Windermere – Pooley Bridge: 11th – 12th March

 

Day One: Windermere – Orrest Head – Garburn Road – Yoke – Ill Bell – Froswick – Thornthwaite Crag – Pasture Bottom – Hartsop – Patterdale: 23km

The train from Manchester worked smoothly but I was out of sorts when I arrived at Windermere all the same, noise and busyness getting too much for me somehow.  This soon faded away as I made my way out of town and through Common Wood.  I must have taken the quiet path because I saw no one until suddenly there were masses at Orrest Head, somewhere that has an uncommon number of benches for them all.  The views were a little hazy and the Coniston Fells were capped with cloud.

I didn’t hang around and, after a little bit of field and road walking, I was on the Garburn Road.  It’s a good surface and a gentle ascent so I felt I was tripping along and was also getting surprisingly warm.  Yoke was my first top and seemed to arrive without too much pain, despite my heavy bag (I don’t seem to be able to pack lightly, what with full waterproofs and microspikes – more of which later).  The head of Kentdale comes into view here and the land dropped away beneath my feet like the earth opening up before me.  It’s always a thrilling place.

Each top was another ramp up, each putting a little more fatigue in my legs, and each one taken a little more slowly, until finally I reached Thornthwaite Crag and could admire the views, knowing there was no more ascent.  The ridge stretched greyly behind me and Windermere glowed between dark fellsides like a spillage of mercury.  It was 3pm but already it felt like the day was closing down.

The descent to Threshthwaite Mouth was fairly awful.  There had been very little snow around – despite the Fell Top Assessors saying it was a good idea to bring microspikes – but there were a few very soft patches here, meaning I had to skirt around a little, being careful on the very badly eroded rock at the same time.  The drop into Pasture Bottom was a easier with the steps just being wet.  I had chosen that way down, as opposed to Hartsop Dodd or Grey Crag, as I had never been that way before.  It proved to be a pleasant route but it didn’t half go on.

From Hartstop village I simply followed valley paths before crossing into Patterdale.  The pint in the hotel didn’t taste that fresh (the cask was probably tapped at the start of the weekend) and I moved on to the hostel, passing the closed (hopefully reopening) White Lion.

At check-in the warden told me they weren’t officially doing meals but as I and a Coast to Coast walker had arrived on foot, she could prepare lasagne for us.  That did for me.  The bar was a fridge behind reception but the lounge was huge and comfortable to sit and read.  I had been put on my own in a four bunk room (it only cost £35 on special offer) as I hadn’t been able to book anything smaller.  I only saw perhaps half a dozen other people in the hostel, so I didn’t feel I was being greedy.  The closure of the Kirkstone Pass is perhaps affecting their business too.

 

Day Two: Patterdale – Sandwick – Howtown – Heughscar Hill – Dunmallard Hill – Pooley Bridge: 21km

The forecast was terrible – low cloud, strong winds, lots of rain – so I switched from Plan A, over the tops from Angle Tarn to Rampsgill Head to Loadpot Hill, to Plan B, along the lake shore.  Place Fell was covered in cloud, as were the higher hills west, and there was a light smirr of drizzle.  It seemed I had probably made the right call.

There were dramatic views across Ullswater to Sheffield Pike and lots of lovely views of the lake between trees and crags.  The path was quite undulating and rocky, not a fast route, but one full of late winter colour – grey of the sky, blue of the water, orange bracken, green moss, red branches of the newest growth of silver birch.  I took it easy but seemed to be making good progress.  There was one else out, indeed I had hardly seen anyone the day before, until I approached Sandwick when there were suddenly hordes.  I guessed that had got off the steamer there.

The rain had stopped and it felt warm.  I could look south down towards Ramps Gill and the tops looked fairly clear.  Perhaps I should have taken the chance and gone high after all.  Over on the other side of the lake Gowbarrow Fell was flirting with cloud and a blanket of it looked to be creeping down from Helvellyn to the lower hills east.

Beyond Howtown the path climbed gently up the side of Barton Fell.  The land flattened out as I ascended and gave wonderful views down Ullswater, twisting gorgeously away between grey and orange hills.  Up ahead I could see fell ponies and was surprised when a couple came over to see me at the Cockpit stone circle, even coming close enough for a pat and a stroke.  The group then led the way right up to Heughscar Hill, my planned destination (so that I could at least claim one summit, albeit an Outlying Fell).  Neither I nor the horse are very good at selfies.

