re-ascent, we re-joined the correct path and finally passed Castle
Crag – a diversion I had earlier considered but now rejected. The path was rough and it was hard to get a
pace on. Past Castle Crag the path was
engineered but designed by some misanthrope who thought it was funny for
walkers to continually stumble over a terribly uneven surface.
The
last part of the day was a long trek up Borrowdale and then the banks of
Derwent Water. There was beautiful green
and blue scenery, the sun was out and the day was warm. Sunlight shone on the far bank. More people were out and about, including a
big group of kids kayaking near an outdoor centre. We were behind schedule – I texted Jill to
let her know – and it had been a long day.
Pete started obsessing about having a pint when we got into
Keswick. He was affecting me too. Just when we were thinking we were getting
close, in Portinscale, where there were a number of big trees sawn up by the
side of the road, the path cruelly went on for an eternity. The plastic bridge over the River Derwent
feels like it should be on the outskirts of Keswick, but there were still acres
of parkland to be crossed. Eventually we
flopped down in the Justice of the Common Pleas (Wetherspoons) and I let Jill
know. Thursday in Wetherspoons is curry
night, so we all decided to stay where we were and get some food down us, it
was certainly late enough.
Later,
back in Braithwaite, we had a couple in the Coledale before returning to the
Oak. The baldy bloke I had met on the
Black Sail Pass was in there. Apparently
he had been camping in Wasdale when Storm Hector shook the leaves off the trees,
luckily with no mishap, and was now camping in Braithwaite with, as he kept
calling her, ‘Mrs Davies’.
Friday
It
was grey but mild out when I walked up the road to the shop for a sandwich and
some cake. Daphne, the owner, was in an
excited mood as she was waiting for news of her daughter, who was just about to
give birth.
After
breakfast, Pete dropped me at Booth’s in Keswick and left me to set off on my
walk. Crossing the whole of the town
taught me how much of a sprawling place it is.
As I went on, I also learnt how far it is out to Castlerigg stone
circle, somewhere that is just a couple of minutes in a car. The lesson included demonstrating how much
higher above the town the stones are, and it felt a long, slow drag on my tired
legs.
There
were lots of people around the stones, unsurprisingly. One bloke had a tripod set up for taking
photographs, though if he was hoping for a picture with no people wandering
through, he was going to be out of luck.
Just as I was leaving, a coachload of Japanese tourists arrived. A few spots of rain fell too.
I
ignored the official route which would have involved walking along the A591 and
cut across the fields down to Low Nest farm instead. This took me up to the main road but turned
away from it almost immediately. A gang
of workmen were rebuilding the track so a sign apologised that I couldn’t
follow my ‘usual footpath’. It wasn’t
much of a diversion and it took me a gentle route through fields full of
buttercups. A little more rain fell, but
hardly enough to require a coat. The
higher fells disappeared or emerged from cloud from time to time, the Coledale
fells and Skiddaw being mostly hidden, while Blencathra popped out teasingly.
The
short climb between Low Rigg and High Rigg felt hard going and I worried about
my legs for the forthcoming big climb of the day over the Sticks Pass. It was hot work too and I was just down to a
tee shirt by the top. It was breezier
over the other side, so my fleece soon came back out of the bag. St John’s in the Vale looked as charming as
ever, full of trees and greenery, with the dark, foreboding lump of Clough Head
looming down over it. I had been looking
at an alternative route along here to avoid some of the road walking. In the end I decided to stick to the shorter,
official route. Only I missed my turning
and ended up on my alternative route all the same. These days I’m quite relaxed about my routes
and I was happy to have let fate decide the outcome. The route by the river was absolutely
gorgeous, twisting around trees and boulders with the water chattering by my
side. I stopped to eat a sandwich on a
mossy rock and just absorbed the sensation of being there. It was the penultimate day and I wanted to
make sure I experienced everything fully rather than rushing my way to the end.
My
alternative route hit a bit of the A591 before I could cut across back to
Stannah. A couple ahead of me seemed uncertain
of the route and I marched past them as if I knew where I was going. I had never been that way before and I hoped
they wouldn’t ask me for advice because I wasn’t sure whether I would be
marching back the same way, tail between my legs, having made a blunder. Luckily, I found the correct route, and it
was even signposted. The first part of
the climb was very steep through bracken.
It continued very steep up a rocky path, twisting around the
hillside. I kept my pace low, parcelling
out my strength. Up ahead of me I saw
what I guessed were the Dutch couple.
