Lake District Haute Route Part 1

Monday

It was hot in the car park in Ambleside when we parked up and I didn’t feel underdressed in shorts.  I said goodbye to Jill and headed off via Rothay Park.  The initial part of the walk followed the route we had taken the year before on the Macmillan Mighty Hike.  Seeing the same paths again, although travelling in the opposite direction, brought back many memories from that excellent day, the tiredness, the elation, the Jelly Babies.  Walking this way, over the foothills of Loughrigg Fell, meant it was all uphill and therefore very warm in the heat of the day.  To compensate there were stunning views over the green scenery, all bracken, trees and the valley ahead.  A cuckoo called by the side of Loughrigg to accompany me.  Amid such splendour I felt a kind of emptying out of myself, that accustomed sense of losing oneself in the wild, open countryside, a kind of kenosis, to use the technical term.  It also felt strange being amongst these great fells, but not planning to walk up any of them.  Normally a walk along a valley is just a prelude to a big hill, but not this time, despite the alluring sight of the peaks of Langdale and Coniston in the distance.

Down by Skelwith Force, I sat to have a bite to eat and to enjoy the beautiful view of the surging river, the jagged rocks and the overhanging trees.  Beyond this was an easy bit of walking along a wide, well-surfaced path running along the riverside.  There were plenty of people out making the most of the good weather.  After Elterwater I was trotting happily up the track towards Little Langdale when a bloke stopped me with, ‘You’ve got a proper map.’  He and his girlfriend were looking for Baysbrown and had drifted off the map printed on the leaflet they had been following.  They had missed their turn after the Elterwater Hotel so I pointed out a path to take them back to their correct route.

Coming over the other side of the rise, I spotted a kind of gazebo outside Dale End Farm.  At first I thought that they might use it for sitting outside and catching the sun, only it was a bit public with a wide track passing by.  Instead I was delighted to find a table covered in cakes, with an honesty box to pay for them.  I grabbed a hunk of lemon drizzle cake for later.

There was some more new ground for me after Little Langdale, passing the eponymous tarn.  It was an absolutely stunning setting with the water, some spruce trees and the might of the Consiton Fells behind it all.  A woman was sitting a little way off the path sketching the scene.  She could hardly have picked anything better.  The beck formed by the outflow from the tarn was crossed by Slater’s Bridge, a higgledy-piggledy construction of clapper bridge (flat stones) and hump-backed packhorse bridge.  Another bit of casual gorgeousness, with damselflies flitting underneath it by the water.

The path then made an easy way through woods, only partially hiding old quarry workings, down to Tilberthwaite.  I was pleased to see my car in the car park, meaning that Jill had taken my advice and driven here for a walk.  Under the shade of a tree, with a sleepy and unbothered sheep as my companion, I tucked into my delicious slice of cake.  Pity Jill wasn’t there for a taste of it.

Before leaving I revisited the Andy Goldsworthy sheepfold, almost consumed by bracken, then took a very well-made path through the woods, tracking the main road to Coniston.  This dropped me in the centre where I could have a refreshing pint of Bluebird at the Black Bull.  It wasn’t long before Jill joined me there.

Our rooms for the night were in the Lakeland House guesthouse.  They were compact (I banged my head on the toilet when trying to pick up a fallen bottle) but nicely done out, right at the top with a great view of Coniston Old Man.  We had a good meal at the Black Bull then a couple more drinks at the Yewdale Inn, which had very good beer and friendly, bantering staff.

Tuesday

The sky contained a little more grey cloud this morning, though it still felt warm.  After a good breakfast, settling the bill and picking up a cheese sandwich from the ‘artisan’ bakery round the corner, I said goodbye to Jill, who was going for a walk alongside the lake then a boat ride back, and set off on the day’s expedition.

I had only ever driven up the first section of Walna Scar Road and I rather wished I had taken up Jill’s invitation to do so that day.  It was extremely steep and I was soon feeling rather hot.  Once above the trees and houses, the views opened up to the fells, the clouds remaining high enough not to obscure anything.  There were a few people around, both in the car park and on the road.  A woman behind me seemed to be catching up but then hung back.  A group of lads cut up the hillside near Boo Tarn.  Two people ahead of me on Walna Scar kept a fixed distance away but just near the top they paused, as they had been doing from time to time, and I caught them up.  ‘You’re doing a pace,’ the somewhat chunky bloke said to me.  I thought I was taking it steady, saving my strength.

It was a funny feeling to reach the top of Walna Scar Road and, rather than turning right up to Dow Crag, carrying straight on and dropping down the other side. From the descent there were excellent views to the Scafell range in the distance.  Marching on I could feel myself starting to settle into the rhythm of a walking week: get up, walk, sleep, get up, walk, sleep.  At the bottom of the road I stopped at a lovely spot by Long House Gill, with a little packhorse bridge and a rocky channel through which the stream chattered.  There were dragonflies and damselflies darting back and forth, including a surprising one with dark wings.  Later I discovered that this was a Beautiful Demoiselle, one of only two types of damselfly with opaque wings.

