Editorial

These Boots

Save Our Sausage

Tak Hod: A Book for Offcomers

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 1

Windermere Railway Station ...

      None of us were quite sure how it had happened. But there we were, stepping into a surprisingly nippy breeze at Windermere railway station, laden with large backpacks, ready for a fortnight’s strenuous walking in the Lake District. Well, I was ready: I was unsure about the others.
      I suppose it had all started on that sweltering July day when Richard and I had gone to watch Derbyshire play Hampshire. Derbyshire were following on, some 250 runs behind, when, in the very first over of their second innings, the batsman had given himself out, to our great annoyance. Nobody had appealed; the umpires were already moving into position for the next over; but the batsman must have thought he had nicked it and had ‘walked’. Richard, a stickler for precision, didn’t think ‘walked’ was the right word at all. “It’s only a hundred yards from the wicket to the pavilion” he said. “Walking should be rather further than that. Like last Saturday, when I walked for five hours in the Brecon Beacons”.
      To a serious walker like myself, five hours is a mere stroll, so I could hardly let that comment pass. I mentioned that I had walked the eighty miles of the Dales Way in just four days. And, after escalating exaggeration on Richard’s part, we ended up agreeing to have a walking weekend in the Lake District to enjoy our hitherto unsuspected shared enthusiasm for long-distance hiking. As we discussed our plans in the Black Bull over the following weeks, Harry and Thomas overheard them and became interested in joining us. To our surprise, they too were, according to them, strong and experienced walkers. And so the weekend grew to a fortnight.
      We talked as though the fortnight would be an amiable amble in the company of good friends, although, to be honest, I don’t think I knew any of them well enough to choose to spend two whole weeks in their close company. But it was implicit that we had each been challenged to demonstrate our walking prowess, and nobody could withdraw from the challenge.

... Windermere Tourist Information Centre ...

      As we left the railway station, Richard noticed the Tourist Information Centre on the left and with a “just a minute” in he nipped. I didn’t mind too much, as we had only a short walk to Troutbeck on that first afternoon, but I made a mental note to not allow too many stops and detours from my planned route in future. We followed him in.
      I noticed that the Centre had not been renamed as a Visitor Information Centre, as was becoming the custom elsewhere. We, of course, were much too serious and accomplished to be either ‘tourist’ or ‘visitor’ but I wondered about the subtle differences between them. A tourist is now almost a term of denigration, indicating someone who travels around, photographing everything but seeing nothing, and spoiling what there is to see. A visitor is somehow more refined. He comes to visit or to see and may not tour at all.
      I blame William Wordsworth, as I often do. The word ‘tourist’ was coined in the late 18th century, originally as a synonym for ‘traveller’. Wordsworth generally used the latter word but ‘tourist’ does appear twice in his poems, both times with a negative tinge. His poem The Brothers begins
          These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live
          A profitable life: some glance along
          Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air.
Ten years later Wordsworth, considering himself short of money like most poets (although in reality they must have a comparative life of ease if it provides them time to write poems), wrote his Guide to the Lakes for these very tourists.
      Perhaps the difference between ‘tourist’ and ‘visitor’ derives from the semantics of the -ist and -or (or -er) suffixes. An -ist suggests a certain expertise or dedication or affectation. An -er is less judgemental. But an -eer, as in mountaineer, indicates even more expertise. I idled through the brochures, day-dreaming about who first invented these words. Can anyone make a similar contribution to the English lexicon? Take any object, say, a pencil. Could ‘penciller’, ‘pencillist’, ‘pencilleer’ be words? I propose ‘pencillist’: an artist who specialises in pencil drawings.
      I was interrupted in my profound thoughts by Richard’s intense discussion with the woman at the desk. I sidled over to see what was going on. Richard had accumulated several sheets of paper with the phone numbers of doctors, dentists, chemists, chiropodists, masseurs and psychoanalysts, and was now asking for details of the 555 bus timetable.
      “What’s this, Richard? No hopping on a bus, you know. This is going to be a walk” I said.
      “If you twist your ankle on Skiddaw you might appreciate a 555 bus back from Keswick to Windermere” he replied.
      He had a point. I had asked Richard to look after the health and safety aspects of the walk, knowing that, with his excessive attention to detail and general determination to do the right thing and to do it right, he would do the job conscientiously. Our emergency medical kit, survival bags, supplies of bandages, ointments, paracetamol, midge repellents, and so on, would be second to none.
      As our plans for the walk had taken shape over the winter, I had allocated responsibilities to my team. I was, naturally, in overall charge of logistics and route planning. But there were a great many other things to do in preparation for such a long walk and although I find it difficult to delegate tasks, because they are invariably done less well than I would do them, it seemed fair to share them around.
      So, Richard was responsible for health and safety and, after I had devised the route, I had asked Harry to organise accommodation along the way. He is a sociable person who I thought would enjoy making arrangements with suitable guest houses and hotels. Of course, if it was up to me alone I would have managed with a tent, camping rough, but I had to make allowances for my less hardy companions.
      And then Thomas, who considers himself something of a gourmet, was to look after food. We all felt that, after a good day’s walking, we would have earned a substantial repast. Thomas had also to make sure we had sufficient sustenance during the walks, not just after them. This was quite complicated, because we would sometimes be away from shops for days at a time, but, of course, we didn’t want to carry more food on our walks than was necessary. Time would tell if the team were adequately prepared. Richard, at least, was leaving little to chance. And thus reassured we at last set off.

