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Stories in order of appearance:-
The walk is over - poem. A place I know, where lichens grow. The Mawddach Pennant Challenge. The Lyke Wake Walk Return to Helvellyn Near death on Helvellyn in the Lakes A Week in the Lake District. |
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The walk is over.
A short walking poem based on a real journey.
All it needed was the Dales
to finish off my walking tales.
Having crossed them, I could boast,
that I had walked from coast to coast.
In the past I'd had some fears,
that's why it took me sixteen years.
To make it right and bring me smiles,
t'would only take me eighty miles.
To win such prize, four days I planned,
and off I went, with map in hand.
I did get lost – as others hinted,
path had changed since route first printed.
Committed now, to progress chained,
three flipping days it rained and rained.
When the storm ceased from the skies'
out came in force, the biting flies.
When weak on hills in hungry mood,
I dropped to village street for food,
Soon stomach thought the throat was cut,
as the only village shop, was shut.
When to Richmond town came me,
no room there was in B&B.
Though in the house,'no room' they said,
'you can use our garden shed’.
Grateful for their kindly thought,
and sleepless in a bed too short,
blistered feet were racked with pain,
while on thin roof it beat with rain.
Worst rain for nigh a hundred years,
felt glad sometimes, it hid my tears.
The mud, the pain, the sweat, the path,
God, I craved a nice warm bath.
At long last, to car returned,
my muscles ached, my feet they burned,
but after rest and after dinner,
this old man drove home, a winner.
A short walking poem based on a real journey.
All it needed was the Dales
to finish off my walking tales.
Having crossed them, I could boast,
that I had walked from coast to coast.
In the past I'd had some fears,
that's why it took me sixteen years.
To make it right and bring me smiles,
t'would only take me eighty miles.
To win such prize, four days I planned,
and off I went, with map in hand.
I did get lost – as others hinted,
path had changed since route first printed.
Committed now, to progress chained,
three flipping days it rained and rained.
When the storm ceased from the skies'
out came in force, the biting flies.
When weak on hills in hungry mood,
I dropped to village street for food,
Soon stomach thought the throat was cut,
as the only village shop, was shut.
When to Richmond town came me,
no room there was in B&B.
Though in the house,'no room' they said,
'you can use our garden shed’.
Grateful for their kindly thought,
and sleepless in a bed too short,
blistered feet were racked with pain,
while on thin roof it beat with rain.
Worst rain for nigh a hundred years,
felt glad sometimes, it hid my tears.
The mud, the pain, the sweat, the path,
God, I craved a nice warm bath.
At long last, to car returned,
my muscles ached, my feet they burned,
but after rest and after dinner,
this old man drove home, a winner.
Boots as well as eyes look out across the Atlantic Ocean from Lundy.
Surely in all of us there must be something of the adventurer, warrior, and philosopher; in all of us a curiosity to know ourselves; to step out of our sheltered place and into a wilder, grander world, to feel the wind and hear the sound of boots on snow, to feel the sun and watch the eagle fly. To enjoy the pleasurable fatigue of the honourable toil of journeys well made. To tell our tale and relive the feeling of our day, no matter success or loss, for those that tried can only win.
So, why not dig out your boots, thick coat and waterproofs, fill your flask, make your sandwiches and come on some travels with me.
There'll come a time when these are only memories so don't hang about !
In fact that time is almost there !
********
A place I know, where lichens grow.
A day out in Devon
We sit on cliff top edged with pink thrift, listen to the sea’s voice share its tales, watch surfers and seagulls play in the waves and hope for seal or dolphin to embellish our postcards home. Far below, the jagged rocks point upwards like giant teeth buffeted and cleaned by the Atlantic Ocean. We see sandy beaches in remote coves that foretold safe haven for many an anxious sailor whose sunken ships of sail litter the history of this wild coastline. We look across the ocean, westwards, past the magical Island of Lundy, so named by marauding Vikings whose spirits still haunt many an ancient Devonian battlefield, where Saxons fought to keep their homeland free. We gaze where sky meets sea and sense the dreams of our shared ancestors who braved the journey into the unknown. We see fishermen in small bobbing boats, seeking lobster in the pots and fishermen on rock ledges casting lines for Bass, they must make their catch before the incoming tide fills the gullies behind them, for the tide here is second in the world for its awe inspiring tidal range. The big yellow rescue helicopter patrols the skies, we wonder at the crew’s bravery in all weathers and in that spirit we remember the Louisa lifeboat from Lynmouth that villagers young and old carried over and beyond the thousand feet of Countisbury hill in the great storm of January 1899. It’s a coast of life taking danger as well as breathtaking beauty, it’s having the both that makes a place so special, makes it alive and us too feel alive. In this land of otters and egrets, we sit in the warmth of the Sun, feel the cooling sea breeze, close our eyes and stroll Devon’s wild moors, with sparkling streams in bracken valleys and herds of wild deer that are as much watching us as we them. We gaze upon the power and grace of the buzzard soaring effortless, majestic on the air, wild flowers bloom, and the white throated dipper gathers food in the torrent. We watch salmon leap and kingfisher fly; we sit alone in a bluebell wood or ride a steam train with the crowd. And all around on rocks and trees the lichens grow. Ah, how the lichens grow profuse, a sign the air is pure as nature intended, in this glorious place then, we all breathe easy.
Whether on moors or coast, whether picnic or restaurant, whether alone in meditation or in some ancient hostelry to the sound of cider drinking Devon voices whispering of the sheep they lost to the big black cat, whether here for life or for a day, Devon holds a magic that will so charm you, to keep it close in your memory, for all time.
A day out in Devon
We sit on cliff top edged with pink thrift, listen to the sea’s voice share its tales, watch surfers and seagulls play in the waves and hope for seal or dolphin to embellish our postcards home. Far below, the jagged rocks point upwards like giant teeth buffeted and cleaned by the Atlantic Ocean. We see sandy beaches in remote coves that foretold safe haven for many an anxious sailor whose sunken ships of sail litter the history of this wild coastline. We look across the ocean, westwards, past the magical Island of Lundy, so named by marauding Vikings whose spirits still haunt many an ancient Devonian battlefield, where Saxons fought to keep their homeland free. We gaze where sky meets sea and sense the dreams of our shared ancestors who braved the journey into the unknown. We see fishermen in small bobbing boats, seeking lobster in the pots and fishermen on rock ledges casting lines for Bass, they must make their catch before the incoming tide fills the gullies behind them, for the tide here is second in the world for its awe inspiring tidal range. The big yellow rescue helicopter patrols the skies, we wonder at the crew’s bravery in all weathers and in that spirit we remember the Louisa lifeboat from Lynmouth that villagers young and old carried over and beyond the thousand feet of Countisbury hill in the great storm of January 1899. It’s a coast of life taking danger as well as breathtaking beauty, it’s having the both that makes a place so special, makes it alive and us too feel alive. In this land of otters and egrets, we sit in the warmth of the Sun, feel the cooling sea breeze, close our eyes and stroll Devon’s wild moors, with sparkling streams in bracken valleys and herds of wild deer that are as much watching us as we them. We gaze upon the power and grace of the buzzard soaring effortless, majestic on the air, wild flowers bloom, and the white throated dipper gathers food in the torrent. We watch salmon leap and kingfisher fly; we sit alone in a bluebell wood or ride a steam train with the crowd. And all around on rocks and trees the lichens grow. Ah, how the lichens grow profuse, a sign the air is pure as nature intended, in this glorious place then, we all breathe easy.
Whether on moors or coast, whether picnic or restaurant, whether alone in meditation or in some ancient hostelry to the sound of cider drinking Devon voices whispering of the sheep they lost to the big black cat, whether here for life or for a day, Devon holds a magic that will so charm you, to keep it close in your memory, for all time.
The Mawddach Pennant Challenge.
Just a word of caution here, don’t look for any chronological order or organisation to this collection of stories -- for there is none.
