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.

Peak District Crikey Hike 2018

Travelling at rush hour, not that you would know it was rush hour in downtown Leek, meant the sat nav sent us on a roundabout route to the start of the walk and we didn’t actually start walking until 8:50, somewhat behind our intended schedule.  Thankfully the temperature hadn’t started building yet and the initial section along the Tissington Trail was nicely sheltered under trees.  Jill was having a short walk along the trail too, before popping into the café and then driving off to meet us at the morning re-fuelling stop.

Every now and then the trees by the Trail would clear and we could look out at the gentle countryside of the south Peaks.  Sheep were clustered at the sides of fields, huddling in what shade they could.  It may not yet have been 10am but as we left the Trail at Thorpe, we too found ourselves feeling the heat of the day.  From Thorpe we dropped down into Dove Dale, passing below Thorpe Cloud and joining the river by the stepping stones.  There were a number of people about enjoying the weather, including several groups of kids doing their Duke of Edinburgh Award hike.  The young folk all seemed polite and friendly, despite having to hump massively overstuffed rucksacks with them.  Meanwhile I was getting away with a small lumbar pack (cue ‘I’m a lumbar pack and I’m ok’).

The walk along Dove Dale was lovely.  Sunlight filtered through the trees, the path wound below rugged crags, the clear stream chattered past, and fish hung suspended in the water.  It was idyllic.  Approaching Milldale, a woman coming the other way said, ‘Here they are.  She’s waiting for you by the bridge.’  Clearly she had been chatting with Jill.  We waved from the bridge as we arrived, bang on time – I had predicted 11am and it was 11:02.  There were toilets and drinking water, and we also sat down to get some food; breakfast seemed a long time ago.  After 20 minutes relaxation we set off again, though I had a niggling worry about the sole of my left foot.  I was wearing fairly new walking shoes, as was Martin, and I wasn’t completely sure they would cope with the distance.  I stuck with them for the time being.

There was more idyllic riverside walking, including spotting the momentary blue flash of a kingfisher, before we turned off up Biggin Dale.  The ground got a bit rockier, which meant us getting sweatier, and we had to seek out a little shade under the scattered hawthorn trees.  It was steadily uphill most of the way, until it finished with a sting in the tail.  Just a short, sharp climb – the first of the day – but it left us puffing and Pete in particular was feeling the heat.  The climb took us onto a gravel track through a patchwork of fields that rose and fell around us.  It was easy walking and a soft breeze helped with the temperatures.  Nevertheless it was thirsty work.  As we came to the outskirts of Biggin, Martin casually pointed out that there was a pub marked on the map.  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘the Waterloo.  Nice place.’  It quickly turned out that the consensus was for a refreshment stop.  We sat inside to escape the sun and supped our beers like we were rehearsing for ‘Ice Cold in Alex’.  As we were readying to leave, the barmaid asked what we were having next.  We had to make our apologies, we had to get on.

It was a bit of struggle to get going again but boosted by our beery beverages we were soon marching up the road, along a dusty track by fields of ripening wheat, and onto the High Peak Trail.  This was flat and straight, and turned into a bit of a slog in the heat.  Stomp, stomp, stomp.  By now I was less worried by my left foot than by the heel of my right foot.  I feared the worst – a blister – and was looking forward to taking the weight off my feet at the next stop at Friden.  Coming into the car park there, we found Jill fast asleep on the grass under the shade of the trees.  We flopped down on the grass too, only about 20 minutes behind my predicted schedule.  In a conspiracy of silence we didn’t admit to our extra stop to our snoozy but patient support driver.

Martin took a powernap too while Pete and I fuelled up.  I peeled off my shoes and had a look at my heel.  Red but no blister.  All the same I switched into my boots, which I had presciently put into the car as a precaution, and they felt much better.  There was no water source at Friden but the bottles we had stored in the coolbox in the car were pleasantly chilled still.  A few Tangfastics and a chunk of flapjack served as dessert.

There was no time to sit around digesting food though.  We were over halfway, 25km into the 40 or so, but had lots more ground to cover.  We turned down into Long Dale and, at first, switched from side to side of the valley trying to find some shade.  Further on the trees disappeared altogether, as did the breeze that had been keeping the edge off the temperatures.  On the top path a group of cows and calves spotted us and seemed to think that it was milking time.  They trotted up the hill and marched on ahead of us, except for a couple of latecomers who mooed along behind and seemed nervous to overtake.  Eventually they went left up the fields, calling as they went, while we dropped the other way down into the valley.