... Orrest Head ...

      We walked up the track to Orrest Head, which is renowned as an inspirational viewpoint over the Lakeland hills. We could not help but reflect that, if all went to plan, we would be walking over almost all the peaks we could see within the next fourteen days. The route I had planned would take us on a 180-mile circuit encompassing all the main peaks and all the best ridges. I did not emphasise the extent of the challenge to my companions, so as not to daunt them too much. But, if a challenge it was, we would see who the fittest was, although I had no doubt about that.

Photos: Our train at Oxenholme, about to leave for Windermere; William Wordsworth; The Langdales from Orrest Head.

You Don’t Need a Weatherman ...

Letter to the Editor

Plane Sailing on Windermere

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 2

... Troutbeck ...

      The day dawned overcast, threatening rain. As none of the locals would commit themselves as to whether the threat would materialise or not we gathered in the foyer prepared for the possibility. Unfortunately, we took some considerable time to gather. I hoped that my companions’ morning routines would become smoother with practice over the next few days, so that we could get underway more promptly.
      Harry appeared in a luminous purple-pink outfit. I regretted not having specified a dress code but I had assumed a certain amount of decorum and commonsense from supposedly experienced walkers. Harry explained “It’s so that people can see me coming from miles away and can get out of my way if they wish”. I imagined that they may well choose to do that.
      The colours of the Lake District are, of course, renowned: the delicate fresh greens of spring, the rusty bracken of autumn, the steely blue of winter snows. We have, I think, an obligation not to add to, and certainly not to clash with, such colours. It has been a principle of mine always to wear clothes appropriate to my surroundings, ever since that embarrassing incident at the golf course.
      Some friends had taken up the game of golf with inexplicable enthusiasm. After a pint or two, I had been persuaded to join them the following morning at the course, although I didn’t consider myself sufficiently inactive to imagine playing the game with any seriousness. “Don’t forget your plus fours” they shouted as we left the pub. I had no idea what a plus four was. I think I assumed it to be part of the arcane terminology of the game’s scoring system - four over par, perhaps. I turned up at the course wearing shorts, it being a very hot day. My friends, in their plus fours (and how ridiculous, and yet appropriate, they looked), did not know what to do. An extraordinary committee meeting was called of those members who happened to be in the bar at the time and after lengthy pleas of mitigation I was allowed to continue. I believe that I am the only person ever to play a round of golf in shorts.

... Garburn Road ...

      I decided to be similarly forgiving of Harry. We strode energetically up the Garburn Road, leaving the caravans of Limefitt Park far below, with the ridge of Yoke, Ill Bell and Froswick visible ahead. And we were soon on the ridge, none of us daring to suggest a need to pause for sustenance. We pressed on nonstop, up and over the three peaks.

... Mardale Ill Bell ...

      As we climbed the ridge from Froswick towards Thornthwaite, the others were irresistibly drawn to the large beacon, where crowds had gathered for their midday snacks. But they did not know the route: I did. I led them around to the right, to Mardale Ill Bell, where we found a fine perch above Blea Water for our own lunch. Thomas proudly introduced the lunch-time offerings, which had been distributed evenly among our backpacks. And, yes, I have to concede, he had done us proud, and, with the cloud having lifted, we amused ourselves searching, unsuccessfully, for the famous Riggindale golden eagle, and in spying upon the activities in the Mardale car-park.
      All seemed fine in the world but we still had far to go. I roused them to their feet. As we walked over Harter Fell and Adam Seat to the Gatesgarth Pass, there was noticeably less conversation. And when I said that the route now climbed up to Branstree, there seemed to be an air of sullen resentment.