The West Midlands Fire Service had a strong walking club and organised many walks which they opened up to all Brigades. The Mawddach Pennant Challenge in Wales was one of these in April of 1991. We went, the three of us , me, ‘Crocker’, and Peter, by brigade car (one of the very few perks, all we had to do was fuel it up after) to a bed and breakfast in Dolgellau, (pronounced Dolgethley) the night before the walk. Most unusually for Wales and I know you’ll find it hard to believe , but it rained, and boy, did it rain. The rain of the heavy and large droplet size brought in from the sea on a stinging wind hit us horizontally. My woolly hat and gloves and traditional non waterproof waterproofs were several levels beyond soaked, but to take any off was to be stung painfully as the wind driven rain beat us mercilessly . Just a shower? Don’t you believe it, mile upon mile as we left Cadir Idris (Chair Mountain) behind us in the east, we walked westward into the rain which subsided only after 4 hours as we reached the Atlantic shore line. At one point Crocker and Peter walked on down a track and were some way in front but fortunately in ear shot. I had taken the opportunity to look at the map and noted that a checkpoint at the ‘blue lagoon’ was no longer in front of us but a short detour behind. I hope they had some gratitude as they turned and climbed back up the hill ! No check points , no certificate ! In the beginning we always walk round puddles don’t we? Yet in the end as the finish is in sight and your feet are soaked any way even a whole flooded field is no barrier to our will.
Into dry clothes and into the warm brigade car we set off victorious back to Cambridge. On the way we stopped of at Chorley Services on the motorway, this was to be the beginning of another epic walk – from car to café – all of a few yards but like it was over the horizon. Don’t ask me why it was amusing as it should have been frightening, but I could not command my legs to walk, I managed to get to a fence by the path and to this day do not know how I managed to put one foot in front of other, perhaps it was exhaustion or the result of mild hypothermia I just do not know. Having made it to the café and used my arms to assist me in sitting down a bag of fries and a hot drink seemed to breathe life back in to the system, and walking back to the car was not as bad.. What they call a funny situation, both peculiar and humorous
.We made the 23 miles in 9 hrs and 10 mins on the 7th April 1991. Another memory to treasure.
Alas my good colleague Crocker is no longer with us, but one who knew him cannot forget.
Just a word of caution here, don’t look for any chronological order or organisation to this collection of stories -- for there is none.
The West Midlands Fire Service had a strong walking club and organised many walks which they opened up to all Brigades. The Mawddach Pennant Challenge in Wales was one of these in April of 1991. We went, the three of us , me, ‘Crocker’, and Peter, by brigade car (one of the very few perks, all we had to do was fuel it up after) to a bed and breakfast in Dolgellau, (pronounced Dolgethley) the night before the walk. Most unusually for Wales and I know you’ll find it hard to believe , but it rained, and boy, did it rain. The rain of the heavy and large droplet size brought in from the sea on a stinging wind hit us horizontally. My woolly hat and gloves and traditional non waterproof waterproofs were several levels beyond soaked, but to take any off was to be stung painfully as the wind driven rain beat us mercilessly . Just a shower? Don’t you believe it, mile upon mile as we left Cadir Idris (Chair Mountain) behind us in the east, we walked westward into the rain which subsided only after 4 hours as we reached the Atlantic shore line. At one point Crocker and Peter walked on down a track and were some way in front but fortunately in ear shot. I had taken the opportunity to look at the map and noted that a checkpoint at the ‘blue lagoon’ was no longer in front of us but a short detour behind. I hope they had some gratitude as they turned and climbed back up the hill ! No check points , no certificate ! In the beginning we always walk round puddles don’t we? Yet in the end as the finish is in sight and your feet are soaked any way even a whole flooded field is no barrier to our will.
Into dry clothes and into the warm brigade car we set off victorious back to Cambridge. On the way we stopped of at Chorley Services on the motorway, this was to be the beginning of another epic walk – from car to café – all of a few yards but like it was over the horizon. Don’t ask me why it was amusing as it should have been frightening, but I could not command my legs to walk, I managed to get to a fence by the path and to this day do not know how I managed to put one foot in front of other, perhaps it was exhaustion or the result of mild hypothermia I just do not know. Having made it to the café and used my arms to assist me in sitting down a bag of fries and a hot drink seemed to breathe life back in to the system, and walking back to the car was not as bad.. What they call a funny situation, both peculiar and humorous
.We made the 23 miles in 9 hrs and 10 mins on the 7th April 1991. Another memory to treasure.
Alas my good colleague Crocker is no longer with us, but one who knew him cannot forget.
Looking north towards Wales across the Bristol Channel.
The Lyke Wake Walk
The Lyke Wake Walk is a crossing of the North York Moors. You could buy a book on it; I had one once, sprinkled with the scrawl of personal notes, however I lost it following a ‘lend’. I remember that there was a song to sing, a dirge, based on the story that it was a coffin path to the coast. “This y’neet, this y’neet, every neet an all, by starlight and candle light every neet an all”. Can’t remember much else except the line, “and Whinny Moor will break your bones”.
I walked with the brother of some one for whom I used to work. The brother, whose name I remember not, lived in York and he too wanted to complete the ‘Lyke Wake’, it was very convenient. I left my cheap and aging Austin A 40 in a car park in Ravenscar on the east coast. I left a large bar of chocolate in the glove compartment, sure that I’d be pleased to see it on my return. Much better this than returning to an empty car, eh? I caught a bus back to York and the following day we took a train to Osmotherly and a taxi to the start point.
So began our first step of the 40 miles (88 km) back to my bar of chocolate. Oh, did I mention, it has to be done in a day? Clothing then was poor, come to think of it so was I, waterproofs, that usually weren’t, were rubberised canvas and very heavy, no proper rucksack just a bag with very thin leather straps that cut mercilessly into your shoulders. No idea of proper lightweight or nutritious rations, no café or pub en route, no village to pass through, just a solid fuel heater powered by the same stuff as I think used to be in Slug killer, and a tin of baked beans to add to the weight. To top it all I don’t remember any walking preparation either, I probably wore my boots a lot for gardening and that was it.
At the time of this adventure I was working as a Fireman at Corby Fire Station and had told my Leading Fireman of my plans. He was a man for whom I have always held respect, and he said, “When you’re doing this walk, you will get tired, and when you do you’ll see me on the path in front of you , saying, ‘ Come on!’,” and so saying he beckoned with one hand. It was true, I did get tired, and remembered what he said and ‘saw’ his image and ‘heard’ him speak, and it did inspire me to forget my tiredness and press onwards. This imagery, I found, was so empowering that I used it myself on many occasions to help others.
Obviously 40 miles was too far to complete in daylight, especially for the ill equipped novice, so as darkness fell we continued on the path, or what there was of it. That’s where the burden of your load becomes a joy, as you take out your torch and put on extra clothing against the night air. We crossed Fylingdale Moor where the giant golf balls of the early warning radar station stood in darkness. (Those were still days of the east / west cold war). We weren’t doing badly until we dropped down into Jugger Howe, a ravine or depression we had to cross. For some reason the many tracks that left the Howe on the East side became confusing in the dark. I don’t remember us having a compass, and nor do I recollect any map either, though I’m sure we must have had one of some description. Maps were comparatively expensive then and could quickly be converted to a soggy mess with a drop of rain. We decided to stay in the depths of Jugger Howe until dawn, when we might more easily find a suitable track out. We had time. I’d read in a book about surviving on the open moor; quite easy really. First collect stones and build a wind break wall, next gather heather, which indeed covered much of the eastern moor, and finally using the heather as a bed cover yourself with collected bracken as a blanket. Well we could dispense with the stone wall as it was neither too cold nor windy, though a dry bed of heather sounded more comfortable than the boggy ground of Jugger Howe. Have you ever tried to pick heather? Tough as old boots it is, I don’t think I managed to separate a single sprig from its mother plant, never mind a great heap of it big enough to lie on. Finding a piece of gently sloping ground with a little heather growing I put on all my extra clothes, lay down and covered myself with a ‘space blanket’, a plastic reflective sheet that is common today but, as you’ll guess from the name, a product of the space age and quite a rarity then. A fine drizzle started to fall and as I drifted into a surprisingly comfortable sleep I could only imagine what dawn would bring. I could see myself waking up and with joints and muscles seized up with cramps and ague unable to move let alone walk to the finish. What a surprise the dawn brought some 4 hours later. As soon as it was light enough to see we were up and bags packed ready to move and ….. No nightmare paralysis! We made it to the car … and the chocolate bar. The drive home was an adventure too, as were the following two weeks, as it was too painful to lift my left leg up for the clutch pedal I had to drive only using the right foot, (good job one side of the body still functioned).
