...at the Lake District

Adventures of the Anonymous Two in the Lake District

We packed erratically, late on Wednesday evening. We weren’t actually going until Friday, but had a wedding to attend the following day, which involved an overnight stay. The packing therefore needed to cover the wedding and another day at work as well as a long weekend in the Lake District.

We should have noticed the foreboding of things to come when Boyfriend left his wallet behind on Thursday morning. He would be able to return on Friday to collect it, but it did cause a small complication at the very nice hotel we were staying at that night – where the wedding was being held.

 

On Friday evening Boyfriend picked me up from work and we started the long drive north. Fairly quickly I realised that he had taken out of the car the bag that contained all my toiletries as well the towel I had deliberately left there as it occurred to me that the bunk house we were staying in probably wouldn’t provide towels. 

We placed bets on time of arrival – I opted for 11.37 while Boyfriend went for 10.55. Having navigated Boyfriend to a point from where he couldn’t go wrong, I fell asleep.

On the way up, we stopped at a service station so as to use the conveniences and buy some shampoo and moisturiser. We had eaten sandwiches in the car on the way up, but as there was a Burger King there it seemed rude not to stop and have a burger. Which we did.  

Coming off the M6 towards Windermere we drove up the Kirkstone Pass to Brothers Water. It was completely dark, but even in the darkness you could sense the hills and drops around. Boyfriend wanted to drive along the road foolishly fast to make his estimated arrival time. In the event we arrived at 11.25. Boyfriend claimed I had deliberately taken a long time at Burger King to ensure that my arrival time guess was closest. More importantly than that, we had missed last orders at the on site pub.

We went to our room – a tiny room with bunk beds, a folding table (that collapsed if you so much as breathed near the legs), a small en-suite room containing a lavatory and basin and a very strong smell of dog. 

The bunk beds seemed quite wide so we decided to try and sleep together. We had brought sleeping bags, which we undid and opened up, lying under that and a couple of blankets. We managed to spend all night in the same bed, but it was not successful. 

Having arrived in the dark, it was a total surprise to wake up the following morning and realise we were completely encircled by hills. Big ones. 

We wandered up to the pub for breakfast, taking our flasks with us. Naturally we had forgotten tea bags, so we took the ones out of our morning pot of tea. Boyfriend had the excellent idea of having the flasked tea Chinese style – in other words, taking the bag out sooner rather than later and leaving it black. 

It was a nice day, so we decided to walk up Hellvelyn – which requires a nice day so as not to be foolishly dangerous. This was a route that had not been downloaded onto the GPS, which I had also completely forgotten how to use. After a few minutes of being navigationally challenged, we got on track.  

 

According the walking book we had with us, the route would ‘gain height quickly’. They weren’t wrong. There was a steep final haul, with a choice of rough steps or loose stones, up to Hole in Wall. I had thought it very convenient to put a cashpoint up there, but apparently it was just what it said it was. A wall, with a hole in. We paused for some water, jelly babies and to admire the view before continuing along the path, which wound gently upwards to Striding Edge. Where it got this name from I can’t imagine as you are hard pushed to walk along it, let alone stride. There was no defined path, just a narrow ridge of craggy rocks that we clambered over and up and down in whatever direction suited, provided there was an overall feeling of forward movement. And the narrowness of the ridge did of course limit the direction options. In some places we would feel our way around the edge of the rocks, with the steep sides of the hill falling away next to our feet. It should not be attempted by the faint hearted – or in foggy weather.  

 

We were following two foreign chaps. One was wearing a flimsy pair of trainers and stank of alcohol. Sensible combination. I only noticed his trainers when I followed him climbing down through a narrow gap in the rocks. It was a significant piece of down, probably in the region of 20ft, and with the sheer sided drop only a few feet away from where you came out at the bottom (thereby making jumping it slightly foolish). The reason I saw the trainers was that he seemed to have particular difficulty in climbing down these rocks. Admittedly they were smooth sided with only a few places for foot and hand holds – and these were generally just below where you could reach your foot to. The trainers were providing him no grip or solid base, in the way that our walking boots were. Hence his difficulties. 