... The Old Corpse Road ...

      We followed the fence on to Selside and then began a trudge across a pathless, featureless ridge to Hare Shaw. When we reached the old corpse road, Thomas began a long story about it, as we sat there chewing some energy bars. To tell the truth, I think he strung the story out rather in order to give himself the maximum time to recover before the final stretch. I didn’t hurry him up, as I could see that they were all flagging a little and I didn’t want to seem too hard a taskmaster.
      The story was that one hot summer, a long time ago, a particularly large, fat woman, Emily Birkin, had died in Mardale Green and her coffin was carried up this track on its way to eventual burial at the church in Shap. The path is steep enough even without a coffin to carry, so it was a real struggle on that sweaty day. And, at about the point where we were sitting, a small, thin man, Jim Ritchie, who had in fact done little to help carry the coffin, collapsed and died.
      That presented the other men with a quandary. Should they leave the dead man here, exposed to the elements, and continue with the coffin to Shap? Or should they leave the coffin here while they carried the dead man back to Mardale Green? In the latter case, they realised, they’d only have to bring him back up here later. In the end they decided to squeeze the thin man into the coffin with the fat woman. Since he added only a small fraction to the weight and had hardly helped to carry the coffin, they reckoned that it wouldn’t make much difference having him in there as well. And so they struggled on, for the six miles or so to Shap.
      The vicar there was none too pleased. There was only one grave dug and he didn’t want bodies lying around in that heat. In the circumstances, he didn’t think God would mind if he buried them together. The men certainly didn’t mind, although as they returned over the road to Mardale Green they wondered what they would say to the dead man’s wife. They need not have worried. When told that her husband had died, she just said “Typical. That man would do anything to avoid doing his share of the work.”  And when it was explained that he had to be buried with Mrs Birkin, she added “Well, I’m sure that, where they’re going, they will be very happy together”.
      As a final flourish to confirm the veracity of his tale, Thomas waved around and said “That’s why that hill’s called Birkin Knott and this here is Ritchie Crag”. And, until someone comes up with a better explanation for the names, we must, I think, take the tale as gospel.

... Haweswater ...

      Suitably refreshed and feeling rather fitter than poor Jim Ritchie, at least, we soon completed the last mile or two and dropped down to our haven for the night, the Haweswater Hotel, by the side of Haweswater. The lady at reception looked with some astonishment at Harry’s outfit and I thought for a moment that she wouldn’t allow him in. But we reassured her that we would make him change into more suitable clothes before we gathered in the bar.

Photos: The view from our perch on Mardale Ill Bell - Blea Water (left) and Haweswater (right).

Letter to the Editor

The Way We Were, with Silas Jessop

The Fairy Fell Roundelay (Rainy Day Walk No. 3251)

Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary (June 15)

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 3

... Mardale Green ...

