Wednesday
Bluebells
filled the woods around Cinderdale Bridge car park. Sunshine lit up the green leaves in the trees
above. It felt hot as I made my way to
Easthwaite Farm and even hotter as I plodded up beside Greathall Gill. Halfway up I inadvertently chose a steeper
route, the fell-runners path perhaps, and it had me gasping. There were a few people around on the top but
I particularly harrumphed about a group of three who were occupying one of the
‘viewpoints’ over Wasdale. As I
approached my attitude softened as I recognised legendary Wasdale farmer and
fell-runner, Josh Naylor. He had two
walking poles and looked just as thin as either one, except for being
berry-brown. With him were two women who
I believe were his daughters. A dog
trotted faithfully by his side. I said
hello but didn’t muster the courage to say any more, though I would have liked
to have said how good it was to see him about.
A couple of weeks later I read the news that he had been on a 40-mile
run for his 80th birthday.
Good on him.
There
were terrific views from the top of Whin Rigg over the valley and up to the
head with its glorious skyline. A large
Air Force transport plane buzzed languidly over the lake below me. Ahead I spotted a bird that I couldn’t
immediately place. Bigger than a
blackbird, smaller than a grouse. It was
only when it took off that I spotted the characteristic pale markings round its
throat that identified it as a female ring ouzel, the first one I had ever
seen. Later on, on the descent, I
stopped to photograph an unusual plant (it turned out to be lousewort). As I was checking I wasn’t crushing anything
when I rested my elbows, I suddenly spotted a tiny round sundew, and a number
of its companions. This was the first
time that I had seen a sundew in the wild, so I quickly forgot the lousewort
and snapped the otherworldly insectivore instead.
My
return route from Brackenclose was across the notorious screes. A decent, if narrow, path wound about the
lakeside and slowly became rockier. The
major section was over large boulders and it didn’t prove any difficulty at
all, not if you’ve wandered around the tops of fells like Scafell Pike or
Bowfell. It was only towards the end
when the rocks got smaller and looser that it started to get harder and I had a
momentary slide. My main problem was a
muscle on the inside of my right shoulder, which was aching like anything. I tried various different ways of carrying my
rucksack before having to just put up with it.
It was an unexpected problem.
The
reward for all the effort was an evening at the Strands Inn, where Jill met
me. Tasty food, tasty beer, a welcome
sleep.
Thursday
Martin
was having train troubles thanks to a combination of a badly planned new
timetable, over-running engineering works and a train drivers’ strike. I sent a message to Jim, whom we were meeting
later that morning, then set off to Drigg to meet Martin’s late train. The rescheduled pick-up went to plan but the
cross-country road to Ennerdale was closed and we had to take the main road,
which was held up by slow drivers. It
was almost 11 when we arrived at the very full car park to find Jim sheltering
from the blazing sun. He shoved his
Brompton bike in the back of my car then we gathered our gear for the next two
days.
There
were plenty of folk out along the lakeside, mostly walking dogs. The turn off that path proved tricky to find,
but we eventually got on the right track.
At the top of this path, a large barn had a series of signs complaining
that, ‘The parish council didn’t put the path here. It was a London vicar. And he didn’t put it here either.’ It continued that the challenge was still
outstanding against a ‘dictorial [sic] district council.’ Later I read up that the farmer, Tom Ireland,
was wont to approach walkers, toting a shotgun, and warning them that they
shouldn’t use the path. A few years ago
he went on the run from the police for failing to attend summonses. I was rather glad we didn’t run into him and
would have chosen a different route if I had known.
The
climb to Floutern Cop was steady but sweaty.
We stopped near the top for something to eat and for Martin to patch up
his battered feet. After that we had the
very steep but not too long climb up Steel Brow and a gentle stroll over rocks
to the summit of Great Bourne. On from
there is an easy wander along the grassy ridge with terrific views all round. The final push to the top of Red Pike was a
bit of a strain in the heat and we were all puffing by the top. We had lunch in the shelter and admired the
classic and stunning view of Crummock Water nestling between Mellbreak and the
giants of Whiteside and Grasmoor.
Up
on High Stile we stopped for a chat with a local fell-runner. In late middle age, he was shirtless, belly
hanging over his shorts, and with his nipples taped up with plasters (I didn’t
like to stare but at first I thought he had got some sort of skin
condition). Descending High Stile we
looked back to watch the climbers on the crags below the summit. It looked an insane place to be.
Martin,
perhaps worriedly, asked me what the descent from High Crag (Gamlin End) was
like. Without dressing it up, I replied,
‘Horrendous.’ And it was exactly as
described: very steep, very loose, every step a game of chance with
gravity. It was a relief to reach Scarth
Gap. The rest of the descent was
straightforward and Jim and I stepped out a little while Martin filled his
filter bottle from a stream. Both he and
Jim had run out of water so I had been sharing the remains of mine. I perhaps should have made explicit how long
the walk would take.
Everyone
was sitting in the sunshine outside the hut, including a few strangers. ‘Where have you been,’ the lads asked, ‘and
what have you done with Martin?’ ‘Well,’
I said, ‘you can’t afford to wait for the weakest in the mountains.’ They also let us know that they had
pre-warned the warden, a young girl called Chloe, that she had better make sure
she had plenty of beer chilling for me and Martin. Our reputation preceded us.
