JUST AN IDEA.
Long distance walking, it's not all blood, sweat and tears, surely? Time and creeping middle age eventually diminishes painful memories, don’t they? (refer to previous blog for details). This was my state of mind when, during idle moments, I imagined myself striding forth over moor and mountain, lambs frolicking, skylarks singing, sunshine shining and all well in the world.
In July 2007 Stanley and I arrived in Edale after 274 punishing Pennine Way miles. I had toyed with the idea of retracing our steps over Kinder, Bleaklow, Black Hill and Marsden Moor and finally up the Colne valley to my house, two further days hard yomping. But I'd had enough, why prolong the agony? we were both foot weary, fed up of the continual rain and in need of a break from the daily trudge. Edale was journey's end, so the decision to phone my Mum and Dad for a ride home was not a difficult one.
3 years later and the idea of either arriving or departing from my front door as part of a backpacking expedition had grown so big, it just couldn't be ignored.
One plan was to combine a Pennine Way and Coast to Coast to St. Bees Head sometime in May, before the midges and the intense heat of a blistering summer (!?)
Then Mum and Dad announced that they would soon be heading to Keswick Jazz Festival (14th-16th May) Hmm, a lift home, thought I. Huddersfield to Keswick Jazz Festival, a journey with a purpose, a beginning, an end and between some of England’s finest hill country and one that nobody would have done before (probably)
Dad didn't seem that horrified at the prospect of putting his grubby son, dog and rucksack in his car for a ride home and so an idea became a plan.
PREPARATION.
When April arrived, the weather turned pleasant as the last pockets of Pennine snow finally surrendered to the inevitable. I found myself scanning yonder horizon, dreaming of adventure and the freedom of the long distance footpath. I got maps out, lifted my big rucksack down from on top of the wardrobe (heavy), checked tent pegs (all bent), and smelt my sleeping bag (not pleasant) The point of no return was when I received a postal vote envelope for the forthcoming general election. I wasn’t having myself on, It seemed that I was perfectly serious about going on this walk.
Quick calculations on the back of a bus ticket indicated that, at a fair clip and with a following wind, a walk of approximately 180 miles, following an indirect route along the Pennine Way and Coast to Coast path would take 10ish consecutive days of determined walking. Wanting to arrive in Keswick on Saturday 16th May, my departure date would be Wednesday 5th May, the extra day to allow for foul weather, flagging spirits and depreciation.
A heap of essential luggage started to gather on my bedroom floor, do I really need to take all this stuff? The heap grew and grew. I hadn’t at this point even attempted to cram it all into my rucksack.
Inevitably, as departure day loomed, so the weather deteriorated. Unstable northerly winds set in, temperatures nose-dived and snow was forecast on northern hills. It seemed winter had not finished with us yet.
I had another difficulty, one that I always have prior to going away on holiday. A nagging voice in my head telling me ‘don’t do it’. It had a point, I didn’t need to go, I could happily stay at home surrounded by familiar comforts. I could so easily save myself from all the fears and anxieties that gave me a headache. There was going to be pain, frustration, blood, sweat and tears. But maybe there would be a little joy too and with this in mind I continued my slow, almost reluctant preparations.
DAY 1 WEDNESDAY 05.05.10
Right, we’re off. Weather cold and showery. The previous day I’d finally put the heap into the bag, some of which (sleeping bag, socks, batteries, books and maps) was safely stowed inside green Kirklees recycling bags to keep dry. Crammed to bursting point, the rucksack’s 80ltr capacity seemed about half the size I required. Lifting the darned thing off the ground threatened to slip discs.
Stanley tried his little doggy bags on too, containing his food, towel and toothbrush. He looked a little confused, or did he just look plain depressed, but hey, he’s not the only one. I explained to him that if he wanted to accompany me on this walkies, he’d have to share the burden. Fair enough innit? Finally, after a long lingering breakfast with umpteen cups of tea , boots were pulled on, discs were slipped, the air was sniffed, loins were girded and we....um...went back indoors, ’Put kettle on, Babs, we’ll set off tomorrow instead.’. Babs sighed and put the kettle on.
DAY 1 (AGAIN) THURSDAY 06.05.10
Tomorrow came and the Great British public went to vote in the general election (well about half of them did) and so began the tortuous preparations again. We actually only had to get up and set off, but again lingered for hours over a long breakfast, reading newspapers and popping up to the gents. I couldn’t just keep putting it off till tomorrow, I had to take the plunge and tear myself away from my world of comfort, and besides, Babs had bought me a new soap dish as a leaving present. Oh, do stop hanging about and GO! A kiss, a hug and a shove from Babs and we were off. The first miles were a struggle, along familiar lanes, past familiar waving neighbours as I pulled against an invisible elastic band which threatened to twang us back home at any moment and put an end to this whole silly nonsense.