From there it was an easy walk into Pooley Bridge but, with it being a shorter and easier day than I might have had, I was early, so I added an ascent of Dunmallard Hill (another Outlying Fell) to pass some time.  All that was left was a pint or two in the Sun Inn (bit pricey for Wainwright, I thought), the 508 bus to Penrith (bumping into a bloke from the hostel who had walked the north side of the lake, battling his way through the fallen trees), a couple of pints in the Fell Bar, a curry at the Raj, and a train back to Manchester.

Some poems

Langdale

A transformation happens,
The lid is lifted from the world
And the land rises up.
Windermere, Wastwater, Derwent Water,
The whole reptilian glory of the fells,
Scafell Pike, Great Gable, Skiddaw,
Pike o’Stickle like a leviathan
Rising from the flood of Langdale.
The palm that cups Sprinkling Tarn
Raises us up onto Great End’s Band.
On this titled ridge
Our hands grip rocks.
Immy, the Mountain Gazelle,
Pushes her boots down on her apprehension.
‘You might call it “exciting”,’ she says before,
And adds afterwards, ‘I prefer it flat.’
Matt grips his own fear,
Finding distraction in others,
No pack on his back
Having served his time as Sherpa for the boys.
Great End, Esk Hause, Esk Pike
And then, like a gift, the summit of Bow Fell
Is all mine.
With an act of generosity, of grace,
The great unsettled stones
Convey me to the top,
Familiar ground blanketed beneath me
Under a sunny sky.
Evan empties Skittles into his mouth
And Erica finds another bottle of water
In her bottomless pack.
Dehydrated Coxy is dreaming of Primavera
But the only beat is the bassline
Of his pounding heart,
The only dancing his old man shuffle.
Another Band leads us down
To the Old Dungeon Ghyll.
Dave’s knees have gone.
I’m jogging.
As I walk back into camp I hear,
‘Hello Phil,’ from the twinned voices
Of Ailsa and Evelyn in the stream
And I float back on the warmth of that welcome.

The Obstacle
The obstacle is not in the way,
The ridge is not impassable,
The summit is not unreachable,
The snow is not an abyss.
My wilful steps take me onwards,
This path I have made for myself,
A ragged pattern of peaks and gullies
Tracing a line on the graph,
A line on the map, a distortion of hills.
My heart’s insistent motor whirs on.
‘Auscultation of the heart revealed
A soft murmur in the aortic area.’
It murmurs as I cross the ridge,
Climb the rake,
Pass the chockstone that is
Lodged in the artery of rock.
The obstacle is not in the way,
The obstacle is the way.

Shipshape

(Gunvor 1912)
Two tall mainmasts spearing the grey sky,
The topsails furled, drawing black crucifixes
Against the vanishing ocean.
The other sails are square and true,
Though shaded darkly –
Washing drying on a sooty day.
The fore-and-aft sails are perfect triangles of white
Tethering the mainsails to the prow.
A full rig that could drive the barque around the world,
Through storms round the Cape,
Through dark nights in Biscay,
Over mammoth graveyards in the German Sea.
A strong ship faring forwards strongly,
As if the ocean were endless
And sailing were just a matter of belief.
There is no ending if you keep on going
With a breathless wind to fill your sails.

Only an end has come,
The angle of the masts is all wrong,
They cant to one side
And the decks are awash
As wild white waves foam over them.
The ship is perfect but for the sea crushing it against the rocks.
It has heaved half up, stoved in.
The men who drove it forwards have all left.
Their perfect ship, holed below the waterline,
Drowned, wrecked, no more use in the world.
What seemed perfection was flawed all along
And in a moment, all that seemed endless is gone.

Grace works this way too,
Lives spared for the loss of something else –
Possibility, potential, calm sailing
Through untroubled seas.
A ship with a foetid cargo shattered against rocks.

