Monday: Coniston Old Man: 17.5km
The weather forecast was too enticing to let me stick to my planned walk. Originally I was going to climb some of the outlying fells around Finsthwaite but the promise of no rain and of summits over 700m being above the clouds pushed me to switch to Coniston Old Man. Despite not really being in the mood for high tops, pictures on social media the previous day gulled me into going that bit further.
It was drizzling as I drove into Cumbria and while I queued at the roadworks outside Windermere. At least it had stopped raining by the time I arrived in Coniston, where thick clouds and mist wreathed the fells down to a low level. Off I went into the murk. Coppermines was ‘atmospheric’ with old machinery looming out of the fog and the higher ground completely obscured. Similarly, Levers Water disappeared into whiteness beyond the half-submerged rocks.
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| Coppermines |
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| Levers Water |
I puffed my way up to Swirl Hause, not really feeling full of energy or enthusiasm, and turned left up Prison Band. A bloke was coming down and we commiserated each other about the weather. Slowly I grovelled up the path, taking care on the wet and slippery rocks. It wasn’t actually raining but everything was wet in the moisture-heavy air. It was a funny sensation, climbing into nothingness, not being able to judge height or distance. In the past I have almost enjoyed the foggy feeling in weather like this where walking is reduced to nothing but itself. Today it just seemed to be pointless.
The summit finally appeared. A fellrunner was putting on an extra layer by the top. He felt certain it was going to clear up, he said – indeed there was a hint of bluer cloud to the north – and was sitting down on the cairn to wait. I had a snack and fiddled with my bag but it was getting chilly so I set off again, checking the compass so I didn’t march off in the wrong direction (I have done that on a summit before).
Brim Fell was more of a climb than I had remembered – with the thick fog all over, you can’t anticipate what terrain you are walking into. A few sheep stared silently out of the murk. Occasionally walkers came past. In the distance a dog yapped. After the nothing climb to the Old Man, I discovered the source of the yapping. A little terrier continued to shout out, ignoring the useless chastisement of its owner. ‘Millie! Millie!’ I sat for a sandwich, staring up at the unremitting whiteness, but the dog was doing my head in so I didn’t hang around for long.
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| Brim Fell |
Because I hadn’t been feeling hill-fit, I had thought I would just descend by the ‘tourist’ path but some kind of desperate optimism took over and I decided to push on to Dow Crag, staying up high just a little bit longer. It was only a short climb but, as there was no sign of a view, I skipped the actual summit. On the far side, there was a slight hint of a brighter sky, so I stood a few minutes, wondering whether to turn back for the top. Then, with a grumpy, ‘bollocks’, I just headed down. I was almost at Torver Bridge before I dropped below the cloud. While I sat there for another snack, finally I saw some blue sky up over the slopes of the Old Man. ‘Could just pop back up there,’ I joked with myself. The blue sky lasted bare minutes.
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| Torver Bridge |
Below the clouds, the scenery was lovely, with the ginger-biscuit-coloured Yewdale Fells providing a backdrop for the village. I had a quick pint in the Black Bull before heading off to my hotel in Kendal. A couple of beers in the New Union, a meal and an early night.
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| Yewdale Fells |
Tuesday: Windermere - Kendal: 25.3km
The forecast was similar to the previous day’s but, having had my fingers burnt (or rather, my ardour dampened) by my climb on the Old Man, I stuck to my original plan. After picking up breakfast at Gregg’s I headed to the railway station. There was no ticket office so I started to buy a ticket on my phone, only to see that the train was now cancelled. I’m sure it wasn’t when I walked onto the platform, and it certainly wasn’t an hour ago when I got up. Plan B: go to the bus station.
A number 508, which would take me to Windermere, soon turned up. A girl ahead of me, who had been at the railway station, tried to persuade the driver that his route went via Burneside (she was wearing a James Cropper lanyard, so must have been on her way to work). The driver explained that it didn’t and so I was the only passenger on the bus. We whizzed our way across country, making me think I should have planned the bus in the first place, and were soon in Windermere.
A while of walking though backstreets (‘the part of town where the money ain’t’) took me to Bowness and then open country, first to a deserted Brant Fell. The view along the lake was lovely with the autumn colours all around. From there I joined the Dales Way for a while before turning off towards School Knott. I had missed all these tops when I was walking the Dales Way a couple of years ago, feeling tired and unenthusiastic at the time. A bloke was stood at the top, admiring the view on his ‘usual’ walk. Next was Grandsire, across undulating, scrubby ground. I was halfway there when I realised I was supposed to visit the unnamed top nearby first, for efficiency’s sake. Oh well, just a bit extra faffing around.