Steeply down to the Huddersfield Narrow Canal then a straightforward march to Marsden, Tunnel End and onto Marsden Moor. 3 hours later we’d arrived at the Pennine Way near the A640 and celebrated this first mile stone by eating a banana. The litter strewn verges of this road (and all roads) confirm that our land is blighted by those who toss litter from their vehicles. A light rain and a cold, enthusiastic head wind had set in which accompanied us for the duration of the walk. I should have felt at home amongst the familiar terrain of Marsden Moor, as I’d been following one of my regular running routes from Tunnel End, but today it seemed a grim cheerless place as we headed north under leaden skies. As I got into my stride the urge to turn back slowly diminished, we finally seemed to be on our way. My mind tried to ignore the ominous aches and pains that I felt as shoulders, hips, knees, feet and toes began to protest about the sudden and unexpected assault.
At tea time and after 17 miles of trudge, the last few miles of which were along dreary Yorkshire Water Authority access tracks, we found a semi-sheltered grassy spot to pitch the tent besides the choppy White Holme Reservoir. My tent, which never seemed to go up properly, was soon up (not properly) tapered end into the wind. I put the kettle on after scooping brown water from a nearby concrete conduit. It would have been nice to sit outside enjoying some nice spring sunshine, but the weather remained stubbornly grey and cold . The evening was spent huddled in the tent buffeted by strong winds and trying to prevent damp Stan from taking up residence on top of my sleeping bag. Oi, get off! On went the down jacket, hat, gloves and thermal underpants. Ace camping innit? Noodles, cheese, tuna and lots of coffee for tea. As night fell, I crawled into my sleeping bag and listened to the first election results. Bye bye Gordon Brown.
DAY 2. THURSDAY 07.05.10
Oh dear, first night under canvas was not a pleasant one. Buffeting winds, flapping tent and general pillow-less discomfort meant broken sleep. I kept waking up and putting Election Special on as more results confirmed we were finally rid of Nu Labour. I was jealous of Stan who has turned relaxing into an art form as he sprawled in a luxuriant manner across the bottom of the tent. Huddled in the tent for breakfast, I assessed various aches and pains. Shoulders, hips, ankles and feet all hurt. Remarkably both knees were working perfectly, and it wasn’t raining, and it was far too cold for midges, so everything was rosy as I quickly broke camp before the arctic winds chilled me to the bone. My plan today was to get up to Top Withins, the ruined farmhouse of Bronte Wuthering Heights fame and a good place to camp, 17 miles further up the Pennine Way. We were off by 9.30 and again into the teeth of a relentless, malicious headwind. Urgh, the grind, the pain, the slow accumulation of mileage. The sore patches spotted earlier around some of my toes felt as if they’d turned into full blown blisters. This was rubbish.
After passing Stoodly Pike monument, a remarkable tower built from giant gritstone blocks, the Pennine Way takes an exhausting up down up down up down route. Several hours of struggle were memorable only for total discomfort and brief moments of warmth from the sun. Stiles were deliberately narrow and awkward, each requiring me to detach Stanley from his bags and hoist him over. We eventually arrived at Wuthering Heights but my intended campsite was so exposed to the evil wind, we just carried on to Ponden, even Heathcliffe had gone home for an early bath. After knocking on several doors we eventually got directed to the little £5 per night camping ground besides Pondon Clough and a handsome bridge. The evening was made notable by the arrival of a bunch of Duke Of Edinburgh youths, who had been dropped off on the moor 3 miles away. Their survival adventure involved navigating themselves to the campsite, where their teachers had put tents up and prepared the evening meal. Blimey, talk about pampered kids. When I was a 16 year old lad we were doing Eskimo rolls down raging torrents, unsupported 3 day back-packing expeditions in North Wales, living in a shoe box in middle of o’road and eating a scabby horse for tea. Youngsters o’ today, thi don’t know thi born. It’s a shame health and safety, risk assessment and the dreadful compensation culture has largely destroyed the notion of true adventure on outward bound school trips.
I was a little concerned that my evening would be disturbed by over-excited children, but they were a well behaved bunch, clearly exhausted after their 3 mile route march. After tea, two giggling lasses came over to offer Stanley their left over Irish stew. Lucky lad, I wouldn’t have minded it myself. Before turning in I made use of the campsite shower. Ooh, it were luverly, for a few brief minutes to have some hot water cascade down semi-frozen body parts.