      Breakfast was subdued. We gradually remembered why. Somehow, during the previous evening and long night, we had joined the Friends of Mardale Green and had become embroiled in what passed for its Annual General Meeting.
      It was fortunate that Harry had booked the rooms well in advance because it happened that our visit coincided with an inundation of the hotel by the Friends. They were an exceptionally sociable crowd, the Friends having long realised that as their official aims would never be achieved they might as well meet and just have a good time. We could not avoid joining in with them.
      The Friends of Mardale Green had been formed in 1925 when plans were put forward to create Haweswater Reservoir by flooding Mardale and drowning the village of Mardale Green. A vigorous campaign ensued but it eventually failed, with all the residents of Mardale Green being forced away before the flooding of the valley in 1935. But the Friends carried on, vowing, according to its constitution, “to preserve the memory of Mardale Green and to work towards the return of its inhabitants”. That seemed fairly harmless, and hopeless, and so the four of us signed up.
      The activities of the Friends are rather limited. Every few years a drought lowers the level of the reservoir to reveal some of the remains of Mardale Green and conscientious Friends duly row out to carry out work on the derelict houses, in forlorn anticipation of the ex-inhabitants’ return.
      United Utilities once attempted to prevent this by saying that the Friends did not have planning permission to build in the Reservoir. However, the Friends successfully argued that they were not building - they were only maintaining buildings that were already there (although, they did admit, after a few drinks (not that they had only a few), that they surreptitiously added a foot or two to the church tower each time, in the hope that eventually it would arise permanently above the water’s surface).
      This year, to mark its 80th anniversary, the Friends had arranged a video link to the only known surviving ex-inhabitant of Mardale Green, a Dotty Measand, now living in Surfers’ Paradise, Australia. She joined in with the spirit of the occasion:
      “Hi there, Mrs Measand - or may we call you Dotty? - how are you doing?”
      “G’day. Everybody calls me Dotty, so you can too, whoever you are. I’m fine. Out before brekky to see the surf carnival parade. Lots of fit young men with not many clothes on”.
      “Well, we’re still working on getting you back to Mardale Green, Dotty, but the people of Manchester still seem to need a lot to drink”.
      “Me too. I usually have a few tinnies in the arvo. But you’d better get a move on, if you want me back in Mardale Green. I’m 83, you know. Do you have lots of fit young men with not many clothes on over there?”
      “They may be fit but they’ve got plenty of clothes on”.
      “Thought so. Bloody cold and wet over there, isn’t it? I was only five when I left and that’s all I remember. Bloody cold and wet”.
      “What’s it like where you are, Dotty?”
      “35 degrees. Sun, sand, sea.”
      “Well, Dotty, why don’t you invite us all over there for next year’s AGM?” And so on, in an inconsequential way, to confirm the futility of the Friends’ aims, to their relief.
      We eventually set off from the hotel, saying goodbyes to those few Friends who had made it to breakfast, promising sincerely, but no doubt untruthfully, to see them all again next year. We walked slowly and in silence. We pretended that it was in respect for the drowned village of Mardale Green off to our right but really we were suffering from the night before.
      Our spirits did not really lift until we had trudged around the head of the reservoir, past The Rigg and then up the long ridge to High Raise. There a marvellous panorama suddenly opened out for us, displaying many of the peaks that lay on our route: Coniston Old Man, Bowfell, Scafell, Great Gable, Helvellyn, Blencathra. They roll so smoothly off the tongue: would they pass so smoothly under the feet?

... Thornthwaite Beacon ...

      We strode south along High Street and in what seemed no time we reached Thornthwaite Beacon, which we had skirted past the day before. This time I allowed the team a rest and, as is his custom, Harry was soon on first-name terms with all the other walkers resting there, thankfully not as many as yesterday, which was a Sunday.
      Personally, I see little point in wasting much-needed breath talking to people one is most unlikely to see again. I manage a syllable (“hi”) or two (“morning”) if it’s unavoidable but usually a nod suffices.
      The only occasion I can recall talking to a stranger on the fells was once on Ullscarf. I had walked up the hill from the Thirlmere side to be confronted with a most startling view to the west. The sun and shadows highlighted the red of Red Pike and the brooding pudding shape of Great Gable, with the peaks of Grasmoor and Hopegill Head wonderfully arrayed to the north and, through the gap of Bassenthwaite, a view of the Galloway hills of Scotland. I gathered my sandwiches from the backpack and prepared to settle down to watch the shadows play across the remarkable view.
      And then I saw a man, which is not what you expect on Ullscarf, already settled in the exact same spot doing what I had in mind. He saw me too. I was most reluctant to disturb his reverie, as I am sure he understood, but it would have been somewhat rude to have wandered off. So I sat at the optimum point nearby (not too close to intrude, not too far away to offend) and exchanged pleasantries about the scene in front of us.
      While I did not learn his name, as Harry would have done, I am sure that if I saw him in a pub now I would recognise him and happily let him buy me a drink.

... Kirkstone ...

      Harry said hearty cheerios to all his new-found friends and within five minutes had forgotten all about them. We scrambled down to Thresthwaite Mouth, with its frogs, and up to Caudale Moor. Here we searched for Mark Atkinson’s Monument and John Bell’s Banner (there is too much name-dropping in Cumbria). We found the former but not the latter. The ‘monument’ is just a pile of stones with a cross, a memorial to a landlord of the Kirkstone Inn, skilfully placed at the furthest point on the ridge from which he may keep an eye on his inn. We were at least reassured that our resting place for the night was not too far distant.
      Who John Bell was and why he brought a banner up here, I don’t know. The fine names that embellish the map of Cumbria soon, though familiarity, become accepted as just arbitrary nomenclature. And yet, if we pause to reflect, they hint at some bygone history and mystery. Who, for example, was the St Raven, after whom is named the St Raven’s Edge, which we now walked down towards the inn? Raven’s Edge I could understand, for there are ravens about. But who put the St there? And why does Wainwright, so meticulous in his work, spell it “St Ravens Edge”, with no apostrophe?
      With such deep thoughts, we dropped down to the inn, where to our concern, we found in the bar two of the Friends of Mardale Green with whom we had over-celebrated last night. They had struggled over from Haweswater by the Nan Bield Pass. But we need not have worried: they were as exhausted as we were.