In Memoriam: Jim Sanderson

I wanted to say a few words about what dad did for me, what he gave to me and how lucky I was to have had him for a dad.  As everyone will testify, he was good company, easy to chat to, a sympathetic listener.  He loved a terrible joke, something the three of us have picked up.  He was always there to support us, whatever we might have put him through – and I fear we put him through quite a bit.

He loved music and loved to sing, indeed would sing at the drop of a hat.  The Parish Hall Players in Elvington provided him an outlet for this.  I joined in for a while, in pantomimes and other shows, before stepping away.  Then one year they were putting on a performance of Calamity Jane, with him typecast as a character called ‘Curly’, and he asked if I could help bulk out the chorus.  I reluctantly agreed but as time went on my part started to build up, rather against my will.  My reluctance cleared showed through because, after one rehearsal, he took me aside and asked if I could deliver my lines with a bit less sarcasm.  Thankfully I was saved from public performance when my brother kindly gave me chickenpox.  So thanks for that, Mikey.

We did more laddish things too. We watched the motorbike racing at Oliver’s Mount at Scarborough and I remember seeing the legendary Barrie Sheen racing, with his back wheel skidding away from him round a hairpin bend as we stood on the outside.  Health and safety was less of a thing then.

We went to Church Fenton airshow a few times, watching classic aeroplanes like Vulcans, Nimrods and Harriers, and we were reminiscing about this the last time I spoke to him, how loud the jets were and how he particularly liked the Lightnings.  And they were particularly loud.

Being an engineer, he was into technology, like cameras, hifi and TVs.  One year he brought home a computer, a Sinclair ZX81, that he had borrowed off a work colleague.  I was fascinated by what it could do and soon became hooked.  We got a computer of our own and I gave up my dreams of being a fighter pilot for the more glamorous and romantic role of computer programmer, which has been my career ever since.

He introduced me to rugby too and we used to go to watch Hull Kingston Rovers at (the old) Craven Park with his dad, my grandad George.  I enjoyed myself and became a big Rovers fan.  One year we went to the Challenge Cup Final at Wembley, though sadly we lost.  Some years later he switched to watching rugby union, which he came to prefer.  In the end I switched codes too (to the horror of my cousins– sorry) and when I became a Sale Sharks fan, I took him to a few of our games, returning the favour from earlier.

He was one of the founding leaders of the Elvington Scout group and I joined up too, going camping and hiking around Yorkshire.  He taught me valuable lessons in map reading and navigation that I still use today.  We went to the Lake District with some of his work colleagues a few times, climbing bigger hills than you get in East Yorkshire, and that left me with an enduring love of the Lakes.  In later years we did a few walks together in the gentler hills of the Wolds, though he still set a cracking pace on the flat that had me scurrying to keep up.

It's a bit of a cliché that people live on in the people who are left behind but like all good clichés there’s an element of truth in it.  All these things that he gave to me and inspired in me, things I still do all the time, give me a way to remember him and always be grateful.

 

 

The Dales Way June 2023

The Dales Way runs for around 130km from Ilkley to Bowness-on-Windermere. Obviously the end section isn't in the Yorkshire Dales, but the creators of the walk thought that finishing at the Crook of Lune, in the middle of nowhere, wasn't very sensible, so they decided to keep on going. I had fancied the idea of the walk for a while and came up with a five day schedule with the assistance of a friend who would transport my luggage and shuffle us between each day's start and end points, and wherever our accommodation was.

Day 1: Ilkley - Burnsall: 22km

It started off wet, got a bit wetter, then settled into steady drizzle later. Whatever the sales blurb says, I have never found anything 'waterproof' that can hold off that amount of water. After a couple of hours, I was getting wet. Unfortunately, that encouraged me to race along somewhat, meaning I didn't give myself enough time to admire the lovely scenery along the Wharfe, beautiful despite the weather. I was also a little more tired by the end of the day than was planned, given my schedule.

Plaque on a stone bench at the start of the walk in Ilkley.

I didn't risk the stepping stones at Bolton Priory, seeing as a few of them were underwater. Groups of schoolchildren were sheltering under the trees nearby.

The Strid, a narrow gorge on the River Wharfe. Given how dry it had been in all the weeks leading up to my walk (yeah, cheers), it could have been a lot less dramatic here.