The book is lost, the memory .. unclear, there is only one poorly developed photo of the walk, but I have still the little ‘star, candle and coffin’ badge and a small certificate to show for it. Doing the Lyke Wake Walk without preparation and succeeding may have been foolhardy but it gave me a measure of self belief and achievement that paved the way for other adventures. In 1979 I thought our 23 hours 10 minutes was ok. Latest statistics of 2005 show that the average crossing is 13 hours and people are running it at under 5 hours!
Advice note:
Remember you are not someone else, just do your best.
Don’t be afraid of adventure.
Seek inspiration that can carry you forward.
Return to Helvellyn
December 2013 and an early arrival in the Lake District prompted me to search out a lost nephew before searching for an evening meal. Success was mine with both ventures and such minor difficulties that I met on the way were simply swept aside; this was a feel good trip for sure.
Bed and Breakfast was at a most welcoming establishment, run by Mark and April. Their having been fully booked previously, now I was their only guest; my room was at the top of the house and had the sort of sloping ceiling that tall people always find so interesting and with disturbing frequency. I rested on a big iron bed and the sensible economy wattage bulb enforced the use of spectacles to study my map for the morrow’s mission.
The map was old, a trifle dog eared and with highlight marks of previous glorious achievements or devastating disasters as the case may be; sometimes they are no different. The map’s scale wasn’t really suitable for walkers, more for motorists really, so I had copied the section I needed and enlarged it on my computer. The bigger clearer map was fine but the process had also worked the same magic on the thick red felt tip pen route I’d drawn after a previous trip to Helvellyn. Now it looked more like a major trunk road than a footpath.
Not to worry, eh?
The following day’s weather looked promising; according to the TV’s usual weather misinformation best guess and toss a coin forecast anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a set of cards, like Tarot but for weather, then they just pick one at random to read out each night on TV to their avid fan base. Just in case, I’d brought a plethora of wet weather gear with me on the trip so I might as well use it eh? Not likely. . . just the food, camera, for stunning sun topped mountains, rainbows across tarns and the odd rutting deer, whistle, torch, you just never know and a spare coat would be company enough for this adventure.
This is a pilgrimage. I journey not just to re visit Helvellyn but to visit myself and the thoughts of decades past that ramble around my mind at will, usually on their own.
What shall I discover, or what shall I not, can we ever know what we shall not? Such taxing thoughts prompted me to rest and dream of an English breakfast at eight.
Thought for the moment, “Does day dreaming energise us to begin a journey to realisation?”
**
The new day arrived, along with a fulfilling breakfast and some advice from Mark as to the most picturesque route to Helvellyn. What hasn’t arrived is the fine weather promised by the evening weather forecast; what a surprise.
I stood in the lane outside and at the back of my car, fully togged up apart from a pair of gaiters . . . not the reptile version but the boot/calf protectors. At first I really struggled to fit them, really you needed three hands and be a Yogi, anyway as I completed the operation I noticed that one of the zips was unravelling from the bottom end. . . more worthless struggles took place eating into what life I had left to live. As I would have looked rather silly on the mountain wearing only one green calf length gaiter I took them both off, taking nearly as much time as I’d used to put them on. They were thrown in the back of the car to be shot later.
With the car door locked, I set off along the advocated fine views path. Within only twenty to thirty minutes, despite map in hand and instructions in brain, I was lost. Luckily some foreign tourists were walking the same way and in broken English explained the route, “I see you has ze map, oh you can read zis thing? , okay, vee use ours. Vee are here unt goink up zis vay, vee has been here many times befores, you can follow viz us up ze big hill.” I duly followed until their far greater nimbleness and speed took them out of sight. This made life a little difficult when there was a divergence of the pathway. Now any decision was mine alone which path to take. Do I go left over the wall stile or go right and follow a lone walker I can barely see in the misty middle distance. Mark had said, “When you get to this point (and that means you must be at that point which he has in his mind not some other God forsaken place in the wrong valley) you’ll see Striding Edge in front of you.” Well I couldn’t, by now everything was shrouded in low cloud. There was no Striding Edge; well, okay, there was one somewhere but it was well hidden.
I followed the lone walker, unable to catch him up and ask my questions, then I lost him but found a good solid path to the left and going upwards. A lone walker came from the opposite direction, it transpired it was the same one, “I’m going home,” he said, “I’m not going further than this, conditions are too bad, too windy on the ridges, poor visibility and there’ll be no mercy from this wind on Helvellyn. . . but you are on track for Swirral Edge if you continue up this path”.
The bit about ‘windy’ would take on new connotations when I was faced with the horrors of climbing Swirral, for climbing it was in places. I classify climbing as requiring the use of hands as well as legs during an ascent (or descent of the controlled slow type, not the rapid one akin to flying).
There is no doubt, and the fate of previous and recent fallers confirms, that a slip from the ridge can mean death. . . or worse!
Having made my way up Swirral Edge I had concluded that it would not be my chosen escape route off the mountain. Better the unknown, lurking in the cloud obscured precipices of Striding Edge than what I’d experienced on the way up Swirral.
‘Why not follow the path?’ I hear you ask.
Reasonable advice that, one must imagine, but there are many ‘paths’ on the mountain, some more trodden than others. Unfortunately even the better trod paths are little more than muddy scuffs on shiny dark rock. Often they die out leaving you with your own desperate choice of route to climb back towards the ridge – each step or heave of your arms absorbed by inconsolable effort.
At times when the walking is simple, note that I didn’t say easy, the mind is freed of decision making and engages instead in imagery and thoughts . . . almost mini enlightenments, like . . .
‘When in the B&B, read things carefully first, and then you won’t wash your hands in shower gel and not in the lovely hand wash provided. Faith is useful but an active brain helps too! How many times do you bump your head before you remember the ceiling slopes? When will you finally learn that hanging trousers upside down lets all the coins fall out on the floor, some never to be found again . . . not by you anyway? Carrying a torch for signalling is pointless in clouds.’ Oh so many things enter the trackless desert of the walker’s mind.
Memories do not need to walk, they can go straight to the summit in an instant; they are the masters of time travel I guess. Whereas your body, now heavier than it was on the first visit must be carried all the way by legs now weaker than they was!
Simple walking and the simple mind are mutually supportive companions on the way – most pleasant.
Before I reached the summit via Swirral Edge, I noticed one finger poking out of a hole in my fawn woollen gloves. These were the same gloves that had climbed this same route in the snow some thirteen years previous. They were more at home there than I was, though age and wear had taken their toll on them too. Thirteen years older but still there; those gloves had known what it was like to tempt death on Helvellyn. . . first hand – so to speak!
On the summit, the wind was quite severe and I searched for the little open stone shelter I knew was there. What I didn’t know and couldn’t see in the cloud was actually where it was. At least with a summit you know where you are, you simply go upwards until you can no more, you then look at the map and point to a place which metaphorically shouts, ‘you are here’.