Photos: Mardale Green, as the Friends of Mardale Green wish it to be; Thornthwaite Beacon; Kirkstone Inn.

The Annual Harriet Martineau Lecture

What Bare-Faced Cheek?

Nature Notebook

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 4

... Kirkstone ...

      The day dawned overcast, with low cloud. At least, I assume it did, dawn being rather early for me at that time of year. Dedicated as I was to our walking expedition, I was supposed to be on holiday. There was certainly low cloud by the time we stood on the steps of the inn, ready to set forth. We could barely see the bottom of Red Screes, let alone its top, which was our first objective. As always seems to be the case when the top of a hill is in cloud, the steep slopes seemed to rise to prodigious, unseen, heights.
      It was a considerable struggle scrambling up the slope. I prefer to begin a long walk with a few minutes’ gentle stroll in order to loosen the legs but here it was straight into strenuous action. I had nobody to blame but myself. Breathless, we paused before we went fully into the cloud to look back to the inn, hardly visible far below.
      Some walkers say that there is no point in walking in cloud. But what do they consider to be the point of walking when not in cloud? For the long-distance views from the peaks and ridges? If so, yes, I concede that they are lost in cloud, but in compensation there is a heightened awareness of what is at close quarters. There has to be, in order to determine the route. And the lack of perspective makes every shape take on a new character, with, for example, huge rocks ahead turning into sheep as they are approached.
      If the point is exercise, then cloud makes no difference. If it is for fresh air in the lungs, then it is newly cleansed by the moist cloud. And if it is to escape momentarily from the stresses of everyday life, then cloud is a great help, for it hides from view anything that might serve as a reminder of those stresses - for example, there is no sight of dilapidated farmhouses to remind us of work needed back at home. But I like walking in cloud because I can be cocooned within my own profound thoughts, which are unfortunately disturbed by external stimulations normally.
      On this occasion, I was contemplating the hermeneutical significance of the ascent drawings in Wainwright’s little books. These are neither maps (from vertically above) nor views (from ground level) but are sketches (from an imaginary floating position above the mountains) distorted in perspective and scale. They provide the walker with a god-like omniscience and power over the Lakeland terrain, even when it cannot be seen. Have these drawings, familiar to all serious walkers, stimulated our sense of mastery over these hills, so feared in earlier centuries?

... Hart Crag ...

      And so, deep in thought (if any, for the others), we clambered carefully over Red Screes, down to the Scandale Pass, over Bakestones Moss, on up by Dove Crag, past Hart Crag, down the dip of Link Hause, on towards ...
      “Which way now now now ...?”
      My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a faint shout that echoed around the hills and clouds. We stopped. We listened. Silence. “What was that?” I asked.
      “Someone shouting ‘Where are you?’” said Thomas.
      “I thought it was “Wait for me” said Richard.
      “What did you think, Harry? ... Harry?” Where was Harry? We looked around. We tried to remember when we had last seen him. We had all been so engrossed in our thoughts (if any) that we hadn’t noticed his disappearance. Richard thought he remembered him saying something about nipping behind a rock (as he did rather too frequently) somewhere on Little Hart Crag. He must have lost the way trying to catch us up.
      We shouted “Up here, Harry Harry Harry ...” We listened. Silence. We peered into the gloom. Nothing. We waited. We shouted again “We’re over here, Harry Harry Harry ...” We listened. We waited.
      And then, at last, we heard a faint shout “I can see the way now now now ...”.
      We were greatly relieved. We shouted back “We’ll come to meet you you you ...” But which direction did the shout come from? It seemed a little over to the left, so we inched our way in that direction, off what path there was, over various crags. “We’re coming coming coming ...” we shouted.
      “No, stay there ... I can manage manage manage ...” we heard shouted back.
      We stopped. We stared into the cloud, trying to discern Harry’s shape emerging from it. And then another voice, just below us “Nearly there, there’s a good grip higher up this gully, you’ll make it.” We edged towards the voice. We were just about to step off a cliff face into the void when a figure leapt up in front of us. Our relief at finding Harry soon evaporated. This fellow was wearing a safety helmet and was enveloped in a harness with a multitude of ropes with various attachments.
      And then another fellow emerged from the left, slapped him on the back, with hearty congratulations. And then another fellow emerged from the right, saying “What’s all this shouting? And why are you over here, on the edge of Scrubby Crag?”. This fellow turned out to be Harry.
      We apologised to the two climbers and returned to regain the path. Harry appeared calm but was quietly seething at being left behind. I kept quiet too, not wanting to provoke his anger. I suppose it was my duty, as team leader, to keep the team together at all times. But if we waited for Harry every time he nipped behind a rock we would get nowhere.