DAY 3. SATURDAY 08.05.10
Seemed to sleep better, probably on account of being out of the buffeting winds. The lack of a luxury soft pillow was always going to be a problem, but the grizzled long distance walker must dismiss such flipperies.
First job of the day was to examine my feet and put plasters over erupting blisters. My old boots, veterans of many past hillwalking adventures had always provided good, blister-free service, but maybe they were getting a bit threadbare. Public information bit: I made the error of buying some new boots on ebay as part of my preparations for this trip, they turned out to be too narrow, and totally unsuitable. Fortunately I managed to sell them on to the next unsuspecting bargain hunter. I like a good ebay, but for footwear, you really need to go to a proper shoeshop. Deciding that my old boots would do, I slapped on some dubbin, threaded news laces and they looked half decent. A quick breakfast then I was packed up and away by 9. I would have waved goodbye to the youths, but the poor loves were having a lie-in, so we tiptoed quietly away.
Today’s journey would take us to Gargrave about 17 miles up the Pennine Way, I was hoping to meet up with big sister and her family, but sadly they couldn’t make it. Pity, as my nephew could have shown me how strong he was by trying the rucksack on for size. The Pennine Way along this stretch weaves it’s way aimlessly across no man’s land as it spans the gap between the gritty hills of industrial Yorkshire and the limestone country of the Dales. Often plunging through pathless fields, over silly styles and detouring over dreary hillocks, simply because it thinks it should. The exhausting nature of this stretch was not helped by the ever present cold wind, which I cursed with vigour (when nobody was listening, of course) Gargrave was a long time coming, but when I finally approached it along the Leeds Liverpool Canal I gave thanks for the end of an exhausting day . Physically and mentally I was done in, the sun had, again failed to put in an appearance, everything hurt. I headed down the high street to Gargrave’s municipal caravan site and soon had the tent up on a tiny patch of grass where poor campers are shoehorned in, right next to a busy road. Here I met a bearded, weatherworn chap, Andy Watts and his dog, Fern, who were doing the Land’s End to John O, Croats road walk. Respect.
After getting myself settled in I bought a new gas bottle from Mr Campsite Man and did a Ministry Of Silly Walks walk back into town to stock up on provisions. Cheese, tuna, dog food, loads of fruit, chocolate, cod liver oil tablets and aspirin. Then, joy of joys, the sun came out, sheltering from of the wind, it was a moment of warmth to savour
After tea I had a shower then lay in my tent listening to a woman in a neighbouring tent with the most excruciating laugh in the world, goodness only knows what she found so funny for hours on end, I just wish she’d put a sock in it, along with everybody else in North Yorkshire. I put my headphones on to learn that Leeds United, and not us (Huddersfield Town) had been promoted to Division 2. Grumpily, I tried to get some sleep.
DAY 4. SUNDAY 09.05.10
Apart from the laughing mad woman and the occasional explosion of noise from a speeding car vrooming past 5 feet from my head, I slept pretty well and was woken at dawn as warm sunshine hit the side of the tent. Hey, this is more like it. I was quickly up to drape damp things over walls and fences. I went over to chat to Andy Watts, he was a month into his two month expedition, travelling by road, pulling a wheeled buggy. His little dog Fern would trot alongside and sometimes have a ride inside a shoulder sling. At least I was walking in the countryside, Andy and Fern were pacing 900 miles of tarmac, and having to share it with a zillion motor vehicles.
The early sunshine quickly excused itself to be replaced by leaden skies and the ever present cold wind. Oh, go away! Today’s destination was a dramatic campsite just on the other side of Pen-y-ghent, besides Hull Pot, where I’d camped in 2007, some 22 miles away. A lot of pathless sheep fields north of Gargrave complete with unfriendly stiles was not a promising start, but my spirits soon lifted as we joined the delightful path besides the infant River Aire. Many jolly Sunday ramblers were met hereabouts, most of them wanting to know where we were heading and remarking on Stan’s doggy bags. After my stock reply of ’’Oh, just popping up to Keswick Jazz Festival’’, one chap revealed that he was lead saxophone player for the Glen Miller band. Good gracious! The scenery continued to improve as we marched quickly on through Malham, full with shuffling tourists and their cars, even the sun came out (briefly) then up into limestone country behind the cove. I’d have to watch out, I was almost enjoying myself. Stopped for lunch at Malham Tarn and watched some hydrology students from Lancaster University drilling holes, pouring water in, then observing it drain out. An exciting water absorption project, but they all looked bored and half frozen. I suddenly felt as if I had finally settled into this walk, we had arrived at the Yorkshire Dales. Things still hurt and the biting wind seemed permanent, but it wasn’t raining, Gordon Brown was no longer our prime minister and I was about to spoon in the ultimate hill walker’s calorific snack, a tin of custard. Heaven.