Considering abandoning any hope of finding the stone refuge and setting off towards the risk imbued vagaries of the Striding Edge path, I came across the misted and elusive shelter. There huddled a few bedraggled walkers finishing their lunch and preparing to move off. Other walkers soon appeared through the cloud from the Striding Edge direction. I asked them for advice on the best way down and had them take a photo of me . . . for posterity, whose, I know not.
The paths to Striding Edge seem varied and numerous from the summit. You just pick the best one you can . . . and hope. Near the edge is a memorial to a man named Gough, immortalised in a romanticised poem by Scott. It’s all about a man, his dog and comparing death on the mountain with that of a prince’s death. Scott’s view is that the rich funeral of a prince pales into insignificance with the natural and hugely spiritual death on the mountain.
I thought to myself, “I bet it was nothing of the kind. Chances are that his dog foolishly chased a rabbit down a loose rocked slope, completely ignoring the anguished call of his master, who then even more foolishly went after his dog in a vain ‘rescue attempt’. A common error made by dog owners for their supposedly distressed pets. He fell to his death and I suspect that contrary to the myth that his pet dog guarded his body against Fox and Raven it probably ate bits of him to stay alive . . . . much easier than chasing rabbits.” Whatever the real truth of the matter, we will never know.
The truth of descending Striding Edge in cloud is that you are blessed by not seeing how far down you will fall yet cursed by not being able to see the path ahead. I picked all the easiest ways down I could find, this was no time for heroics.
Once off the Edge and at the stile in the wall I recognised where I had gone wrong before. I repeated a path I’d used before and by great fortune found Red Tarn, a place of pilgrimage for me. I then took a longer but more clearly defined route back to the B&B. I was back about 4 pm, and before darkness fell – beyond any darkness I might have felt as I’d struggled on the jagged and precipitous edges that led to Helvellyn.
On disrobing in the B&B I noticed how much I’d began to smell more like some of the things I’d avoided treading in during my walk.
Time for a shower in hand-wash, change of clothes, pick up my coins from the floor and bump my head on the ceiling before going to the village pub for dinner.
Helvellyn? Nothing to it !
December 2013 and an early arrival in the Lake District prompted me to search out a lost nephew before searching for an evening meal. Success was mine with both ventures and such minor difficulties that I met on the way were simply swept aside; this was a feel good trip for sure.
Bed and Breakfast was at a most welcoming establishment, run by Mark and April. Their having been fully booked previously, now I was their only guest; my room was at the top of the house and had the sort of sloping ceiling that tall people always find so interesting and with disturbing frequency. I rested on a big iron bed and the sensible economy wattage bulb enforced the use of spectacles to study my map for the morrow’s mission.
The map was old, a trifle dog eared and with highlight marks of previous glorious achievements or devastating disasters as the case may be; sometimes they are no different. The map’s scale wasn’t really suitable for walkers, more for motorists really, so I had copied the section I needed and enlarged it on my computer. The bigger clearer map was fine but the process had also worked the same magic on the thick red felt tip pen route I’d drawn after a previous trip to Helvellyn. Now it looked more like a major trunk road than a footpath.
Not to worry, eh?
The following day’s weather looked promising; according to the TV’s usual weather misinformation best guess and toss a coin forecast anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have a set of cards, like Tarot but for weather, then they just pick one at random to read out each night on TV to their avid fan base. Just in case, I’d brought a plethora of wet weather gear with me on the trip so I might as well use it eh? Not likely. . . just the food, camera, for stunning sun topped mountains, rainbows across tarns and the odd rutting deer, whistle, torch, you just never know and a spare coat would be company enough for this adventure.
This is a pilgrimage. I journey not just to re visit Helvellyn but to visit myself and the thoughts of decades past that ramble around my mind at will, usually on their own.
What shall I discover, or what shall I not, can we ever know what we shall not? Such taxing thoughts prompted me to rest and dream of an English breakfast at eight.
Thought for the moment, “Does day dreaming energise us to begin a journey to realisation?”
**
The new day arrived, along with a fulfilling breakfast and some advice from Mark as to the most picturesque route to Helvellyn. What hasn’t arrived is the fine weather promised by the evening weather forecast; what a surprise.
I stood in the lane outside and at the back of my car, fully togged up apart from a pair of gaiters . . . not the reptile version but the boot/calf protectors. At first I really struggled to fit them, really you needed three hands and be a Yogi, anyway as I completed the operation I noticed that one of the zips was unravelling from the bottom end. . . more worthless struggles took place eating into what life I had left to live. As I would have looked rather silly on the mountain wearing only one green calf length gaiter I took them both off, taking nearly as much time as I’d used to put them on. They were thrown in the back of the car to be shot later.
With the car door locked, I set off along the advocated fine views path. Within only twenty to thirty minutes, despite map in hand and instructions in brain, I was lost. Luckily some foreign tourists were walking the same way and in broken English explained the route, “I see you has ze map, oh you can read zis thing? , okay, vee use ours. Vee are here unt goink up zis vay, vee has been here many times befores, you can follow viz us up ze big hill.” I duly followed until their far greater nimbleness and speed took them out of sight. This made life a little difficult when there was a divergence of the pathway. Now any decision was mine alone which path to take. Do I go left over the wall stile or go right and follow a lone walker I can barely see in the misty middle distance. Mark had said, “When you get to this point (and that means you must be at that point which he has in his mind not some other God forsaken place in the wrong valley) you’ll see Striding Edge in front of you.” Well I couldn’t, by now everything was shrouded in low cloud. There was no Striding Edge; well, okay, there was one somewhere but it was well hidden.
I followed the lone walker, unable to catch him up and ask my questions, then I lost him but found a good solid path to the left and going upwards. A lone walker came from the opposite direction, it transpired it was the same one, “I’m going home,” he said, “I’m not going further than this, conditions are too bad, too windy on the ridges, poor visibility and there’ll be no mercy from this wind on Helvellyn. . . but you are on track for Swirral Edge if you continue up this path”.
The bit about ‘windy’ would take on new connotations when I was faced with the horrors of climbing Swirral, for climbing it was in places. I classify climbing as requiring the use of hands as well as legs during an ascent (or descent of the controlled slow type, not the rapid one akin to flying).
There is no doubt, and the fate of previous and recent fallers confirms, that a slip from the ridge can mean death. . . or worse!
Having made my way up Swirral Edge I had concluded that it would not be my chosen escape route off the mountain. Better the unknown, lurking in the cloud obscured precipices of Striding Edge than what I’d experienced on the way up Swirral.
‘Why not follow the path?’ I hear you ask.
Reasonable advice that, one must imagine, but there are many ‘paths’ on the mountain, some more trodden than others. Unfortunately even the better trod paths are little more than muddy scuffs on shiny dark rock. Often they die out leaving you with your own desperate choice of route to climb back towards the ridge – each step or heave of your arms absorbed by inconsolable effort.
At times when the walking is simple, note that I didn’t say easy, the mind is freed of decision making and engages instead in imagery and thoughts . . . almost mini enlightenments, like . . .
‘When in the B&B, read things carefully first, and then you won’t wash your hands in shower gel and not in the lovely hand wash provided. Faith is useful but an active brain helps too! How many times do you bump your head before you remember the ceiling slopes? When will you finally learn that hanging trousers upside down lets all the coins fall out on the floor, some never to be found again . . . not by you anyway? Carrying a torch for signalling is pointless in clouds.’ Oh so many things enter the trackless desert of the walker’s mind.
Memories do not need to walk, they can go straight to the summit in an instant; they are the masters of time travel I guess. Whereas your body, now heavier than it was on the first visit must be carried all the way by legs now weaker than they was!
Simple walking and the simple mind are mutually supportive companions on the way – most pleasant.
Before I reached the summit via Swirral Edge, I noticed one finger poking out of a hole in my fawn woollen gloves. These were the same gloves that had climbed this same route in the snow some thirteen years previous. They were more at home there than I was, though age and wear had taken their toll on them too. Thirteen years older but still there; those gloves had known what it was like to tempt death on Helvellyn. . . first hand – so to speak!