... Fairfield ...

      I led the team up to Fairfield, where we paused for some sustenance by the largest cairn, whilst peering in stony silence into the gloom. After carefully locating the correct ridge I took them down the steep drop of Cofa Pike. As I strode over Deepdale Hause towards the ridge of St Sunday Crag the other three dropped behind and seemed to be engaged in some private conversation.
      The mist lifted a little and, as I tried hard to pick out the shape of Helvellyn, I was astonished to see a wide river flowing down the fellside. I stared at it for a while - and gradually realised that it was a river of debris being eroded down Dollywaggon Pike by walkers. How can walkers be so clumsy? I myself have never dislodged a rock in my life.
      The others were still in sight behind - I didn’t want to lose anyone again. But I saw no need to dally to let them catch up. I pressed on up St Sunday Crag. Is there really a St Sunday? What about a St Monday? St Tuesday? and so on. I dropped down over Birks and at last came below the cloud, to be rewarded with a fine view of Ullswater, even with the surroundings fells decapitated by cloud. I sat for a while, waiting for the others, and then we all sat in silence, contemplating the view and perhaps reflecting on the difficult day behind us.

... Glenridding ...

      But the end was in sight and so, in slightly raised spirits, we strolled down to Grisedale and over by Lanty’s Tarn to Glenridding. After signing in at our B&B we retreated to the Travellers Rest, where we sat outside to admire the renowned view across Ullswater to Place Fell. But the cloud had come down again and we could see nothing at all.
      We retreated inside, to find the bar packed, with not enough space to swing a cat. We didn’t have a cat anyway, so we merged in with the throng, most of whom seemed to be climbers. A noisy group had settled around the fire, blazing although it was supposed to be midsummer. Two of them were regaling the others with a story of how they had nearly been knocked off Scrubby Crag by some foolish walkers who were wandering about, shouting, lost in the cloud.

Photos: Kirkstone Inn; The view from Scrubby Crag.

High Society

Council Head Loses his Head

Low Brow Opening

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 5

... Glenridding ...

      After breakfast Thomas said that he needed to replenish stocks at the Glenridding shop, the first chance to do so since we had set off from Windermere. I asked if he needed any help but he insisted not, although the others stayed with him, reflecting perhaps some lingering resentment over the events of yesterday. I left them to it and ambled down to the pier, where the aimless splicing of mainbraces was oddly reassuring.
      I felt sorry for Thomas. He was doing a fine job on the food front but I knew that he was suffering stoically, from a lack of cake. He had dutifully supplied us with those sawdusty congealed-fruit energy bars when I was sure that, if it were practical, he would have preferred to have carried several large cakes around the fells.
      Thomas liked cakes as Wainwright liked fells. He was besotted with them. Every spare moment, when he wasn’t tackling one, he was writing about them. He kept a detailed database of cakes. He wrote recipes. He wrote reviews. He wrote letters to the newspapers about cakes. He was an expert witness at the notorious Jaffa trial, which concluded that cakes differ from biscuits by going hard not soft as they age. Thomas insisted that you should be able to tell a cake from its taste alone. For Thomas, dessert was the main course of a meal and cake was the only dessert. But he preferred cake at tea-time, for then his stomach would be empty and his concentration full, on the cake.
      The only thing that Thomas did not like about cakes was their names. It annoyed him that there was no rhyme or reason to them: cakes were named after places (Black Forest gateau, Eccles cake, ...) or ingredients (cheesecake, carrot cake, ...) or function (birthday cake, mooncake, ...) or people (Battenberg, Lamington, ...) or shape (Swiss roll, ...) or the way they are cooked (upside-down cake, stack cake, ...) or a fanciful allusion (angel cake, red velvet cake, ...), and so on. On those very rare occasions when Thomas came across a new cake it frustrated him that he could not tell from its name what sort of cake it was. What, for example, is a buccellato?
      Being a chemist, Thomas appreciated the benefits of a scientific naming scheme. He could predict something about 1,2,3-trihydroxypropane but not about glycerol. He wondered why it couldn’t be the same for cakes. So he invented his own scheme. He used four ‘dimensions’ to define all cakes: place of origin, shape, main ingredient(s), and function(s). A Lamington cake is an Australian, cuboid, coconut and chocolate, dessert cake. A buccellato is a Sicilian, ring-shaped, fig and nut, christening and Christmas cake. He proposed his classification scheme to the editors of the Journal of Gateauphilia but so far they haven’t adopted it.
      I wandered back to the shop. They were waiting outside. “All ready? Then, let’s be off. After yesterday, today will be a piece of cake”. Thomas glared at me, as I knew he would.