All this enthusiasm was short lived as the afternoon involved exhausting trudges over Fountains Fell and Pen-y-ghent, the latter I did off-route, a direct 45` ascent on a little used path to avoid an inexplicable detour in the official route. As I sat on the summit to get my breath back, the skies blackened and the wind speed wound itself up a couple more notches. With hats, gloves, spare jumpers and everything on, we made the short descent to the dramatic open chasm of Hull Pot. After heavy rainfall water cascades 75’ into the gaping hole, but today it was dry so we had to walk up the valley to find where the stream disappeared into it’s bed. This was where we’d camp. Just as I started preparing tea a heavy cold rain began to fall. Oh dear. This gloomy wetness mirrored my mood. The last few miles of today’s walk had dug deep into reserves. Our hunger was quenched after a magnificent gloopy tea of many things, all chucked in together and stirred into a lumpy paste. Sometimes, the joy of eating is beyond words. Later, Stan went for a paddle then went and stood on my sleeping bag. Oi, get off, yer lunatic! Bad boy.
I retired to my wet sleeping bag as the rain turned to sleet.
DAY 5. 10.05.10
It was February as I unzipped the tent to survey the wintry scene outside. The flank of Pen-y-ghent was covered in fresh snow, it’s summit hidden by low cloud. Inside the tent resembled a chaotic slum with piles of mildewed belongings and a scruffy dog. I started the long process of packing it all up again as big fat, wet snowflakes blew horizontally into my eyes. This is rubbish. An hour later I was sitting in the 3 Peaks Café in Horton, with a mug of tea and a bacon and egg sandwich. I had to make a decision today, I could pick up the Dales Way to get to the Lake District via Dent, Sedburgh and Windermere, the more direct route, or continue up the Pennine Way to Swaledale before turning left. Hmmm, either dales with fields, stiles, sheep, cows and mud, or hills with views, skylarks and a fish supper in Hawes. Pennine Way it is then, and besides, the Dales Way map cost £13.75. Before leaving I signed the book, and looked up the entry I made in May 2007 on our way south. It simply said, ’’rain’’.
Cold, unpleasant weather accompanied us for all the 15 Miles into Wensleydale via the easy going, yet desolate West Cam Roman Road. Where the Pennine Way and the Dales Way share the same path we met 4 walkers taking the easier and more sensible route to Cumberland. Several miles to the west sat the unmistakable sight of Ribblehead viaduct, surely one of the man made wonders of the world. Hats, gloves, and all manner of clothing was called for as fine snow grains pelted us full in the face, driven on by a vicious head wind. Refreshing stuff. The last few miles into Hawes were challenging as numerous monster stiles with sprung gates on top had to be surmounted, clearly designed to keep out man and beast alike, especially those carrying large rucksacks.
In Hawes I tethered Stan and dumped the rucksack on a bench in the churchyard and limped off to the grocery store where much food was purchased. There was a long queue at t'chip shop, so the fish supper idea was abandoned.
Rather than staying in Hawes we crossed the Ure to Hardraw to an empty little campsite behind the Green Dragon pub. Bizarrely, the camp facilities were an en-suite bathroom in a substantial derelict hotel, still fully furnished and decorated in a 1970’s kind of way, complete with the tea and coffee making apparatus, aged television sets and damp bedding. All rather spooky. I kept thinking of Alfred Hitchcock, especially as I showered behind a blood splattered curtain (it wasn’t really blood splattered) I helped myself to free electricity to charge my phone and ipod. As I exited the building by way of a long, dusty corridor there was this child on a tricycle…, you know, as in ‘The Shining‘, oh never mind.
Before bedtime we took the short, freezing cold walk up the narrow gorge to marvel at Hardraw Force, England’s highest waterfall, I kid you not. It falls gracefully in a single leap of 96 feet. It’s circular plunge pool and the almost symmetrical overhang of limestone with a rising moon behind made for a perfect setting. As I got all poetic and emotional, Stanley chased a rabbit.