On the summit, the wind was quite severe and I searched for the little open stone shelter I knew was there. What I didn’t know and couldn’t see in the cloud was actually where it was. At least with a summit you know where you are, you simply go upwards until you can no more, you then look at the map and point to a place which metaphorically shouts, ‘you are here’.
Considering abandoning any hope of finding the stone refuge and setting off towards the risk imbued vagaries of the Striding Edge path, I came across the misted and elusive shelter. There huddled a few bedraggled walkers finishing their lunch and preparing to move off. Other walkers soon appeared through the cloud from the Striding Edge direction. I asked them for advice on the best way down and had them take a photo of me . . . for posterity, whose, I know not.
The paths to Striding Edge seem varied and numerous from the summit. You just pick the best one you can . . . and hope. Near the edge is a memorial to a man named Gough, immortalised in a romanticised poem by Scott. It’s all about a man, his dog and comparing death on the mountain with that of a prince’s death. Scott’s view is that the rich funeral of a prince pales into insignificance with the natural and hugely spiritual death on the mountain.
I thought to myself, “I bet it was nothing of the kind. Chances are that his dog foolishly chased a rabbit down a loose rocked slope, completely ignoring the anguished call of his master, who then even more foolishly went after his dog in a vain ‘rescue attempt’. A common error made by dog owners for their supposedly distressed pets. He fell to his death and I suspect that contrary to the myth that his pet dog guarded his body against Fox and Raven it probably ate bits of him to stay alive . . . . much easier than chasing rabbits.” Whatever the real truth of the matter, we will never know.
The truth of descending Striding Edge in cloud is that you are blessed by not seeing how far down you will fall yet cursed by not being able to see the path ahead. I picked all the easiest ways down I could find, this was no time for heroics.
Once off the Edge and at the stile in the wall I recognised where I had gone wrong before. I repeated a path I’d used before and by great fortune found Red Tarn, a place of pilgrimage for me. I then took a longer but more clearly defined route back to the B&B. I was back about 4 pm, and before darkness fell – beyond any darkness I might have felt as I’d struggled on the jagged and precipitous edges that led to Helvellyn.
On disrobing in the B&B I noticed how much I’d began to smell more like some of the things I’d avoided treading in during my walk.
Time for a shower in hand-wash, change of clothes, pick up my coins from the floor and bump my head on the ceiling before going to the village pub for dinner.
Helvellyn? Nothing to it !
This next story is from an earlier visit to Helvellyn and it is memories of this walk that joined me on my pilgrimage visit in the story featured above.
Near death on Helvellyn in the Lakes
Any notes I had are long gone, but I’ll do my best to paint the picture. Its in the Lake District again and I have returned with Carole. It has been snowing hard on the summit of Helvellyn previously but had stopped..
Most walkers would probably take Striding Edge to Helvellyn summit as their route but Swirral Edge takes you past Red Tarn and offers great views to the North …. Not that we were to look that far away from where our feet were going that day. An edge is really the apex of a long pointed ridge, the only flat bit, if you can call it that is the bit on the top, mostly suitable for birds.
Carole was afraid of heights, and had not climbed this ridge before; I had climbed it at least twice before, and was afraid of everything. As you climb upwards it is important to stay near the very top, if you stray lower on seemingly easier ground there comes a time when you must return to the top – but now it’s not a steady climb but a steep scramble on flaking and loose rock – much more dangerous: the fall below to Red Tarn is about 300 feet and when you reached the bottom the last of your worries would be scuffs on your new boots … in fact you’d be beyond all worry I suspect.
There were no other walkers insight, (I wonder why), although there was an occasional lone footprint in the snow to suggest that someone had been there earlier. As we closed on the summit we drifted down too far from the ridge and were looking for a way back up, our path was of snow covered shale, with occasional clear patches of good rock. The drop down to the left was terrifying – Carole made sure it was by telling me. In my best, ‘I’m in complete control,’ fire officer voice, and oozing with false confidence I did my best to tell her everything was ok, ‘just go slowly, watch your step, no rush, take your time and we’ll be fine’. Then, there it was, in front of me, a narrow bridge of sloping loose stone with a line of snow on it, about one foot wide and ten feet long, and there in the middle, one solitary boot mark. To the left the death drop to Red Tarn, to the right the mountain sloped up and away so far that you could not touch the rock, if you tried all you would do was make the angle of your feet on the path completely untenable. ‘ Mmm’ I thought, terrified and panicking, ‘ Ok ‘ I said calmly and reassuringly, ‘we need to find another way, this looks a little difficult (bloody impossible I thought) we’ll go back a bit’. By the time I’d gathered the courage to turn around slowly to go back the way we came, Carole was shouting, ‘Its ok I’ve found a way up’. She was temporarily out of sight and when I caught up I was horrified to see her chosen route was worse than the one I had just rejected. It was a mini ravine, on a steep snow clad slope of about 45 degrees, bounded on both sides by rock walls worn smooth in centuries of mountain weather, and there at the top a similar smooth boulder blocking the way out. Carole had already climbed the rock ; she’d done so worrying that she would be in my way if she waited, as there was very little room at the top of this short slope. Then, I was at the rock, below and behind me a fairly steep snow clad slope, which had I slipped on my waterproofs would have given no grip and I would have toboganned in my own clothes to my death; the only foot grip I have is at the base of the rock which protrudes roundly out towards me forcing my body out of the vertical, there are no footholds any where, no, not anywhere, it’s all smooth. The rock is chest height and I claw with desperate hands at loose rock and snow in search of any good handholds above me. I take off my woollen gloves and throw them up – in a futile act of faith I would say – I could have just clung on there in tears while someone called in a rescue helicopter, and prayed that it arrived before my strength left. I had strong hands and knew if I could but find some good hand holds then I could use my strength to rescue myself – but alas there were none to be had.
Somehow my right elbow found something useful to push down on – don’t ask – and I used my arm strength to raise up enough to get my body over the smooth rounded ‘enemy’ and managed to crawl away from the edge, and, with shaking jelly legs, I found my gloves and we continued to the summit. I am sure I saved her life with my calm and confidence, (apparent!) and she had certainly saved mine by going over that rock first , for without that knowledge it was possible I would never have made it.
We made it to the eerie silence of the snow covered Helvellyn and there were three men, probably park rangers, I think. They seemed surprised with our presence and warned us that Striding Edge was too dangerous to attempt and we should return the way we came. Well you can guess our answer, can’t you, even if it was not out loud but in the mind.. We explained that we had no wish to go back that way and they pointed us in the direction of where somewhere amongst the snow and loose rocks began the ‘path’ down.
We stopped to take a photo, then painstakingly picked our way from rock to rock in the general direction of the least steep way down. At one point we rested and watched a young man climb up towards us, he had left his young lady about twenty yards below him. He climbed well, and I remember thinking, “must be a mountaineer, must be really good and picking out a good route for her to follow on his command.” This turned out to be a little incorrect, and he, assuming that we were bad weather mountain experts, asked if he and his young lady could accompany us to the bottom as they were rather shocked at the conditions up there and now needed help. “ No problem , tag along with us, us rescue sherpas are used to this stuff, just a walk in the park for us” I said. (Not really , that’s a bit of poetic licence) Well we did all get down slowly but safely and that climb has left a lasting memory of the event though the feelings are beginning to fade now..
Near death on Helvellyn in the Lakes
Any notes I had are long gone, but I’ll do my best to paint the picture. Its in the Lake District again and I have returned with Carole. It has been snowing hard on the summit of Helvellyn previously but had stopped..
Most walkers would probably take Striding Edge to Helvellyn summit as their route but Swirral Edge takes you past Red Tarn and offers great views to the North …. Not that we were to look that far away from where our feet were going that day. An edge is really the apex of a long pointed ridge, the only flat bit, if you can call it that is the bit on the top, mostly suitable for birds.