 

At the end of Striding Edge was a large outcrop of particularly impassable rocks. Our book helpfully said ‘negotiate these’. We did this by going round to the side, and then climbed a narrow, scree filled ravine back up to the top of the ridge. When I say ‘climbed’ it was perhaps a scramble. Hands and feet clutching and clawing at anything that stayed still, dragging ourselves up the steep sides of the ridge. 

 

We happened upon what resembled a path, and paused again for a rest – being somewhere both flat and where others could pass us. 

 

We were now faced with a rather cheeky, steep rock scramble. We hurried on. It was a burning hot day. We had expected cold and wet and were most pleased to be carrying waterproofs, hats, gloves and jumpers all the way up with us. 

Gradually the steepness of the slope lessened so we could move from ‘hand and knees’ clambering onto a leaning stagger and gradually into something resembling walking as the flat top of Hellvelyn came into view. I was pleased to have this – I like to feel that you have earned a summit.
 

There is a large cairn in an X shape on the top, where you can sit out of the wind for lunch - whatever direction the wind is blowing. Which we duly did. Washed down with a few cups of tea. Which was delicious. 

As we sat there an RAF helicopter flew past on his rounds, rising up from the valley below, very low, almost level with us. One of the crew stood by the open door and waved to us as they went by. 

It was hazy but there were still beautiful views from the top, and we could see for miles. We sat there with the map, picking out summits and other landmarks. 

 

Our onward route was meant to be by Swirral Edge. However, we decided that that we were feeling young and energetic, so we expanded the return loop to go back through Glenridding Common which continued our incredible ridge walk. I kept looking back at Striding Edge, and the summit of Hellvelyn as we dropped altitude, hardly able to believe we had been up there. 

The return path took us gently back down, alongside a peaceful stream, Glenridding Beck, that ran down off the hills. Clearly this was sometimes a considerable stream given that 2 dams had been built along its path. 

It had obviously been wet prior to our visit and the path that snaked round to Glenridding was damp with puddles. Some of these bulged full with large tadpoles, which were grouped together in the deepest part. But some hadn’t swam over to the deeper water in time, and were twitching in a frenzied fashion as they slowly suffocated and baked to death under the hot afternoon sun. I doubted any of them would become frogs before the puddle dried up and it was clearly a reckless mother who had laid her eggs there. 

After a further small gain in height we met the path we had started from, and re-traced our steps back to the car park. We sat in the car having the last of the sandwiches and tea before going to the nearby pub. According to the GPS we had done 12 miles and a total ascent of 1050m. The GPS also shows the ascent in pictorial form and it was quite fun to run this along the screen to watch our endless climb and sudden moments of very steep ascent. 

We drove back to the camp and showered (we had managed to buy hand towels from the camp shop to dry ourselves with) before heading to the bar for a well earned dinner. 

The combination of sun and wind on the hills had given us both pink faces. It was easy to spot who else had been out walking that day. All the walkers had pink faces. 

We met a northern couple in the bar who told us about a walk they once did along a ridge, making the decision to clamber along the edge and then up one of the ravines. As they sat on a small ledge for some refreshment, legs dangling over the side, a couple of guys wearing helmets and using ropes came up past them. Seeing this they had thought ‘either they’re being overcautious or we’re being really stupid’. 

We went to bed early, in separate bunks. I woke early, drowning in sweat. 

It was another beautiful day, and we decided to do the Kirkstone Pass walk, which was loaded onto the GPS. According to the written details, it was 11.5 miles long with a total ascent of 1350m. It sounded perfect. With hindsight I’m not sure what I was thinking. 

Boyfriend bought a new rucksack and walking stick. I also had my walking stick. Thus armed, we set off. 

The start point was Hartsop Dodd. On arrival I instructed the GPS to start navigating. It seemed to want us to scale a slope in the region of a 40° angle. 

We looked at the hill. We looked at the GPS. It was serious. So we started to climb. It took time. A long time. With several pauses to admire the view. In a distance of 0.7m we gone up 600m. It was hard and painful. And not a nice thing to start the walk with.  