Long Dale is a very pretty place, full of wildflowers and butterflies – fritillaries, common blues, brown arguses and burnet moths – but it is very aptly named.  The sun beat down, the air stood heavy, the path kept going.  We were fairly roasted by the time we turned down Gratton Dale – not much shorter than Long Dale, it felt – and I started feeling slightly out of it, in a trancelike state.  Not quite an out-of-body experience, but somehow detached.  Arriving at the road in Gratton, 32km (20 miles) behind us, I sat down on a bench to grab some more Tangfastics and get myself together.  The others plumped down too and we sat a while, watching the monster vehicles of the local plutocrats trundle down the narrow lanes.

It seemed a struggle for us to get going again.  It was still 4km before the afternoon stop in Youlgreave and 6km more to the finish after that.  I did my best to rally the troops with thoughts of the Bull’s Head, our next meeting point, and eventually we staggered back to our feet once more and marched on up the road.  We had reached a section I wasn’t too familiar with, though I had walked it in the opposite direction a number of years ago, and we made our first navigational blunder, choosing the wrong one of the two unmarked exits from a farmyard.  The friendly resident dog wasn’t much help at giving directions but it was more than happy to receive a stroke and a pat or two.

Beyond the farm were open, shelterless, sun-beaten fields, shorn of the hay that had been growing there that spring.  It was a great relief to return to the shade of the trees as we reached the valley of the River Bradford below Middleton.  I guessed at 10 minutes to Youlgreave – more wishful thinking as it ended up being around 20.  The village took forever to arrive and it took a huge effort of will to keep plodding on, rather than just sitting on the ground and refusing to budge, like a toddler having a tantrum, which was what my instinct to do actually was.  A number of people were also walking by the river – normally a beautiful place, but now just a long way to walk – and a heavily tattooed women, spotting our tee-shirts, read out loud, ‘We are Macmillan.’  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we are.’

Finally, after another short, sharp, lung-busting climb, we arrived at the pub.  Jill was in the bar and we quickly ordered some refreshing drinks.  It was airless inside and the sweat was pouring off us, but we wanted to be out of the sun.  ‘You’re looking a bit done in,’ Jill observed, kindly.

Before leaving the pub – no rest for the wicked – Pete and I got the barmaid to fill our water bottles with iced water.  Lovely.  As it was the shortest leg of the walk next, we dumped as much gear as we could in the car and Martin switched from shoes to sandals in order to give his battered feet a break.  I assured him the rest of the walk was over easy terrain – something which, thankfully, proved true.  We dropped down into a pretty valley with a cute stone bridge by a lily pond, then climbed up a nicely graded path through some woods.  At the top an unofficial sign warned us, ‘There is ONE right of way across the field.’  It wasn’t clear where this unique but elusive right of way was, so we just marched across as best as we could and handily found ourselves at the gate on the far side.  Turning uphill and reaching a minor road, we met two middle-aged women who had taken a completely different line across the field and appeared beside us from a different gateway.  ‘One way’ indeed.  Apparently they were going to Bakewell, some 3km away, though they were hardly dressed for a long walk, wearing flip-flops and with no obvious water bottles or indeed any bags of any sort.

We stomped off – finally, unarguably, definitively with no more uphill – along Intake Lane, down to the outskirts of Bakewell.  At the main road there was a handy path through the suburbs to a park by the river and then into the town centre.  There, at last, was the Red Lion, our destination.  It was 19:43, almost 11 hours since we began, 41.1km (according to my GPS) under our boots.

Jill was waiting in the shady beer garden.  We dropped our bags and awarded ourselves, not a medal as we received last year on the official Mighty Hike, but with three pints of Chatsworth Gold.  Rachael, Louisa and Boo the dog soon joined us and we all congratulated ourselves.  The pub had stopped serving food so we foraged some fish, sausages or cheese and onion pies and chips from the nearby chippy, eating them by the river, then returned to have some more celebratory pints.

There was a tangible sense of achievement and a feeling of joy at having completed the route.  It had been a great day.  The arrangements had worked well, the scenery had been gorgeous.  It had been hard work in the heat and we all felt tired but we were pleased with our day’s work.  We had raised lots of money for a great cause.  Job done.