Carole was afraid of heights, and had not climbed this ridge before; I had climbed it at least twice before, and was afraid of everything. As you climb upwards it is important to stay near the very top, if you stray lower on seemingly easier ground there comes a time when you must return to the top – but now it’s not a steady climb but a steep scramble on flaking and loose rock – much more dangerous: the fall below to Red Tarn is about 300 feet and when you reached the bottom the last of your worries would be scuffs on your new boots … in fact you’d be beyond all worry I suspect.
There were no other walkers insight, (I wonder why), although there was an occasional lone footprint in the snow to suggest that someone had been there earlier. As we closed on the summit we drifted down too far from the ridge and were looking for a way back up, our path was of snow covered shale, with occasional clear patches of good rock. The drop down to the left was terrifying – Carole made sure it was by telling me. In my best, ‘I’m in complete control,’ fire officer voice, and oozing with false confidence I did my best to tell her everything was ok, ‘just go slowly, watch your step, no rush, take your time and we’ll be fine’. Then, there it was, in front of me, a narrow bridge of sloping loose stone with a line of snow on it, about one foot wide and ten feet long, and there in the middle, one solitary boot mark. To the left the death drop to Red Tarn, to the right the mountain sloped up and away so far that you could not touch the rock, if you tried all you would do was make the angle of your feet on the path completely untenable. ‘ Mmm’ I thought, terrified and panicking, ‘ Ok ‘ I said calmly and reassuringly, ‘we need to find another way, this looks a little difficult (bloody impossible I thought) we’ll go back a bit’. By the time I’d gathered the courage to turn around slowly to go back the way we came, Carole was shouting, ‘Its ok I’ve found a way up’. She was temporarily out of sight and when I caught up I was horrified to see her chosen route was worse than the one I had just rejected. It was a mini ravine, on a steep snow clad slope of about 45 degrees, bounded on both sides by rock walls worn smooth in centuries of mountain weather, and there at the top a similar smooth boulder blocking the way out. Carole had already climbed the rock ; she’d done so worrying that she would be in my way if she waited, as there was very little room at the top of this short slope. Then, I was at the rock, below and behind me a fairly steep snow clad slope, which had I slipped on my waterproofs would have given no grip and I would have toboganned in my own clothes to my death; the only foot grip I have is at the base of the rock which protrudes roundly out towards me forcing my body out of the vertical, there are no footholds any where, no, not anywhere, it’s all smooth. The rock is chest height and I claw with desperate hands at loose rock and snow in search of any good handholds above me. I take off my woollen gloves and throw them up – in a futile act of faith I would say – I could have just clung on there in tears while someone called in a rescue helicopter, and prayed that it arrived before my strength left. I had strong hands and knew if I could but find some good hand holds then I could use my strength to rescue myself – but alas there were none to be had.
Somehow my right elbow found something useful to push down on – don’t ask – and I used my arm strength to raise up enough to get my body over the smooth rounded ‘enemy’ and managed to crawl away from the edge, and, with shaking jelly legs, I found my gloves and we continued to the summit. I am sure I saved her life with my calm and confidence, (apparent!) and she had certainly saved mine by going over that rock first , for without that knowledge it was possible I would never have made it.
We made it to the eerie silence of the snow covered Helvellyn and there were three men, probably park rangers, I think. They seemed surprised with our presence and warned us that Striding Edge was too dangerous to attempt and we should return the way we came. Well you can guess our answer, can’t you, even if it was not out loud but in the mind.. We explained that we had no wish to go back that way and they pointed us in the direction of where somewhere amongst the snow and loose rocks began the ‘path’ down.
We stopped to take a photo, then painstakingly picked our way from rock to rock in the general direction of the least steep way down. At one point we rested and watched a young man climb up towards us, he had left his young lady about twenty yards below him. He climbed well, and I remember thinking, “must be a mountaineer, must be really good and picking out a good route for her to follow on his command.” This turned out to be a little incorrect, and he, assuming that we were bad weather mountain experts, asked if he and his young lady could accompany us to the bottom as they were rather shocked at the conditions up there and now needed help. “ No problem , tag along with us, us rescue sherpas are used to this stuff, just a walk in the park for us” I said. (Not really , that’s a bit of poetic licence) Well we did all get down slowly but safely and that climb has left a lasting memory of the event though the feelings are beginning to fade now..
A Week in the Lake District.
It must have been the end of October 1999 and one of the ladies who worked in Fire Control had lost her walking partners for an already booked week in the Lake district. A colleague of mine had been talking to her about my interest in walking and we eventually met up and agreed we got on well enough to share this adventure. The following are my notes I made at the time, any extra notes that I make as I type this will be in (brackets and italics).
‘Journey to the centre of the lakes’
“gale force winds and rain spreading from the west” said the weatherman. This was the night before setting off with a fully laden car to pick up Carole who had kindly and perhaps foolishly invited me to join her on a walking holiday in the English Lake District. A pleasant drive was had up the M6, interspersed with a break for a cuppa and brilliant ham and goat cheese roll that Carole had brought with her.( you’ll find this all a bit disjointed as I go from past to future and back again in my notes, but this is how it was , and is all part of the mystery and adventure of our journey. Don’t you think?) I watched and listened attentively to what Carole was packing in the rucksack. We negotiated who carries what on the walks and thanks to the organisational abilities of women had soup and slices of bread packed away ready. (Earlier we’d been in a pub to eat and when I went to order I was not prepared for the questions, nor knew the answers at the bar) I’m still slightly reflective over the barmaid’s reception. “Did you want fries or jacket with that, stupid?” she said with her body language though her words weren’t quite the same. This took place in the pub around the corner from Flat 19A which was next to Flat 26 above the garage to “21A, and indeed ‘home’ for the week. (The numbering , dare we call it system, for the flats followed the old higgledy-piggledy variety, which made it very interesting trying to locate your front door)
Walk1. Grasmere, along Easdale tarn to Sargeant Man, returning by Blea Crag. 7 miles – book time 4hrs, our time- a little longer 6 -7 hrs. Gale force winds on the ridges and summits contributed- with being blown off feet or leaning sideways not uncommon. On the top of the hill, Sargeant Man736 metres we crouched below rocks for shelter, feeling body heat quickly draining from our limbs. The hot soup stayed hot only as it was poured out, the caramel biscuit was frozen rock hard (poetic licence). Steady and severely wind blown progress brought us down to a warmer and peaceful valley.
Notable points,
· Ravens calling on Blea Crag.
· Water spray being lifted in a great white cloud off Easdale Tarn.
· The wind!
· The view of Stickle Tarn and Pavey Ark
Now off to dinner at the October adjusted time of 1945hrs.
Brilliant Italian food- then a tin of soup bought from ’open all hours’ shop for the morrow.
Carole phones the weather forecast for tomorrow.
Dry start-thick cloud- hill fog in pm - cloud broken at 2,000 feet.
The real weather, as recorded by two wet walkers at Tarn Hows.
‘Steady rain falling almost vertically from a stationary cloud base.’