A section of tarmac walking took me to Seathwaite (resisting the lure of the Newfield Inn).  There were trees all around and a series of small cataracts on Tarn Beck, running alongside the road.  I had to turn off just near the church and spotted a middle-aged couple standing outside their house, drinking either fruit juice or cloudy cider, that I thought I might have to ask directions from.  A footpath sign emerged from the foliage eventually, so I didn’t speak.  I feared my jealousy at their idyllic situation might have come out.

A winding path through woods crossed the River Duddon, either via a picturesque bridge or some picturesque stepping stones (I did both for good measure), then climbed steeply up by Wallowbarrow Crag.  Up ahead there were people’s voices but I couldn’t see anyone on the path.  It was only when I got above the trees that I saw the group of climbers on the Crag, calling up and down to one another.

The next short section was probably my favourite single bit of path.  It was on an old, somewhat overgrown, farm track between stone walls.  There were scattered trees, rocks, bracken and heather.  There were views to all the fells around, views that were unusual for me, coming from an unaccustomed angle.   A cuckoo called, as one had done in the Duddon Valley and would again in Eskdale.  Suddenly ahead of me a stoat appeared, hopping along the track.  We both stopped and stared at each other.  Later I found an Annie Dillard quote that captured our momentary confrontation, describing it like sworn enemies, or ex-lovers, encountering each other as if each had been thinking of something else.  The stoat sized me up then darted into a hole in the wall.

From Grassguards it was a bit of a slog across deforested bogland before entering the still standing plantation and plodding along with no view, no breeze and the company of midges.  Finally on the far side, between Green Crag and Harter Fell, the views returned, revealing the magnificence of the Scafells, Esk Pike, Bow Fell and the Crinkles.  At the top of the descent I had a look at a small, sketchy path that would cut out some distance, particularly along the road, but decided it was too sketchy.  Nevertheless, I did turn off the official route to drop to a lower path running parallel to the road for some of the way.  It had been a long day, it seemed, and my walking shoes were on the limit of their utility.  The boots were going to have to come out.

With relief I arrived at the Brook House Inn and found Jill sitting alone inside.  It looked a bit dingy and dark, and the staff were rather casual, bordering on indifferent, but it had an excellent selection of beer and I had what would be my tastiest pint of the week, a Siren Craft Yulu (from Down South).  Notwithstanding the loveliness of the beers, we left for the Strands Inn, our residence for the night, where we had a quiet night with lots of laughs.  When the waitress, a late middle-aged woman, brought me my dessert and just said, ‘Tart?’ I couldn’t help but respond, ‘Same to you.’  She didn’t look the slightest bit amused.  I finished the evening with an act of sacrilege, forgoing the beers brewed on site and having a pint of German pilsner.  My excuse was that I needed something sweeter to drink.  God forgive me.

Wednesday

The decent breakfast was served to us by the landlady, Lesley.  ‘Dost tha know what tha wants?’ she asked.  We did, and it was excellent.

It was a dull day outside but it was still mild.  Once Jill had driven me back to Boot, I soon warmed up.  Passing by the Boot Inn, I thought it looked rather more attractive than the Brook House Inn, even if the beer selection wouldn’t have been as good.  You live and learn.  The hamlet of Boot has a visitor attraction, Boot Mill.  It looked rather run down and half-ruined, in a picturesque way, and was surrounded by other pretty buildings with bright flowers all around.

There was no one around as I climbed away from the houses, alongside a wall and through a sea of bracken.  Eventually the bracken gave way to open, grassy moorland as the path took me up one side of a wide, shallow valley.  It was crossed with stonewalls and peppered with trees lower down, expansive and green further up.

For some reason I was thinking about the Canterbury Tales, which I have never read, though I have a recording of the prologue in Middle English on a poetry CD.  It describes springtime, with everything green and the flowers coming to life, and how at this time of year ‘folk longen to go on pilgrimages’ (this last word pronounced with four syllables).  It felt apt, for the season, and perhaps figuratively for what I was doing.  A pilgrimage would be a long, arduous journey with some edifying suffering along the way, ending at a shrine where a saint’s relics were housed.  Having endured the journey, the pilgrim would say a prayer, perhaps in devotion, perhaps to ask the saint a favour.  I was certainly making a long journey, and feeling the attendant aches and pains, though my goal was less clear.  It was more a pilgrimage to the Lakes as a whole, performing an act to devotion to somewhere I have come to love and need in my life.