There were lots of bridges and lots of crossings and re-crossings of the Wharfe. After this point I put my camera away as it was getting too wet, as you can tell from the spots on the lens. It was a great relief to arrive, dripping, a little out of sorts, at the Red Lion in Burnsall.

Day 2: Burnsall - Hubberholme: 25km

After an excellent overnight stay at the Forester's Arms in Grassington, the first of our two nights there, I was dropped back at Burnsall in much finer weather, allowing more time for the views. This is Loup Scar.

As well as bridges, this walk featured a lot of stepping stones. Hebden's narrow bridge offers an alternative to these but I used the steps.

These ones lead to Linton Church, a slight diversion off the path.

Linton Falls.

After passing back through Grassington, the route climbs onto the edge of the hills, following limestone scars to parallel the river's course, here at Conistone Dib. It was pleasant, easy walking up there, with few people around.

Conistone Pie, a rotund outcrop of stone, is too much of a temptation not to climb. The views down Littondale and Upper Wharfedale were excellent.

After Kettlewell, where I passed a couple chatting to their two alpacas in the front garden, the path returned to the river. I pushed on past Starbotton and Buckden to arrive, somewhat weary-legged in the heat, at the George, a popular place for Dales Wayers to stay, it seemed, though we were back at Grassington after a couple of pints.

Day 3: Hubberholme - Dent: 34km

I had given myself a bit of a challenge on this walk. It's mostly pretty flat, so I thought that I could get away with some long days. Flat or not, this was tough going. The scenery of the higher reaches of the Wharfe near Beckermonds is rather nice though. It felt like being in the heart of the Dales. Again, it is easy valley walking.

I was following the 'watershed alternative' route, so at Cam Houses, I turned right and switched onto the Ribble Way to tmke my way across the tops. It was, for me, the best section, with straightforward walking on the Pennine Bridleway and with huge views to all kinds of hills whose names I didn't know (except, obviously, for the Yorkshire Three Peaks). Once again, out of the valleys, it was very quiet.

Climbing Great Knoutberry Hill is optional  and, perhaps foolishly, I decided to add this too. In retrospect I should have dropped down Arten Gill to give myself an easier day but a certain kind of stubbornness took over and I hauled myself up to the highest point of the walk at 672m.

After a lot of road walking from Dent Station to Lea Yeat, I had a lot of valley walking through Dentdale before arriving at the Sun Inn, our rooms for the night. By this point I was footsore and something like a zombie having pushed along overgrown paths and stumbling on hidden roots and rocks. A few pints and a meal at the George and Dragon (just behind me when I took this picture; the Sun doesn't do food) helped make things better. It had been a hot day and I had drunk pretty much all my 2.5l of water on the way.

Day 4: Dent - Burneside: 34km

Obviously two long days back to back is madness, but I was locked into my schedule and determined to do it. Each morning I set off feeling pretty good and then got wearier and slower as the day progressed. There was a slight drizzle at first, not warranting a waterproof, before the day settled into a blanket of grey warmth. Dentdale was green and lush.

After a slight climb, the path drops towards Sedbergh and the Howgill Fells before swinging west again to reach the Lune Valley. The Howgills are in view all along this stretch as you head north. It was a beautiful, peaceful area, with the river running gently over rocks.

Crook of Lune Bridge.

Lowgill Viaduct. The end of the Dales with the M6 roaring in the background. After this was a lot of dispiriting wandering through farmland, switching direction, missing turns (the signage was poor), and watching the rain arrive over the Sleddale fells before falling on me for hours. I stumbled, dripping once more into the Jolly Anglers in Burneside, glad to take the weight off my aching feet.

Day 5: Burneside - Bowness: 16km

We stayed in a cottage in Kendal and had a great night - dinner at Ye Old Fleece and pints at the Indie Craft Bar. The relief of having a short day to finish with put me in a decent mood. First there was a walk along the River Kent to Staveley, then some low, rolling countryside, punctuated with rocky lumps and bumps. It gave the landscape a proper Cumbrian feel to it, and I enjoyed the familiarity of that.