DAY SIX. TUESDAY 11.05.10
The trouble with camping on cold, calm nights is condensation, I awoke to dripping drips. I also awoke to the half hearted cooing of a bored pigeon, on and on and on and on it went. It was soon joined by an cockerel cock a doodle doing his head off, it was a noisy start to the day. The early sunshine was most welcome, and I soon had everything draped over a fence to steam. I wasn’t surprised to discover that my water bottles had frozen solid overnight. I went into Bates Motel to fill the kettle with hot water from the psycho shower. We were off by 9.30 to tackle the mighty Great Shunner Fell. On the never ending ascent we met 5 north bound Pennine Wayers, the first we’d encountered on this trip. Being pampered bed and breakfast types, they gasped at our blistering pace and general manliness as we effortlessly breezed by. On reaching the summit trig point, we were treated to a stunning display of storm clouds and a fabulous 360` panoramic views complete with shafts of brilliant sunshine and white curtains of snow which seemed to evaporate before reaching the ground. Spectacular stuff. On our descent into Swaledale we turned southeast for a couple of miles, it was good to briefly have the wind at our backs for a change.
Keld was a significant point on our journey, the Pennine Way carries on north into the wilds of Northumberland, but here we turned left along the Coast to Coast path. With 104 miles completed we found a bench to have a right nice sit down, dig out a new map and to contemplate. Despite the ever-present aches and pains, they weren’t getting any worse, and there were fewer new ones to deal with each day. The weather was bitterly cold, but it had been largely dry, the ground was firm, Stanley was thriving and I hadn’t seen a midge. Yes, things were going ok, so on we went. A mile later I discovered that I’d left me water bottle on the bench, so back we went to retrieve it. Dozy lad. The Coast to Coast is rather different to the Pennine Way, suddenly there was a shortage of reassuring finger posts to keep you on-route. Navigation required more care, but my aged O.S map (Landranger 91 Appleby-in-Westmorland) was printed before Mr Wainwright had conceived his journey. The GPS could accurately pinpoint my position but it was often in the middle of nowhere on the map. Some guessing was required as we climbed the extensive, featureless southern slopes of Nine Standards Rig, the path often vanishing into deep, peaty drainage channels. It was well past tea time when we finally gained the summit and a view of the 9 huge cairns that provide this hill with it’s name (and a bit of interest)
Tired, hungry and after setting off in the wrong direction, we finally found a level, sheltered spot besides Faraday Gill on Hartley Fell, with a view of Kirby Stephen and the Lakeland hills on the western horizon. It would have been a good place to sit and stare but I put the kettle on instead. I needed a right nice cup of tea, and to get out of the perishing wind. At dusk the wind suddenly stopped blowing, the haunting drumming of the snipe was the only noise heard on that chill night. David Cameron is the new Prime Minister after forming a coalition government with Nick Clegg‘s lot.
DAY 7. WEDNESDAY 12.07.10
Crickey O’Riley! that was a cold night (-5C recorded at nearby Kirby Stephen) I kept warm by putting everything on, including Stanley. Unfortunately my down jacket had been leaking feathers everywhere, so the usual morning squalor had an added effect of slaughtered ducks. I could have done with a lump hammer to break the ice in the water bottles and burnt a lot of gas to tease sufficient water out for my first mug of tea.
However, we soon thawed as warm sunshine hit the side of the tent. And two mugs of sweet coffee later we were packed up and off by 8.30. Before reaching Kirby Stephen we passed a couple dozen eastbound Coaster to Coasters. It was plain that the Coast to Coast walk is far more popular then the Pennine Way. Each morning a pulse of walkers set off from their overnight accommodation along the route at roughly the same time. We encountered the day’s Swaledale bound batch as we entered Kirby Stephen. 24 ‘good morning’s were traded along with other long distance walking chit chat. After everybody’s gone we’d rarely meet another sole. Poor Kirby Stephen is essentially split in half by the insanely busy A685, so after a quick trip to the grocery shop we went off to find a quite place for a breakfast of Marmite, cheese and tomato sandwiches and some bananas. Yummy.
Hoping to get somewhere near Shap, we set forth in good spirits and in bright sunshine. At one point I briefly thought about the unused shorts and sunhat I‘d brought. It was a rash, reckless thought that was immediately dismissed. The icy wind soon resumed it’s blowing. Many miles to the north, the massive bulk of snow capped Cross Fell was prominent.
Crossing the lovely Smardale Bridge we soon got a bit lost.