Nothing daunted we drove on quiet almost single track roads through amber tinted tree leaf avenues amongst rocks and hills., the roads awash but not so much that raging streams of boiling white water did not steal the glory. The descriptive text (of Carole’s walking guide book) was useful if not slightly misleading in places, or should I say in need of extra guidance, like, ‘ no, not right here but left here, past that sheepdog, to the road and cross it there etc’
The small collie was keen to round us up and give the ankles a nip. (once in Devon I thought I’d just let a collie have a sniff to satiate it’s curiosity, but this was a ruse on the dog’s part and allowed it close enough to get a good grab of my calf – though my clothing held back the teeth I had the sign of canine dentures on my leg for weeks if not months) The deep quarry at Hodge Close was impressive, looking about 200ft. Some walkers reported a potential dead body, but when we looked, out of curiosity and typical helpfulness of the Fire Brigade, it looked like he’d driven there in this large deserted quarry car park to read his book in peace and fell asleep. ( At least that’s what I still hope!) Wonderful waterfalls were in abundance and paths had become streams. The wooded streamside uphill climb to the end of the walk culminated with stepping up out of the wood to the expansive quietness of Tarn Hows and its islands in the mist. The rain fell with greater force as we reached the car park. It raises an interesting predicament on how to take off wet gear including boots and put on dry gear without,
a) soaking the car (with wet gear)
b) soaking the dry gear (with rain)
Some how this was half achieved, soup was taken and another pleasant drive back to dry off our gear on every radiator ‘home’ had. We went for a swim, sauna, Jacuzzi, steam and a Guinness. Evening meal was concocted chez nous this evening. Chicken curry, apple, peanuts, and cucumber in plain yoghurt. Scrummy. Couple of glasses of fine South African wine with a picture of a leopard on it and we chatted away till about 11pm. (Sleeping arrangements were such that Carole had a large comfortable double bed in a separate room, and I had a spring loaded fold up bed in the lounge. This spring loaded bed was like an unpredictable booby trap, no matter how carefully I tried to get in it bits of it at random would collapse or fold, however it was achievable and I didn’t die)
November 2nd and a fine day – if showery, from Ambleside Fire Station (free parking) off up Smithy Brow to ‘Sweden Bridge’ along Scandale valley to Red Screes, then down hill to magnificent views of almost everything you could think of, Sun on the sea and lakes, beams of light through clouds, ravens, tiny people below in the mountain pass, a sheepdog rounding up sheep, etc. On the summit we sat almost precariously on a cliff edge to eat our lunch of home baked lamb meat pies and ham rolls with coffee. A buzzard was seen off by two ravens. Helvellyn and Striding Edge were in view and High Street, Harter Fell and Thornthwaite too. As we headed south from the summit hail fell and wind blown struck our faces making looking forward to the path a mite painful. Some how, whatever happened it wouldn’t matter – this was a feel good journey. After collecting the car from the Fire station an inquisitive police officer asked if we needed help (he must have seen me climbing the hill!). We dropped in to see an old pal, Mike from Graffham who is now manager of a Water Centre on a large lake. A happy reunion occurred with coffees at the hotel then – wait for it – ‘Come and take out a boat’. Even though it was just getting dark the ski boat was tractored to the water and its 310 BHP 5.5 litre gas powered Chevrolet engine fired up. With a few quick details about two speedos, engine blowers and restrictions on speeds between this or that boat house and island – none of which my brain absorbed – we (Carole and I) were allowed out on the oggy to do our worst -- Wow – what a boat, top speed of over 40 mph, as stable as an overturned saucer on a table – turned on a sixpence, it was wonderful! With full screen the Lakeland rain didn’t matter. After several high speed turns etc we took the boat back to mike, (who couldn’t be sure we’d seen the best of the boat so took us both out to show that you could almost turn it on the spot and be going back the same way almost without slowing down . Carole had the good seat, Mike had a seat and a steering wheel and he just told me to hang on to whatever was available and press my knees against the side of the boat – I suppose he didn’t want me getting out before he had completed the demonstration!) The boat was towed off the water and with much gratitude we left for home in the dark, then off to sauna etc as usual then out to Troutbeck and an Elizabethan pub with a 4 poster bed for a bar and really excellent food and ales. Really lovely then back ’home’ and Carole made me a drink whilst I wrote all this. Goodnight.
Off to Patterdale and climb Place Fell. Stopped by a stream that feeds into Ullswater under autumn changing trees for a picnic – very nice- cloud dropping later so that it had to be driven through on Kirkstone Pass. A good walk in reasonable weather with fine views of the lake.
Fish and chips plus a glass or two of Asta sparkling wine at ‘home’ finished the evening.
Another rainy day was predicted so another lower level walk was planned (with other options in the car should it look different on the hills when we were on the road) Loughrigg Fell 335m was the target, passing Rydal water and Rydal caves (40 ft in height) then up the hills overlooking Grasmere. Compass readings were used extensively and successfully for pleasure and self training purposes. Lunch was had a few metres from the trig point in the lee of some rocks. Pork , apple and cranberry pie and one and a half turkey sandwiches and a couple of cups of coffee went down well as rain lashed not only the rocks but back of my waterproofs. Odd, isn’t it, how comfortable you can make yourself in a cold wet place that is miles from safety and civilisation (as we know it). Back to Bowness and have a car tyre puncture repaired at local garage. Bakewell tart from the magic shop (little bakery that made superb small and large pies and cakes) was had with a cup of tea just prior to writing this. What a lovely shop. I must buy some stuff to take home, I’ve taken a few photos but only time will turn the vision into a resin coated reality. Like some music can be like your heartbeat, you don’t want it to stop. “a message may be sent but due to the lack of ability to receive that person believes it could never have been sent” Carole. (we must have been on a philosophical tack that evening).
Friday the 5th November, Helvellyn or bust.
Weather – gales and rain. A steady climb from Wythburn Church walking up rivulets of flood water from the fells. Stepped paths became waterfalls as the small Cypress wood came to an end. The top – was STORMY the three-legged shelter allowed us some respite in which to eat our beloved pies and sandwiches – only this time Carole ate all hers and didn’t share! We returned from the summit to retrace our sodden steps, wind chilled rain stung our eyes (wind chill temp ~ -10 C ) wet gloves now covered fumbling cold hands and soggy boots splashed speedily on the path that went not only homeward but into the teeth of a gale. By the time we reached the lower slopes the Sun shone warmly upon us, for me the outside of my clothes were now drier than the inside. My waterproofs - aren’t. Change of clothes in the burglar visited car park (BMW broken into while owners on a walk)
A drive back ‘home through stream swept roads to music by Enya and the thought of Bakewell tart and tea. Soon be time to go home.
It was a rain swept motorway of the M6 we took back home to the flat land of Cambridgeshire, it was the 5th November and fireworks were seen for most of the journey. I dropped Carole off at her home then on to Huntingdon where I dumped all my wet gear and picked up my Aikido bag ready to travel by plane to Glasgow at 6 am.
It must have been the end of October 1999 and one of the ladies who worked in Fire Control had lost her walking partners for an already booked week in the Lake district. A colleague of mine had been talking to her about my interest in walking and we eventually met up and agreed we got on well enough to share this adventure. The following are my notes I made at the time, any extra notes that I make as I type this will be in (brackets and italics).
‘Journey to the centre of the lakes’
“gale force winds and rain spreading from the west” said the weatherman. This was the night before setting off with a fully laden car to pick up Carole who had kindly and perhaps foolishly invited me to join her on a walking holiday in the English Lake District. A pleasant drive was had up the M6, interspersed with a break for a cuppa and brilliant ham and goat cheese roll that Carole had brought with her.( you’ll find this all a bit disjointed as I go from past to future and back again in my notes, but this is how it was , and is all part of the mystery and adventure of our journey. Don’t you think?) I watched and listened attentively to what Carole was packing in the rucksack. We negotiated who carries what on the walks and thanks to the organisational abilities of women had soup and slices of bread packed away ready. (Earlier we’d been in a pub to eat and when I went to order I was not prepared for the questions, nor knew the answers at the bar) I’m still slightly reflective over the barmaid’s reception. “Did you want fries or jacket with that, stupid?” she said with her body language though her words weren’t quite the same. This took place in the pub around the corner from Flat 19A which was next to Flat 26 above the garage to “21A, and indeed ‘home’ for the week. (The numbering , dare we call it system, for the flats followed the old higgledy-piggledy variety, which made it very interesting trying to locate your front door)
Walk1. Grasmere, along Easdale tarn to Sargeant Man, returning by Blea Crag. 7 miles – book time 4hrs, our time- a little longer 6 -7 hrs. Gale force winds on the ridges and summits contributed- with being blown off feet or leaning sideways not uncommon. On the top of the hill, Sargeant Man736 metres we crouched below rocks for shelter, feeling body heat quickly draining from our limbs. The hot soup stayed hot only as it was poured out, the caramel biscuit was frozen rock hard (poetic licence). Steady and severely wind blown progress brought us down to a warmer and peaceful valley.