Once we finally reached the top we had a long steady climb to Stony Cove Pike. Yesterdays walk had been a very popular area – vast numbers of people. Here we was no one. Until we reached Stony Cove Pike. Then occasional groups would appear. As we continued on along the line of hills that ran alongside the Kirkstone Pass road we met a group of women who asked where we had come up. We told them. They had been told to come that way, but took one look at the hill involved and decided it was a very silly idea. I concurred. It was a very silly climb to do. 

 

As we walked along St Raven’s Edge, the top of the hills lining the road, we could see most of the onward journey to come. We were also aware of the deep ravine down to the road, and that at some point this would necessitate a steep drop down and equally severe climb the other side. Most of the way along, Boyfriend was designing suspension bridges. As we neared the crossing point we looked over to Red Screes – the next appalling climb. There were ant like people on the slopes, scrambling up via a number of different routes. We looked on, trying to decide from the vantage point of our distance what route up we would try to follow. 

At Sattereven we climbed down the rocky slopes to the highest pub in England at 435m. Without giving the pub a second thought we crossed the road and were faced with Red Screes. 

 

The climb very quickly became a hands and feet affair, initially crawling over grass and stone. With increased height we climbed more on red scree. I was alright on this, but the ground refused to stay there as Boyfriend climbed up it, sending the stones hurtling groundwards. The ascent started to become fully blown rock climbing, as we ascended through a very narrow channel, barely as wide as us. Near the start of this ravine rock climb was a large flattish piece of rock jutting out the like a shelf. The only problem was that as I stood at the base of the climb this piece of rock stuck out at head height, overhanging us. I managed to scramble up onto it, but this required a certain amount of leaning ever so slightly backwards. It was one of the only times I remember that I made a conscious decision not to look down. And also one of very few times when I was aware we were doing something dangerous.  

As we went onwards, Boyfriend was relieved to find some more grassy areas, and climbed up those while I stayed on the scree. 

It was impossible to follow any sort of path or route. We had to keep pausing, assessing the onward route and make decisions at that time. Somehow we ended up rock climbing through an even smaller ravine. And this one involved considerably more climbing. It couldn’t be scrambled up. You needed to feel out above you for hand holds, and find foot holds that didn't move. It was the only way to get up it. There wasn’t much to hold onto, but its narrowness meant you could use outward pressure from hands and feet to propel yourself up. We eventually moved out of this and over a grassy bump at the top of a much deeper and longer ravine which we reasoned must be Kilnshaw Chimney. 

Running along the top of this was a very narrow, muddy path traversing the gap down which I could see a scrambler. The path became a scree slope and Boyfriend dislodged some stones towards the scrambler, calling down to warn him. 

Shortly after this we came to a gentle grassy slope leading to the summit where there was a tarn and a hollow cairn in which people were sitting having lunch. It transpired that 2 climbers in the chimney were injured – one with a broken bone and the other with a bleed wound. The scrambler was on his mobile, telling the person at the other end to alert the mountain rescue team at the bottom. So we hoped that we hadn't hurt him with the accidental dislodge of stones above him.

It was mid afternoon. We were starving, so had a very long lunch break, and admired the amazing view. From here we could see all that we had done so far, and all that was left do to. According to our script, we were half way. And shattered. 

 

We studied the map, the written directions, the GPS and our view of the hills to try and establish what the onward route was. There seemed to be a lot of hills in the way. 

Undeterred we carried on, going down the other side of Red Screes towards the  Scandale pass. After dropping down about 60m Boyfriend realised he had left his sunglasses on the summit. I settled down for a rest while he trudged all the way back up again. I studied the onward route and determined where we needed to go. It included another climb. 

A while later Boyfriend returned and we continue down to the old packhorse pass. During the descent a rock with a scattering of white tissues at the base of it alerted me to the fact that this was the Ladies, and I made use of the convenience. Our continued drop in height naturally meant a gentle incline up on the other side towards Dove Crag after which we were due to turn right, onto the ridge which would lead us back to the car. Dove Crag became closer. It was steep. I looked at the GPS and the imminent right turn. We really didn’t want to climb all the way up to it and there was no way that we could cut infront of the hill, being a steep rock face.  