Today’s rather embarrassing problem was route finding along a supposedly well trod path. I knew where I wanted to go, but didn’t know how to get there. My ancient map wasn’t much help, AW’s guide book wasn’t either as his original route had obviously been re-routed over the years. Even my GPS had limitations as it told me (very precisely) where I was rather than where I was meant to be. With the Lakeland hills now prominent to the NW I simply blazed a trail over Great Ashby Scar involving some wall and fence climbing. Not at all recommended. For several miles that day I hadn’t got a clue where the path had gone. The other problem was finding water, Limestone country is not well known for it’s running water, and since the weather had been obligingly dry for several months, finding a suitable campsite on the northern slopes of Crosby Ravensworth Fell was proving difficult. The numerous little valleys were either bone dry or just had ominous stagnant puddles, not really suitable for a cup of tea. We could have batted on to Shap some 5 miles away but we were ready to stop after a 22 mile yomp . Eventually we found the merest of trickles and a nice clear pool of water under a knarled juniper bush, so in the shelter of a granite erratic boulder we pitched up nearby. As the sun went down, so wind dropped, the skies cleared and the temperatures plummeted. Brrr! But what the heck, I was eternally grateful for a complete absence of midges. Tea was an arrangement of tuna, noodles, lemon and cheese. Fantastic stuff.. We could hear the distant roar of the M6. Even in the middle of nowhere, you often aren’t. On scratchy medium wave Fulham were playing Madrid in something called the Europa Cup.
The eerie call of the snipe lulled me to sleep.
DAY 8. THURSAY 13.05.10
My GPS said we’d come 140 miles, our campsite was 1030 feet up and our maximum moving speed was an improbable 10.1 mph . As I marvelled at these statistics, condensation dripped from the ceiling. It was another bitterly cold morning. Grazing nearby were sheep, not the of the usual neurotic skittish type of sheep, oh no, these sheep were handsome bull-nosed brutes the size of a small house, and quite capable of snacking on Stanley. We were camped on their turf, and drinking their water. After a quick melt water brew, we were packed up and off in record time. The sheep moved quickly to reclaim their territory.
There were no more navigational difficulties that bright morning and before long we began meeting the first of the day’s Shap to Kirby Stephen Coast to Coast walkers. One man bravely had his shorts on, another was carrying a tent and accompanied by his dog. A bit later a chap introduced himself as Gatebuilder, a fellow contributor to the excellent on-line Walking Forum. He asked if I was Uncle Grumpy (my user name) after I explained I was on my way to Keswick. It’s a small world. We then crossed the M6 which was a blur of hurtling metal and noise. Stanley didn’t really like the bridge, he was a little un-nerved by the gaps in the floorboards. Neither did I, but we both bravely made it to the other side.
In Shap we headed directly to the shop to buy calories. A kindly gentleman, who took a shine to Stanley, bought him some delicious chewy treats. (no, I didn’t eat them, honest)
The eastern fells of the Lakes were almost within reach. We headed across beautiful countryside towards the dam head of Haweswater in glorious sunshine, I put some suntan cream on me snozza. Even the dozens of awkward stiles, that tried to block our progress failed to dampen our spirits. Falling over one of these stiles we must have entered the Lake District National Park. Hurrah. The walk along the northern shore of Haweswater presented no route finding issues, even for me (keep water on left, stupid) with an increasingly mountainous vista. The infamous Haweswater tide mark was very evident, much of it’s water is destined to be flushed down toilets and squirted out of hosepipes to wash cars in Greater Manchester. The lack or rainfall meant more was being piped away than could be replenished.
Before climbing the steep slopes of Kidsey Pike we sat a while to ponder, I wolfed down a Mars Bar and Stan chewed on a delicious chewy treat. I now had to pick a high level route across the Lake District to Keswick, about 30 miles away. We were both in decent fettle, my feet, shoulders, back, ankles and everything still groaned and creaked, but there seemed little doubt that we would arrive in Keswick in a couple of days time. My old boots, despite stitching unravelling, worn out soles and a split I could waggle a finger through, were holding together well. I thanked the dry, firm ground for this.
Having decided to stay on the Coast to Coast route to Patterdale, we clambered upwards. With the fantastic Lakeland fells laid out before us, we sat briefly on the summit to catch our breath. A great place to be, although blue sky was fast disappearing under a veil of high cloud and the icy wind was blowing a hooley. With hats and gloves on we descended quickly NW over The Knot to find Angle Tarn, a good place to put the tent up (no, not in the actual tarn). Ideally it would have been nice to sit out on a lovely warm evening and go for a refreshing underpants swim before tea. Instead, I battled to get the tent up in buffeting winds, the evening was spent huddled in my misshaped tent with hats, gloves and a down jacket which was loosing it’s feathers fast. I attempted a repair with sticking plasters but a number of feathers inevitably went in, and were eaten with tea. Yum yum.