They were moving quicker than I was but were stopping more often. Mostly I was stopping for photographs as the
views behind opened up, showing the full glory of Dunmail Raise and St John’s
in the Vale. Any aches in my legs seemed
to disappear and I found myself really enjoying the ascent, it was such a
fabulous place to be.
Nearer
the top, the gradient lessened greatly, but the climb dragged on and on. It was a real slog and I started to feel
tired again. It was a relief when the
top arrived. Again I had the odd
sensation walking straight across the pass instead of turning left or right and
making it to a summit. Instead I sat on
a grassy knoll and ate some more food.
It was windy again and soon started to feel cold, so I pushed on, safe
in the knowledge that it was all downhill.
The
first part of the descent was tricky, with loose, eroded rocks. This led to a bleak, desolate area of old
mine workings, where the land seemed dead and grey. Rusting hulks of old machinery lurked between
the old spoil heaps. Beyond this,
however, was an engineered mine track that zig-zagged through gnarled juniper
bushes. It was here I caught up with the
Dutch couple, sitting down for a snack, for the last time. They had spotted me earlier on the ascent and
we swapped experiences. They were going
to continue on to Patterdale as they had failed to find accommodation in
Glenridding. I bid them farewell and
trotted along the easy path past the Youth Hostel and down into the village.
Inside
the Traveller’s Rest, I found Jill waiting for me, so we had a drink or two
before the trip over to Ambleside. We
were staying in the Gables Guesthouse and immediately it felt very welcoming
inside. The owner was a friendly bloke
and the place had lots of nice touches for the guests, like a drying room and a
water dispenser. Our rooms were on the
top floor, which was a bit of a hike, but meant it was very quiet and had great
views of Lough Rigg, where I had started the walk at the beginning of the week.
Once
we were scrubbed up, we hit the town, looking for something to drink and
something to eat. We ended up treating
ourselves to a meal in Lucy’s. A very
gay waiter put a conspiratorial arm around my shoulders and explained that our
waiter, ‘JB’ (really called Luke but there was already a Luke on the books),
was new so would we treat him gently. JB
did fine. I started with some delicious
asparagus, followed by a gorgeous lamb tagine.
On our way out we stopped for a chat with Lucy herself. She told us how she had decided to switch
from daytime café to evening restaurant because of the competition there now
was in the former sector. We wished her
well and went to the pub.
The
pubs, the Royal Oak and the White Lion, weren’t really to my taste. Rather too loud and laddish, full of
‘townies’ and groups who, at least in one case, were on a stag do. The Ambleside Tavern at least was somewhat quieter,
even if I had to put up with the golf being on the big screen.
Saturday
The
rain increased in strength as the attentive girl served us breakfast. I dashed up to the Spar to get something for
lunch and thought, well this isn’t too bad.
I had probably just caught it at a good moment. The hills were hiding in the cloud as we
drove out up the Struggle and the top of the Kirkstone Pass was all in
fog. Dropping down the far side into
Patterdale, the rain built up its furious downpour. Somehow I wasn’t feeling daunted by the
weather. I was in an accepting mood;
this was the weather I was having that day, so I would walk in it. Jill playfully suggested putting the walk off
until the next day, taking a day off during the storm. I didn’t rise to the bait and anyway it would
have made Sunday’s plans somewhat less amenable.
The
walk perhaps started a little inauspiciously as I dropped one of my thick socks
into a puddle while getting my gear on.
A wet foot from the start. After
that I didn’t feel so bad, trudging up to Keldas, where there wasn’t much of a
view between the burgeoning treelife and the low cloud, and on to Lanty’s
Tarn. Descending into Grisedale, I
passed a couple heading up towards the Hole in the Wall. Surely they wouldn’t be going over Striding
Edge on a day like this? It seemed too
ridiculous even to ask.
Grisedale
is renowned for being the longest valley in Lakeland, if not the world. Or at least it always feels that way. The wind blowing the rain into my face all
the way along it also brought with it a surprising number of Australians, most
of them desperately asking if they were near Patterdale. One, presumably regarding my dripping visage,
said, ‘This is why you do it west to east,’ giving the game away that he was
walking the Coast to Coast.