We were in bits. By now we had both forged long lasting affections for our walking sticks. It was not a long climb, but unnecessarily steep. Half way up we sat down for a rest. The path continued on straight up the side, but we cut across in a diagonal direction as the slope eased off a bit to make our way up to the top. From here we could see to our left the Fairfield Horseshoe – basically a ridge walk along a horse shoe shaped ridge.  

The ridge leading us back was just ahead of us. As was Hart Crag. The written directions implied that we don’t climb this, but cut across in front of it onto the ridge, Hartsop above How. The GPS did not concur. There was no way we were going to climb it, and duly cut the corner, heading down the steep grassy slopes, littered with boulders towards the ridge path.  

The GPS begrudgingly showed the route we were taking, with the waypoint we had skipped glaring out at us from the screen, trying to alert us to the error of our route. 

Apparently there was a priest hole somewhere up there, hidden in the rocks of the crag. We couldn’t see it, which I suppose demonstrates it effectiveness. But we did see a tent snuggled in between the shelter of some large rocks. We could also see the Brother's Water camp, tantalisingly out of reach below us. A long way down. It was strange and nice to know that we were on top of the hills we could see from our room. And that on our first morning we had looked in awe at their height and steepness. 

Having now been out for a considerable time, and conscious of the distance left to go, we strode out along the ridge. Forever going down. There were dark clouds coming in behind us. Not rain, just ‘Isn’t it time you were getting back’ clouds. Other than that, my main concern was getting back in time for dinner. 

The view was stunning. We could see Hartsop Dodd – the hill we started on. And the more I looked at it, the more I found it harder to believe we had climbed up the side of it. It was phenomenally steep. 

Towards the end of our descent we passed through a field of sheep. Hearing a squeaky baa, we turned to see a lamb. There were lambs everywhere. Tiny, fluffy and very very white. They reminded me I was hungry.

We cut another corner on the final descent - again the GPS winged ever so slightly – and walked along the road back to the car. This was described in our directions as being a 'short walk’ back along the road. Short compared to what we had done. But not short at all bearing in mind our aching limbs and requirements for shower and dinner. 

Checking the distance the walk claimed to be Boyfriend said ‘We’ve done 12.5 miles or I’m a Dutchman’. On checking the GPS we had done exactly 12.5 miles, so fortunately he was not a Dutchman. 

In the end, and bearing in mind we cut a couple of large corners, we had done 13.5m with a total ascent of 1555m -  a bit more than the guide book had suggested. Boyfriend of course had done more than that having had to return to the summit of Red Screes to retrieve his glasses. We realised the GPS route figures were a fraction inaccurate. We were well and truly done in. And very sunburnt. 

Having showered (which was cold as the warm water had been used up by those who had sensibly returned hours ago) and changed we made our way to dinner. No longer able to articulate words I poked Boyfriend and pointed towards the door where a series of sheep were wandering past the front of the pub. Perhaps they had heard that the fresh lamb on specials was running low and were coming to offer themselves as a substitute. 

Back in the room, I fell asleep fully dressed and woke in the early hours, deeply uncomfortable and with restricted movement. I couldn’t be bothered to take any clothes off at the time, and slept fitfully until I did. 

When we got up the next day we were knackered. And very achy. It was grey and cloudy, with the threat of rain. We decided to do a gentle walk for the final day and opted for one at Easedale which the GPS assured us was 6 miles with a total ascent of 600m. 

We checked the details thoroughly. There was no ‘sudden increase in height’ at the start of the walk. It appeared to be just the ticket.

The walk started from Grasmere and we drove there along the Kirkstone Pass – with all sorts of painful memories from the previous day – and to Ambleside along a small windy road referred to on the signpost as ‘The Struggle’. A series of young men were cycling up it.  

Which would certainly have been a struggle. It was nice to see a bit more of the area, and beauty of the towns that nestle up against the lakes. 

The Easedale walk started with a long wander along a road to a valley, and then a long walk along a wonderfully empty, stone path that rose ever so gently. Now and then the skies would darken and it would start to rain. We stopped, took off rucksacks and got our waterproofs. No sooner had we done so than the rain stopped and the sun came out. This happened on a number of occasions. 