I was interrupted in my reverie by a shout from behind.  It was a mountain biker coming up the same path I was walking.  ‘Sorry for spoiling your peaceful walk,’ he said as he came past.

The ground levelled out around the placid sheet of Burnmoor Tarn.  A few Belted Galloway cattle dotted the scene and Scafell rose like a towering green wall ahead.  The bridge over the outflow from the tarn was missing so I splashed through and then noticed a couple some way in front, the only people apart from Bikey that I had seen that day.  They moved off ahead of me as I approached.

The path dropped down to Brackenclose in Wasdale, and I stopped to take pictures of the tiny sundews that I now knew could be found there, having spotted some a couple of weeks ago.  I caught the couple up anyway as we were making our way over the dry, stony bed of Lingmell Beck, partly because I knew the way – I was heading onto more familiar territory from now on – and partly because the bloke was hiding in the gorse bushes answering a call of nature.  At the far side of the Wasdale Head Inn, I sat down to eat a sandwich before the big climb of the day.  The couple caught me up and we said hello again.  This time they stopped for a chat and I learnt that they were from the Netherlands and that they were also doing the Lake District Haute Route, only they were using a baggage company to shift their gear around.  It somehow didn’t occur to me to ask how they found out about the route.  Perhaps Trail Magazine has a lot of subscribers in the Netherlands.

I saw them a little later when they too stopped for lunch, further up into Mosedale and we wished each other well for the climb.  It had been one I had been facing with some trepidation.  Although I had done it twice before, each time at the start of the walk, in my mind it was very long and steep.  Considering this, I set of at a gentle pace and made sure I didn’t rush.  Somehow, this did the trick and as I rose higher up the pass, I found I was ticking along quite nicely.  It was a funny feeling that once I got to the top of the pass, I wouldn’t have any higher to climb.  No need to yomp all the way up Pillar, no reason to clamber over the scree up Kirk Fell.  That feeling of having it easy gave me a little more incentive to trot on.  Near the top, with the wind picking up, I asked a bloke coming the other way how windy it was.  Quite, he answered and explained that he had removed his wide-brimmed hat (‘Never leave home without it,’ indicating his baldy head) up there.

With that out of the way I bobbed down the path into Ennerdale with the old familiar Black Sail Hut ahead.  Passing by, aiming for the toilet and thinking of a snack, I glanced through the door and saw Matt, one of the wardens, inside.  I stepped in to find him talking to Kirstie, his boss who also ran the Ennerdale YHA down the valley.  She was briefing him about fire regulations.  As she was doing so, Chloe, the other warden, and Matt’s girlfriend, came back in, discreetly waving at me, so clearly remembering me from our recent visit (‘Nice to see you again,’ she added later).  The ex-teacher in Kirstie was to the fore.  ‘When are you going to do this?  Give me a date.’  When she was finished she left to visit the loo.  ‘She ran up here and she wants us to give her a lift back.  We’re not going to,’ Matt explained.  Kirstie returned.  ‘I wish I hadn’t decided to run back.’  Chloe played the mindgames, ‘You’ll enjoy it once you’re running.’  After she left, Chloe said Matt had turned up at 5:30 that morning, having made a late decision to drive back from ‘home’ at night, ‘as a surprise’.  It just resulted in panic.  I left them to spend their afternoon on a ‘Cars [as in the animated film] marathon’.

Just outside, another Dutch woman stopped me and asked for directions for the Coast to Coast path.  I did my best, having helped some people out when we styed at Black Sail last time.  I moved on just as the rest of her group arrived and she seemed to make a small moue of disappointment at my not staying to talk to them all.  Oh well.

The Scarth Gap climb felt like a doddle, having skipped up Black Sail Pass and being in a great mood.  On the other side, the badly eroded path was being actively worked on by Fix the Fells volunteers, including frequent TV presence and star of Terry Abrahams’s Life of a Mountain series, Iain Gray.  I passed a banal comment rather than leaping up and down shouting, ‘TV star!  TV star!’

The final section of path for the day was along Buttermere, which was very easy going and I was feeling pretty fresh, unlike my usual jaunts along there where my legs are screaming from yomping up and down fells with Pete A.  I was a bit earlier than expected, at 15:45, and Jill was having a long day, riding on the La’l Ratty train and walking along the River Esk, so I wasn’t surprised not to find her there.  It was mild enough to sit outside to drink my pint but, as I was nearing the end of it, a small spot or two of rain started to fall.  Just then Jill arrived so we went inside for another drink.  Yet again, my Dutch friends tracked me down and they walked in the pub too.

The evening was in the familiar haunt of the Royal Oak in Braithwaite.  Pete A was already there, having yomped over some fells, as is his wont.  A jolly night was had by all.

Black Sail Hut 2018

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 80^th 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.