The
rain beat down unceasingly, getting stronger if anything as I climbed. After a valiant 90 minutes, my boots gave up
the fight and almost simultaneously both of my feet started to feel wet. The streams and waterfalls churned with white
water. Songs about rain bounced around
my head. Here comes the rain again. The rain falls hard on a humdrum town. The pounding rain continues its bleak
fall. All he captures is endless rain,
endless rain.[1]
At
Rusthwaite climbing hut, I tucked into a doorway under the eaves at one end,
hiding as best I could in the building’s lee.
There was half a foot of dry doorstep to rest my bag while I hastily
stuffed a sandwich down my throat. There
was no way anyone could eat out in the open without the bread dissolving. My hidey-hole was disturbed by a woman coming
around the corner. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I
was hoping to have a wee.’ It was time
to face the weather again.
The
path got steeper above the Brothers’ Parting Stone, where William Wordsworth
said goodbye to his brother, not knowing that he would never see him
again. ‘Been there, don’t need to see it
again,’ I muttered as I splashed upwards.
Three Yorkshire lads were descending ahead of me. Classically taciturn, one said as he passed,
‘Bleak oop theer.’ He was right. The rain swept down the valley, battering
down, the wind blowing hard. The surface
of Grisedale Tarn was whipped into choppy waves but I was glad to see the small
stepping stones were, mostly, above the water line. I didn’t stop to admire the view, which
encompassed about 10 metres in any direction, but carried on to the descent,
hoping things would get better.
The
becks on this side were flowing equally as hard. A female fellrunner who had passed me at the
top was hunting around for a place to cross.
I thought she was looking at the wider parts of a confluence of streams
so cut left and stepped across some rocks.
The woman eventually stepped straight into the water. ‘I don’t trust the rocks,’ she said before
jogging off. More folk were coming up
the hill, mostly Ockers again. ‘Does is
start going down soon?’ one asked plaintively.
I lied in response, ‘Not far.’
Towards
the bottom of what is normally a very attractive descent, the rain actually
started to feel like it was easing off.
I even risked a quick Mars Bar under a tree. In the quieter atmosphere I could now hear my
boots squelching. It wasn’t the nicest
sensation. Down on the main road I
plodded along, knowing it was unlikely I would dry out, when the rain returned
for another round. It absolutely sheeted
down, huge raindrops bouncing off the tarmac like explosions. I could take no more and stepped inside the
phonebox by the Swan Hotel. It was cramped and cobwebby but at least it was
dry. I ate a banana and watched the show
for a while. There was supposed to be a
classic car show in Grasmere and a number of old vehicles bravely drove up the
main road, their small, outdated windscreen wipers doing the best in the
torrents of rain.
It
seemed to be easing off again, so I left my upright glass coffin and got on my
way again. The official route continues
along the road for a while but I turned off and climbed up above the houses
onto a very pleasant path. Looking back
I could see Helm Crag and then suddenly someone turned the light on and the sky
went blue. The sun shone and it all
looked gorgeous. Where had that come
from?
It
didn’t ease my dampness and my efforts at photographing the scene were hampered
by my not having anything dry to wipe the condensation off the lens. The path joined the coffin route above Dove
Cottage and led very easily and prettily along the valley. There were more people about, including a
number of runners clearly in some sort of event. They continued to drift by, past Rydal Hall
and through the park. Just outside
Ambleside, I dropped off the route again to avoid a major road, and entered via
Low Sweden Bridge. The outskirts of the
town passed slowly and my resolution to go straight to the guesthouse to dry
off was quickly supplanted by the idea to go to the Golden Rule for a
celebratory pint. I found a quiet snug
to drop my wet gear on the floor and peel some layers off.
Fortified
by that, I made the short journey back to the Gables. I sat on the steps outside and took my boots
off, with some relief. Before going in,
I wrung my socks out, water trickling onto the pavement as ordinary tourists
walked by. The hours walking through the
rainstorm now seemed unreal, like a period of delirium looked back on uncomprehendingly. Up there on the hill in the rain and wind,
battling through it with all your senses overwhelmed, it was a different kind
of reality. Now I was back in the real
world, ready to get a hot shower, followed by cold beer and a big meal. This time we avoided the ‘townie’ pubs, drank
in the Rule and ate in the Unicorn. I
even treated myself to a couple of whiskies as a reward.
It
had been a terrific week with some very rewarding walking and lots of unusual
perspectives on places with which I thought I was familiar. We stayed in some nice places, drank some
nice drinks, spoke to some nice people.
I felt at the end that I could walk the route again and again, a
repeated act of pilgrimage, ever deepening my knowledge of the place and ever
deepening that love.