The walk was wonderful, and completely different to our previous ones. We could see the valley stretching out before us, gradually rising up to a ridge at the end, which we would walk back along. There was almost no one else there, just us, the valley with a few resident sheep and the steep sided hills on either side of us, rising to dark inhospitable crags. 

The route ran along next to the stream running down from the hill which was at times so pretty, with it little waterfalls and grottos, that we stopped to admire it. Brilliantly clear water, despite various green things growing in it. Even in the deeper pools we could see right through it to the bottom. More importantly, the walk was not painful on the lower limbs. Until we reached the end of the valley and were faced with a relatively steep climb up to the ridge. 

 

It wasn’t particularly high, but with the wind whipping up the side of the hill it was blowy and quite cold in places. We put on our waterproofs to protect against the wind, and started the return walk back along the top of the ridge. The views were beautiful, right across the hills, and down to the valley below us. We could also see Easedale Tarn – a popular walking route.  

According to our written directions, we had yet to go up and over Helm Crag which apparently looked far easier to negotiate than it actually was, and should only be attempted by fearless 8 year olds or seasoned scramblers. 

As the ridge path progress along to this crag it became less of a walk along gently rolling grassy slopes and more of an exhilarating clamber along stone paths that weaved and wound their around the increasing number and size of rocky outcrops, providing splendid views down the valley as well as small amounts of hands and feet scrambles up and down parts of the path. 

Helm crag loomed before us. It didn’t look too bad. Short and very steep, but no worse than anything we had already encountered at Red Screes. I wondered if there was a cheeky surprise hiding behind it.  

We started our ascent. The path certainly became quite steep as we approached the summit, but at no point did we need to resort to using hands. 

 

What’s more, there were no nasty surprises around the corner. The path quite simply carried on with a bit of clamber back down through the huge boulders which were placed where the path indicated itself to be. 

We wondered if the written warning referred to actually climbing the crag itself, which was on the edge of the ridge and leant perilously over it. Further on there was another crag, and a man atop sitting eating his lunch. We ended up terribly confused about which crag was the ‘one’. Deciding not to lose sleep about it, we carried on down and were extremely grateful we had not come up this way. The downward path was extremely steep, and at one point resorted to steps. It would have been yet another walk involving an initial gain of height quickly – and associated loss of energy quickly. 

Arriving back at the road we were left with a gentle, flat, walk back to the car park which seemed to be a lot longer than I remember it being on the way up. 

We arrived back at the car in the early afternoon, my face very sore with sunburn. It had been a lot less sunny, but the effect of the high winds on the top had done its damage. From the car – where we sat having a final drink of tea – we could see the crag that we had just come down from. The final route was 9.5m (so much for the 6 promised) with a total ascent of 854m. Therefore our total for the weekend was 35 miles with total ascent of 3500m. No wonder our legs hurt. 

Now desperately needing lunch (we had only taken snacks up with us as the walk promised to be short!) we hunted out a superb café which served up thoroughly delicious food.

For our final night we were in the B&B rather than the bunk house. This had the advantage of an ensuite shower – rather than the public shower block in which you had to keep pressing the shower button every time the water stopped flowing – big, comfortable double bed, TV, kettle and biscuits (although we didn’t actually make use of these). 

We sat in the bar having a sumptuous dinner, watching the dark clouds come in over the hills, and hearing the rain start. The sort of rain that was in for the long haul. And congratulated ourselves on having timed our few days away so impeccably. A young couple on a table near us, who had recently arrived, looked at the weather with falling faces. 

After dinner and whisky (the pub had an enviable offering of single malts) we retired to bed.  

The next morning the weather was no better, grey and wet. As we ate breakfast a rainbow glowed in the valley, seeming to end somewhere just outside the campsite. It was a beautiful sight, and perfect end to a wonderful trip. As we drove off, past Ullswater, and saw a low flying jet zipping through the valleys. It would have been wonderful to have been up on the hills then, and seen the jet below you. Although instinctively you would look up on hearing the noise.  

We headed for home, comforted that we would hold our own in Morocco and confident we would return to the lakes for future – less strenuous – trips.

NOTES

The above is a true story. Some of the information about places visited is sourced from a variety of guide books. The author maintains rights over all other content.