DAY 8. FRIDAY 14.05.10
I could hear the wind howling outside which was whipping spray from the surface of Angle Tarn. We’d camped in the lee of a small bluff which had saved us from the full fury of the wind. I unzipped the tent for a look. Oh heck! heavy low cloud and lashing horizontal rain. I retreated back to bed for a lie-in. Stan was spark out at the bottom of the tent under a thin layer of feathers, in fact every time anything moved, a cloud of them were mysteriously being extruded through the small hole in my jacket, which proved impossible to repair with sticking plasters. While we’re on the subject, other equipment failures included the tent bag which had fallen apart days ago, the valve of my self inflating air bed, which annoyingly was also self deflating in the night, and I was not entirely convinced by the data from the GPS, it said that we’d walked 22 miles yesterday, Mr Wainwright’s estimate was 19. Call me old fashioned, but I was tempted to believe Alfred, rather than a super dooper modern space age state-of-the-art handy hand held device thingy.
We couldn’t lie around all day, so after a brew and putting on waterproof trousers for the first time, the tent was soon down and everything (including gallons of water) was scrunched up and crammed into the rucksack. Blimey, extra weight, how depressing! Down through the wet mist we staggered into Patterdale. I felt sorry for the Shap bound walkers who would feel the full fury of the foul weather as they struggled over the top to Haweswater. Mercifully, it stopped raining in time for our arrival in Patterdale, and so farewell to the Coast to Coast, which heads up Grisedale en-route to Grasmere and the Irish Sea. We could have been more adventurous at this point to tackle Helvellyn , but the rough night and wet morning persuaded me to head first to Glenridding for breakfast then up to Sticks Pass. This involved an uncomfortable trudge up the side of the insanely busy A592, and straight to the calorie shop to buy food for the evening‘s tea. Then after an hour in a café where many buns, scones and coffee were consumed, we made the long climb up past the old mines to Sticks Pass. The weather continued to improve but the mist stubbornly refused to lift. We turned north for a misty roller coaster fell walk over White Side, Raise, Stybarrow Dodd, Watsons Dodd and Great Dodd (at 2822 feet, the highpoint of the trip) just a pity we were cheated of a view. I got chatting to a walking group who told us that we could follow the ‘greenway’ (the old railway line) into Keswick from Threlkeld. Hmm, thought I, this would be our route into town tomorrow. Eventually, while descending the steep screes of Clough Head we emerged from the mist and headed for a small tarn to look for a campsite. Away to the west was Keswick. Blimey.
For the 9th day running it took a while to find shelter from the cold wind, the little tarn was little more than a muddy pond and it rained a bit as I wrestled with the tent, but overall it was a fitting place for our last wild camp. Before bedtime I sat with my mug of tea in my down jacket (minus most of it’s feathers) and soaked up the magnificent views towards Derwent Water and the fells beyond.
DAY 9 SATURDAY 15.05.10
It was a cold night on Clough Head but I slept soundly. Breakfast wasn’t ideal comprising muddy water coffee and Kendal Mint Cake. Before setting off I phoned Mum and we arranged to meet that afternoon at 5.30 in The George, where they were staying. There was a distinct feeling of almost journey’s end as the tent came down for the penultimate time. The steep drop down towards Threlkeld got a bit frustrating when we got ourselves on the wrong side of locked quarry gates and had to make a lengthy detour to join an overgrown path called ‘The Old Coach Road‘. After walking around in circles for a bit and crashing through thickets of brambles we eventually found ourselves on the former railway line and the most leisurely 5 miles of walking since leaving home. The ’greenway’ twists and turns, crosses and re-crosses the River Greta in a most appealing way, but I couldn’t help thinking it would have been better being used for it’s original purpose, as a railway line, and a highly effective way of transporting people and goods to and from Keswick. Keswick, like everywhere else these days, is choked by cars. The modern trend to turn old trackbeds into ’greenways’ smacks, to me, of narrow minded tosh and an opportunity wasted. We have enough green rights of way in this country, they’re called ’footpaths’ many of which are being lost through neglect and lack of use. Sorry, rant over.