Notable points,
· Ravens calling on Blea Crag.
· Water spray being lifted in a great white cloud off Easdale Tarn.
· The wind!
· The view of Stickle Tarn and Pavey Ark
Now off to dinner at the October adjusted time of 1945hrs.
Brilliant Italian food- then a tin of soup bought from ’open all hours’ shop for the morrow.
Carole phones the weather forecast for tomorrow.
Dry start-thick cloud- hill fog in pm - cloud broken at 2,000 feet.
The real weather, as recorded by two wet walkers at Tarn Hows.
‘Steady rain falling almost vertically from a stationary cloud base.’
Nothing daunted we drove on quiet almost single track roads through amber tinted tree leaf avenues amongst rocks and hills., the roads awash but not so much that raging streams of boiling white water did not steal the glory. The descriptive text (of Carole’s walking guide book) was useful if not slightly misleading in places, or should I say in need of extra guidance, like, ‘ no, not right here but left here, past that sheepdog, to the road and cross it there etc’
The small collie was keen to round us up and give the ankles a nip. (once in Devon I thought I’d just let a collie have a sniff to satiate it’s curiosity, but this was a ruse on the dog’s part and allowed it close enough to get a good grab of my calf – though my clothing held back the teeth I had the sign of canine dentures on my leg for weeks if not months) The deep quarry at Hodge Close was impressive, looking about 200ft. Some walkers reported a potential dead body, but when we looked, out of curiosity and typical helpfulness of the Fire Brigade, it looked like he’d driven there in this large deserted quarry car park to read his book in peace and fell asleep. ( At least that’s what I still hope!) Wonderful waterfalls were in abundance and paths had become streams. The wooded streamside uphill climb to the end of the walk culminated with stepping up out of the wood to the expansive quietness of Tarn Hows and its islands in the mist. The rain fell with greater force as we reached the car park. It raises an interesting predicament on how to take off wet gear including boots and put on dry gear without,
a) soaking the car (with wet gear)
b) soaking the dry gear (with rain)
Some how this was half achieved, soup was taken and another pleasant drive back to dry off our gear on every radiator ‘home’ had. We went for a swim, sauna, Jacuzzi, steam and a Guinness. Evening meal was concocted chez nous this evening. Chicken curry, apple, peanuts, and cucumber in plain yoghurt. Scrummy. Couple of glasses of fine South African wine with a picture of a leopard on it and we chatted away till about 11pm. (Sleeping arrangements were such that Carole had a large comfortable double bed in a separate room, and I had a spring loaded fold up bed in the lounge. This spring loaded bed was like an unpredictable booby trap, no matter how carefully I tried to get in it bits of it at random would collapse or fold, however it was achievable and I didn’t die)
November 2nd and a fine day – if showery, from Ambleside Fire Station (free parking) off up Smithy Brow to ‘Sweden Bridge’ along Scandale valley to Red Screes, then down hill to magnificent views of almost everything you could think of, Sun on the sea and lakes, beams of light through clouds, ravens, tiny people below in the mountain pass, a sheepdog rounding up sheep, etc. On the summit we sat almost precariously on a cliff edge to eat our lunch of home baked lamb meat pies and ham rolls with coffee. A buzzard was seen off by two ravens. Helvellyn and Striding Edge were in view and High Street, Harter Fell and Thornthwaite too. As we headed south from the summit hail fell and wind blown struck our faces making looking forward to the path a mite painful. Some how, whatever happened it wouldn’t matter – this was a feel good journey. After collecting the car from the Fire station an inquisitive police officer asked if we needed help (he must have seen me climbing the hill!). We dropped in to see an old pal, Mike from Graffham who is now manager of a Water Centre on a large lake. A happy reunion occurred with coffees at the hotel then – wait for it – ‘Come and take out a boat’. Even though it was just getting dark the ski boat was tractored to the water and its 310 BHP 5.5 litre gas powered Chevrolet engine fired up. With a few quick details about two speedos, engine blowers and restrictions on speeds between this or that boat house and island – none of which my brain absorbed – we (Carole and I) were allowed out on the oggy to do our worst -- Wow – what a boat, top speed of over 40 mph, as stable as an overturned saucer on a table – turned on a sixpence, it was wonderful! With full screen the Lakeland rain didn’t matter. After several high speed turns etc we took the boat back to mike, (who couldn’t be sure we’d seen the best of the boat so took us both out to show that you could almost turn it on the spot and be going back the same way almost without slowing down . Carole had the good seat, Mike had a seat and a steering wheel and he just told me to hang on to whatever was available and press my knees against the side of the boat – I suppose he didn’t want me getting out before he had completed the demonstration!) The boat was towed off the water and with much gratitude we left for home in the dark, then off to sauna etc as usual then out to Troutbeck and an Elizabethan pub with a 4 poster bed for a bar and really excellent food and ales. Really lovely then back ’home’ and Carole made me a drink whilst I wrote all this. Goodnight.
Off to Patterdale and climb Place Fell. Stopped by a stream that feeds into Ullswater under autumn changing trees for a picnic – very nice- cloud dropping later so that it had to be driven through on Kirkstone Pass. A good walk in reasonable weather with fine views of the lake.
Fish and chips plus a glass or two of Asta sparkling wine at ‘home’ finished the evening.
Another rainy day was predicted so another lower level walk was planned (with other options in the car should it look different on the hills when we were on the road) Loughrigg Fell 335m was the target, passing Rydal water and Rydal caves (40 ft in height) then up the hills overlooking Grasmere. Compass readings were used extensively and successfully for pleasure and self training purposes. Lunch was had a few metres from the trig point in the lee of some rocks. Pork , apple and cranberry pie and one and a half turkey sandwiches and a couple of cups of coffee went down well as rain lashed not only the rocks but back of my waterproofs. Odd, isn’t it, how comfortable you can make yourself in a cold wet place that is miles from safety and civilisation (as we know it). Back to Bowness and have a car tyre puncture repaired at local garage. Bakewell tart from the magic shop (little bakery that made superb small and large pies and cakes) was had with a cup of tea just prior to writing this. What a lovely shop. I must buy some stuff to take home, I’ve taken a few photos but only time will turn the vision into a resin coated reality. Like some music can be like your heartbeat, you don’t want it to stop. “a message may be sent but due to the lack of ability to receive that person believes it could never have been sent” Carole. (we must have been on a philosophical tack that evening).
Friday the 5th November, Helvellyn or bust.
Weather – gales and rain. A steady climb from Wythburn Church walking up rivulets of flood water from the fells. Stepped paths became waterfalls as the small Cypress wood came to an end. The top – was STORMY the three-legged shelter allowed us some respite in which to eat our beloved pies and sandwiches – only this time Carole ate all hers and didn’t share! We returned from the summit to retrace our sodden steps, wind chilled rain stung our eyes (wind chill temp ~ -10 C ) wet gloves now covered fumbling cold hands and soggy boots splashed speedily on the path that went not only homeward but into the teeth of a gale. By the time we reached the lower slopes the Sun shone warmly upon us, for me the outside of my clothes were now drier than the inside. My waterproofs - aren’t. Change of clothes in the burglar visited car park (BMW broken into while owners on a walk)
A drive back ‘home through stream swept roads to music by Enya and the thought of Bakewell tart and tea. Soon be time to go home.
It was a rain swept motorway of the M6 we took back home to the flat land of Cambridgeshire, it was the 5th November and fireworks were seen for most of the journey. I dropped Carole off at her home then on to Huntingdon where I dumped all my wet gear and picked up my Aikido bag ready to travel by plane to Glasgow at 6 am.