Jim
got a glass of water while me and Martin did as predicted and got ourselves
some of that cool Black Sheep. There was
just time for me to grab a shower – hot and powerful, unlike the old days –
before dinner was served. The main
course was pasta and meatballs (Chloe was aided in this by her boyfriend,
Matt), which was a little stodgy and filling but tasty enough. Tellingly only the three of us who had been
over the tops managed to clean our plates.
The apple tart with custard didn’t last long for anyone.
The
other people in the hostel included a chap, whose birthday it was and who was
offering cake, his wife, and two women called Maggie who were walking the Coast
to Coast. After dinner we sat outside as
the air cooled. Most people went inside,
some of them to play dominoes, but it was warm in there and the seats didn’t
suit my dodgy shoulder muscle, so I stayed outside with Jill and Martin,
sinking a beer or two – and the contents of my hipflask. We didn’t see many stars out, perhaps because
of a veil of cloud, but a few bats darted over our heads. We called it a night, the last of the
residents, around 11pm. No one had shut
the blinds in the big room where I was staying and I’m afraid I bashed things
around as I tried to get them closed (for which, my apologies).
Friday
Due
to the usual thin mattress and ‘frog chorus’ of snoring, I didn’t have the best
night’s sleep. The compensation for this
was a pleasantly filling breakfast. Matt
told us about how eerie the place is when it’s cold and the rain is battering
down outside. The Galloway cows in the
valley like to gather in the shelter of the front of the hut and surprise him
with their ‘Darth Vader’ breathing. They
also like to leave a steaming present on the doorstep for him to step in.
The
weather wasn’t quite as good at the previous days, being cooler and
windier. The rest of the gang were keen
to get going and rushed off down the valley before Martin, Jim and I were ready
to set off on our route. This dispersal
felt like a rather abrupt end to the stay but that’s the way it goes. I hoisted the tombstone of my rucksack onto
my back and we headed off towards the Black Sail Pass.
It
was a stiff, uneven climb and I found myself stumbling a little, partly through
tiredness and partly through the buffeting of the wind. At the top we watched some people making
their way up the horrid-looking, very steep scree slope onto Kirk Fell. Rather them than us. A bloke on his own appeared from Wasdale and
turned up in our direction towards Pillar.
We diverted slightly onto Looking Stead to take advantage of the
viewpoint – and to get battered some more by the wind – but it wasn’t until we
rejoined Jim near the start of the High Level Route that the gale really kicked
in and we were almost knocked clean off our feet – a daunting prospect when
there’s a long drop into the valley a couple of meters to your side.
The
rest of the climb was less intense, both in gradient and wind strength. Martin was feeling the effort but was loving
being up in the hills. We really did
feel out in the wild mountains with views over Ennerdale and Wasdale. The views got even better at the top, from
where you could see just about everywhere in the National Park, from North to
South. We wandered in awe for a while
before ducking into the shelter, where the bloke from the top of the pass was
also huddling away from the breeze. He
seemed a chatty, accommodating sort of chap.
While
snacking on some supplies, we discussed our route. There was a way directly down into the valley
but I feared it would be a bit too steep and gnarly. My favoured option was from Steeple along a
ridge to the top end of Ennerdale Water.
Eventually I got buy in from everyone, though we all agreed that
carrying on too far on the ridge, to Haycock, would be too much.
The
descent down to Wind Gap off Pillar was surprisingly unwindy. There were some people coming up and Jim
recognised a woman he had met the other night at Ennerdale Hostel, so they
stopped for a chat. She was bagging
Wainwrights and was planning on staying at Black Sail that night.
The
first intimations of rain arrived as we got to the summit of Scoat Fell. I already had my waterproof jacket on in lieu
of a windproof, but the rain was hardly enough to warrant extra gear. From there we crossed to Steeple and then
began our descent. The ridge had been
clear to see in profile and seemed to include a number of tricky outcrops of
crag. Pleasingly the path avoided these
and it turned into a good route, approved of both by Martin and Jim, whose feet
had started to give him a little gyp on the downhill bits.
Just
above the treeline the right of way vanished but a clear path carried on
westwards over a stream and up a small rise.
On the far side of this we came to a clearing of large rocks, almost a stone
circle. The wind was light here so we
stopped for lunch, and very pleasant it was.
This put us in a good mood for the last part of the descent, which was
pretty awful, being very steep through the trees. Beyond that the path around the lake proved
tricky, thanks to the rocky surface, and very, very long. The well-remembered kick in the teeth of a
rough climb up around Angler’s Crag was just as expected. And instead of a simple trot to the finish
line, the dark clouds we had seen massing at the head of the valley finally
caught up and dumped some rain on us. It
wasn’t heavy, but it did mean we finished with wet gear to chuck into the car,
relieved to be back.
It
was reasonably late, gone 5pm, so I suggested we eat somewhere before turning
for home and, just to get some travelling out of the way, head for
Keswick. We ended up in the Coledale Inn
in Braithwaite, tucking into massive plates of pie. It couldn’t have finished in a better way.