The sun came out so we sat besides the river. I ate my last Mars Bar and Stanley chewed a delicious chewy treat. And so into Keswick, we’d done it. It would have been good to march triumphantly up the High Street to the clock tower for a podium finish with the mayor, some girls and a civic reception, but the place was chock a block with the usual weekend throng, a market, and all sorts crazy wild eyed jazz types . Something of a shock to the system. Feeling a little out of place in this strange environment we carefully made our way to the lakeside camp site. The lady in the office tried to charge me for a car, and took some convincing that I’d actually arrived on foot. I was still charged a handsome fee of £7.50 for the pleasure of putting up my little tent for the night. Then up to Booths supermarket to buy tomatoes, cheese, ham slices, bread, oatcakes, milk and dog food. Finally free of the rucksack, walking up to the shop was rather like floating on air like a human balloon. An afternoon of utter laziness followed as we snoozed in the glorious sunshine.
Some GPS statistics: Total mileage: 184 miles. Maximum speed 10.1 mph (nonsense) Moving time 63 hours 33 minutes. Moving average 3 mph. Maximum elevation 2822 feet. Total ascent 29,685 feet (Everest and a bit)
THE END AND HOME
At 5.30 we met Mum and Dad at The George. ’Hello son!’, ’hello Mother and Father!’ other customary greetings were exchanged then I went upstairs to use their facilities and changed into a nice shirt and trousers. Suddenly I felt less of a pongy old yomper. We had a delicious meal then they went off to an evening gig. I was happy to stroll leisurely around town. It was warm and almost Mediterranean-like, especially looking out over a perfectly calm Derwent Water. Where’s the wind gone? It had been our constant companion since leaving home. But for the distant sound of jazz, the world had become strangely silent.
Back at the tent I discovered that something had eaten my oatcakes, but left the bread and cheese. How very odd. I found the empty wrapper under a nearby tree. The identity of the oatcake thief will forever be a mystery. Before crawling into the tent for a final time, we had a little poke around in the wood behind the toilets and found the tide mark left by the floods of November 2009. I reckoned the tent would have been under about 6 feet of water.
My Mum and Dad were on a 3 day jazz marathon, involving multiple venues, gigs and considerable stamina. Sadly, my Mum’s brother Uncle Keith from France was unable to join them on the trip after travel chaos caused by the Icelandic eruption of Eyjafjaljokull (or something) The George had managed to let his pre booked room for two nights, but on the Sunday night it was vacant but paid for. Needless to say I jumped at the chance of a proper bed.
The following morning I packing up the tent and heaved my rucksack on for the last time before walking up through Keswick to The George where Mum and Dad were having breakfast. We stared through the window and dribbled.
Sunday should have been a rest day before heading back to Huddersfield. You know, a bit of jazz, an ice cream, a perusal of the many outdoor clothing shops, but the fells looked so inviting that I just had to go for a walk. I borrowed Mum’s little knapsack and we caught the Whinlatter Hopper to Braithwaite (£1.50) In fine but misty conditions we strolled effortlessly over Crag Hill, Grasmoor and Grisedale Pike. On the summit of Grasmoor the GPS said 2802’, the old OS map said 2791’. Either the fells were getting higher, or the satellite tracking technology is flawed. But maybe standing on the trig point with it held above my head accounted for the 11 foot anomaly. Coming back via Force Crag we explored the old levels and shaft heads above the old barytes mine.
Back at The George that evening I wallowed in luxury. With a cow pie tea, proper bed with 2 pillows, a full English breakfast, a new jumper, and a ride home in Dad’s motorcar, this marked the end of a memorable holiday.
AND FINALLY (DON’T WORRY, YOU’RE ALMOST THERE)
The weather is key to any long distance walk and we were actually blessed with remarkable weather. Stanley thrived in the cold windy conditions. Had the weather been wet, it would have far more punishing, both mentally and physically. We’d probably have had to seek out some dog friendly B&B’s to escape the rain or just abandon the whole stupid thing. Had the weather been hot and sunny, we’d have had a whole new set of problems, although it would have been nice to swim in Angle Tarn, and ‘sit out’ of an evening.
Wainwright famously said that ‘the Lake district was a foretaste of heaven’. The Pennines are grand, but we walked through them to a far better place.
You can call me a tight fisted old Yorkshire git, but this was a real credit crunching holiday. Food was by far the biggest expense (about £50) and eating it was brilliant. I avoided alcohol and take-aways. 4 nights Camping fees totalled £22.50. The wild camping, of course, was free. I left no trace of my passing.
It was all made possible with the support and encouragement of my dear wonderful parents and my girlfriend Babs. Oh, and of course my loyal, faithful and mostly well behaved hound, Stanley.
IF YOU SCROLL DOWN, THERE SHOULD BE SOME PHOTOGRAPHS.
SETTING OFF