... Striding Edge ...

      A gentle drizzle, soothing and refreshing, fell as we climbed Birkhouse Moor. We soon reached the Hole-in-the-Wall, for after a few days of good walking we were now well into our stride, with no handicaps other than Harry’s blisters, Richard’s sore knee and Thomas’s stomach pains.
      I led the team on to Striding Edge, scrambling along the very razor’s edge of the ridge, for there is nothing to compare with having precipitous slopes dropping down on both sides. The others, I noticed, preferred the safer paths slightly below the crest.
      As we scrambled along, nose to rock in places, we noticed that the rocks were covered in scrapes. This I assumed to be caused by the hobnail boots of ice-walkers. But, as I looked around, I realised that my team was inadequately garbed and that almost every other walker had a pair of sticks, which they seem to use to poke and probe around the rocks. I thought that walking sticks were for the infirm but here they seemed to be an essential aid to nearly all walkers, old and young. I like to get to grips with the rocks with hands, knees, elbows, buttocks, or any other extremity, but this new breed of walker seemed to prefer to keep the rocks at stick’s length.
      After we emerged onto the Helvellyn plateau and had settled slightly off the beaten path for a bite, we had ample opportunity to study walking stick techniques. On Striding Edge they seemed more of a hindrance than a help but here on top they enabled walkers to bowl along in style. In many different styles, in fact. Some thrust the sticks out in step with the legs, some put the stick out opposite to the leg, some put two sticks out (like off-piste skiers), some used the sticks haphazardly to prod rocks they didn’t like the look of, but our favourite style, determined after a thorough scientific study, was that of a young woman who had tied the two sticks to her belt to protrude, fore and aft, like buffers and then ignored them.

... The Helvellyn Memorials ...

      We ambled over to look at the memorials, which some consider to add a romantic air to the fells. One commemorates the death of Charles Gough in 1803 or, rather, the sentimental fact that his dog stayed by his side for three months until his body was found. We are supposed to be impressed and inspired by this.
      The memorial was not erected until 1890, by which time the facts of the case had been well mythologised. Did Mr Gough die instantly from some accident, or did he lie injured for some considerable time? If the latter, I would be more impressed if the dog had run back for help, as Lassie did on so many happy occasions. And dare we ask how the dog survived for three months?
      A second memorial marks the landing of a plane on Helvellyn on December 22nd 1926. The pilots are named as John Leeming and Bert Hinkler. The latter achieved fame in 1928 for the first solo flight from England to Australia, but, not being a woman, not as much fame as Amy Johnson did for her flight in 1930.
      In the course of my thorough preparations for this expedition, I had investigated this matter, in order to enlighten my team along the way. I can confirm that December 22nd 1926 was, as you’d expect, a day when the snow and ice was thick upon Helvellyn. It was not a day that anyone would choose to land a plane there. So, why did they? It is said to have been a publicity stunt. But, if so, what were they publicising? Themselves and their plane, presumably. But there seem to be no photographs - why not?
      So, did they, in fact, land a plane on Helvellyn? There was said to be one independent witness, a ‘professor’ who happened to be walking on Helvellyn. His or her name seems to have evaporated. In those days a professor was an unimpeachable pillar of society, unlike today. Weren’t the pilots lucky it wasn’t, say, an estate agent? They took off from Helvellyn over Striding Edge. Of course they did.

... Threlkeld ...