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| On Brant Fell |
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| On Grandsire |
From there I was back on the Dales Way briefly before I turned onto a ‘shortcut’. ‘Are you looking for the Dales Way?’ a bloke at the Outrun Nook asked. I probably should have stuck to it as my alternative route was boggy, overgrown and clearly little used. Then I ended up with a long section of road which, while easy, was somewhat dull.
The Dales Way and I parted company after another brief reunion and I headed up the lane towards Rather Heath. There is a large campsite here, rather isolated, I thought, though it did have a pub, the Whistling Pig, run by the Northern Monkey brewery, so that caught my attention. The woodlands on the far side were gorgeous. Golden trees, oaks hung with lichen, a carpet of leaves and thousands of acorns below.
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| Near Borwick Fold |
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| Rather Heath |
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| By Rather Heath |
Some farmland took me up to Cunswick Scar and the day started to feel a little long after my previous day’s efforts. The views of the trees from the escarpment were nice though. There were a few people around as I made my way along the rolling top and then climbed up to Scout Scar, again with pleasant views over the Lyth Valley. The ‘mushroom’ shelter was unoccupied so I sat a while for a snack before moving on again. The limestone ridge was covered in stunted, leafless trees, including some tiny blackthorns covered in sloes.
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| Lyth Valley |
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| Scout Scar |
A long descent between gorse bushes and over the old racecourse took me to the road back into Kendal, which was a bit of a trudge, unrewarded by a poor choice of pub (special offers on John Smith’s should have turned me away at the door). This was remedied by an evening meal in the Old Fleece and a couple of pints at the busy Factory Tap, which was full of people eating pizza, practising watercolour painting, and planning a fellrunning club’s season.
Wednesday: Finsthwaite - Bigland Barrow: 16.1km
After a small lie-in and breakfast at the hotel, I returned to Plan A: Finsthwaite. There was a small car park with an honesty box and a weekend-only snack shed, and I learned later that the official car park was actually slightly further up the lane. Oh well, it was probably more expensive.
First on the agenda was Great Knott Wood, run by the Woodland Trust who had put signs up about how they were restoring native trees after Storm Arwen felled a lot of the spruce. Excellent paths led up to Finsthwaite Tower, built to commemorate various 18th century naval battles, whose details were carved on tall stones (stelae?). Keeping up the theme for the week, the woods were lovely, full of colourful birch trees. Three people were puffing up the steep, partially stepped southern path to the tower as I descended. ‘You’ve come the hard way,’ I said and, when I explained that I had parked at the top, was told, ‘That’s cheating!’ Fair enough.
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| Finsthwaite Tower |
After the busy road through Newby Bridge, I joined a bridleway heading south to Bigland Barrow. I hadn’t been too sure what route might be available, with tall, well-made walls everywhere, so cut upwards a little way. ‘We don’t see many people here,’ said a woman descending the track, and I wasn’t surprised. The walls near the top looked impassable so I descended a little and carried on the clear path. Frustratingly I could find no path taking me back up the hill again through the thin woods full of berry-laden holly. I lost height and travelled further than I had wished to before I finally found a narrow, faint path, which didn’t tally with either of the two (invisible) paths on the map. The top of the path finished at a wall with no stile to cross it, so I followed it along. There was no stile where the first right of way supposedly crosses it, but there was at the second. Here the only path seemed to head the wrong direction, so I followed it for a while before angrily turning the direction I wanted to go, stumbling over rough ground of heather, tussocks and low trees. Eventually I found a path of sorts and made it to the unnamed northern summit of the fell. I felt there should be a sign at the cairn saying, ‘What are you playing at, you idiot?’
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| On Bigland Allotment |
Retracing my steps along the faint path took me back to the stile, so I could have gone left there and made my life easier, it turned out. The path I had briefly taken earlier led me comfortably up to the summit of Bigland Barrow, where there is a shaky concrete lookout post (dangerous to climb). The grey sky sat low over the surrounding country, hiding all the fells and casting only a pale light over the lower ground.
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| Bigland Barrow |
A quick descent took me to Backbarrow and then under the A590 and over the River Leven. There was a long section of road walking past what seemed to be holiday villages as well as hotels. A steam train on the Haverthwaite railway passed overhead as I turned under the line and up the hill.
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| River Leven |
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| Low Dam |
I had identified a track from the road up to Finsthwaite Heights but a sign at the start warned of private property. It wasn’t clear whether it meant the track or the woodland either side, so I carried on anyway, glancing around for angry farmers. It was steep and had me blowing (I was probably rushing in case I got told off) until it opened out into rough pasture. A gate through the top wall took me into open access land and through sparse woods to the top. From there a messy path led to the very good paths around High and Low Dams, both of which I visited and enjoyed the calmness and the trees’ reflections in the water.
All that was left was a steep and occasionally rough descent back to the car park, feeling relief that the hard work was all over. All except for the terrible traffic around Manchester.