It was dry, after a brief shower in the morning, but with a chilly wind higher up. There were no difficulties with the terrain or the route-finding today, and in no time at all, it seemed, I arrived at Ilkley's twin bench, just on the outskirts of Bowness. All that was left was to wander into horribly busy Bowness, meet my friend at Boater's Bar then head back to Kendal for celebratory drinks.

The walk was a bit of a lesson to me to think more carefully about my abilities. I've done lots of multiday walking and long distance routes but never anything with such long days back to back. I had rather overestimated what I was capable of, or rather, because I suffered no real problem (tendons, muscles, blisters), I had overestimated what I could do and still enjoy. Long days are fine for me as one-offs, but it would seem better to take my time over these multiday routes and spend more time enjoying them, not enduring them.

I've walked in the Dales lots of times in the past and done all the obvious hills. This walk gave me a different perspective, readjusted my viewpoint and gave me ideas for visiting some of the more out-of-the-way areas. There's a lot of them and I've been inspired to go and explore some more. Perhaps that's the point.
 

Castlerigg to Grasmere 9th June 2023

Having an unexpectedly free day at work, I immediately booked annual leave in order to take advantage of the continuing warm and dry weather. I had planned this route some time ago and now had the perfect opportunity to put it into practice. After an early start, I parked up just outside Grasmere and waited for the 555 bus, which I had passed near Staveley on my way up. The £2 bus cap is still in operation and it seems too good to miss. A line from a Neil Rollinson poem, which always comes to mind when I see this bus, goes, 'Empty your wallet and take a seat on the 555 to Keswick.' Not at the moment, thank goodness.

After disembarking at Castlerigg Farm and walking up the road to Rakefoot, there was a steady climb up to Walla Crag, giving a fabulous view over Derwent Water and Keswick.

And in the other direction to Cat Bells and the Newlands Fells behind it.

There was a lot of bog cotton out on the climb up Bleaberry Fell, looking to Skiddaw and Blencathra.

Bleaberry Fell summit

There was a steep final pull up to High Seat.

Even after this long spell of dry weather, I'm sure the Pewits would have wetted a few boots. Not a problem these days with the flagged path.

I was feeling good and it was a grand day. 'It doesn't get much better than this,' said a bloke coming the other way, and I had to agree with him. Armboth Fell looked too tempting to be passed by, although that had been my original plan. And who can resist Wainwright's advocacy of the fell as 'not really worth climbing'.

There had been a path out to Armboth but nothing leading me back on my way, so I had to contend with heather and tussock grass for a while. It would have been much worse had it been wet.

This tarn on Long Moss was alive with dragonflies, damselflies, water boatmen and other surface-skaters.

Blea Tarn

Standing Crag.

Finally made the summit of Ullscarf. It got a little busier from here but wasn't overrun with people.

I had various options to return to Grasmere but I decided to carry on along the ridge where another slog brought me onto High Raise with views of Bow Fell and distant Scafell Pike.

From Sergeant Man I could glimpse Stickle Tarn poking out behind Pavey Ark.

I took the wrong path coming off Codale Head and discovered I hadn't downloaded the maps to my phone (having upgraded to the latest software). It was back to map and compass to get myself back on track to Tarn Crag from where I could see down to Easedale and Grasmere somewhere in front.

Sourmilk Gill looking rather lactose-free.

It got hotter and hotter the further down I went, like lowering yourself into a hot swimming pool and letting the water close suffocatingly over your head. Thankfully Tweedie's Bar was waiting for me with a cooling pint.

Lincolnshire Wolds

While in Lincolnshire for a party, I took the opportunity to have a walk in the Wolds, somewhere I am very unfamiliar with.

Typical scenery between Belchford and Fulletby.

A distant roe deer.

Bluebells.

St Margaret's Church, Somersby. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, was born and grew up in the village. His father was rector of this church and inside is a bust of the poet and a selection of Tennyson merchandise is for sale. From the Lady of Shalott:

On either side the river lie

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky 

Guinea Fowl.

Warden Hill, north of Somersby.

Glebe Farm, near Belchford.

The route was Belchford - Fulletby - Salmonby - Somersby - Tetford - Belchford. About 20km. I got it from Trail Magazine (via OS Maps) and adapted it a bit. Easy walking, very gentle hills, decent pint in the Blue Bell in Belchford.