      We continued briskly on, up and over Whiteside Bank and Raise, and dropped down to Sticks Pass, so called because here those walking north from Helvellyn realise the uselessness of their sticks and throw them over the sides of the mountain. There they accumulate in great piles, to be rummaged through by skiers using the Raise ski tow and in need of extra ski sticks.
      We climbed the Dodds - Stybarrow, Watson’s and Great - which are neglected except by connoisseurs like myself, perhaps because they hardly require climbing. While the hordes queue to scramble nose-to-bottom along Striding Edge and down Swirral Edge for the later glow of achievement, hardly anyone bothers to walk the Dodds. We, however, appreciated the quiet, lonely, grassy expanses where we could stride out unhindered by others. It made a pleasant change not to have to be careful on every footstep not to trip over some rock or crag. We could stroll along, heads up, enjoying the panorama in all directions. A light drizzle obscured the view a little but we didn’t mind as it was so pleasantly refreshing.
      We hurried down to the Old Coach Road. The coaches became old by tackling this rough track but at least the travellers within them must have valued the Dodds more than the modern generation of tourists. We turned west, following the track, before dropping down to Threlkeld, our base for the night.

Photos: Mint cake (which was banished: the mention of cake was too much for Thomas); Striding Edge; The second memorial (which reads “The first aeroplane to land on a mountain in Great Britain did so on this spot on December 22nd 1926. John Leeming and Bert Hinkler in an Avro 585 Gosport landed here and after a short stay flew back to Woodford”. Who says so?)

A Brand-New Brand

Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary (August 13)

How Pathétique

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 6

... Threlkeld ...

      Over breakfast, I informed the team that today’s walk would be to Keswick, only four miles away. Thomas immediately asked for two more poached eggs. Richard said that it would be good to give his sore knee a bit of a rest. Harry wondered if we would be there in time for a relaxing trip on the Derwentwater ferry. I then added that we would not be walking direct to Keswick but would take a detour over Blencathra and Skiddaw, adding about ten miles and plenty of hills.
      These comments led to a minor mutiny in the ranks as we set off from Threlkeld. I had assumed that they would relish the opportunity to walk carefree on the fells, safe in the knowledge that they were under expert guidance. But no, they wanted to study the maps themselves to see where they were going and to help make decisions about the route. Well, if that was their attitude, I would leave it to them. I handed the map to Richard, muttering only “Blencathra and Skiddaw”.

... Saddleback or Blencathra ...

      Richard walked along studying the map intently. He suddenly stopped and said “The Ordnance Survey has got this wrong”. The Ordnance Survey never gets anything wrong but I thought that I had better humour him, as he was such a novice at map-reading. “Where?” I asked.
      “Here” he said, pointing at Blencathra.
      I looked. “Seems fine to me” I said. “What’s the problem?”
      “Well, it says

’. If the ‘or’ is not part of the name and it is supposed to indicate alternative names they should have used a different font”.
      I was greatly relieved that we had sorted that out. I could see that Richard was quite agitated by the whole business, because he so likes things to be exactly right. I teased him a little by asking “In that case is the question ‘to be?’ or ‘not to be?’ or ‘to be or not to be?’?”. He couldn’t see my punctuation and was flummoxed. But I didn’t want to let it rest. After all, he had taken my map.
      “Does a name matter that much, anyway?” I asked. “Harry here doesn’t mind everybody not using his real name. Do you, Harry?”
      “Actually, I mind that one person, my mother, does use my real name. I was named Harold at a time when everyone with that name became Prime Minister. I think she still hopes that if she keeps calling me Harold then I am bound to become Prime Minister too”.
      “There you are. Names are no big deal, Dick”.
      “I am not and never will be a Dick” said Richard. And he stormed off towards Sharp Edge.

... Sharp Edge ...

      Sharp Edge is not a place to be tackled in a temper. So we called him back to have a snack break, to let equilibrium be restored. When our balance had been regained, we set out for the fearsome ridge. We were just about on it when Thomas mumbled “Nobody has ever called me Tom”.
      I could have pushed him off the edge for bringing all that up again. People ‘fall’ off Sharp Edge all the time, for much less. “Even Tommy would do” he added. “But I’ve always been Thomas. Even at school. I suppose people think I’m too serious to be a Tom. Tom is always a frivolous fellow: Tom and Jerry, Tom Thumb, Tom Tiddler, and so on. But Thomas is a man of importance: Jefferson, Edison, More, Becket, Hardy, Mann. You wouldn’t call any of those Tom. I suppose it’s a compliment really that people call me Thomas”.
      “What about Thomas the Tank Engine?” I said. “But you’re quite right. From now on I will call you Tom”. He didn’t know what to make of that and went on in silence.
      We focussed on Sharp Edge, as you need to do, and at the end of the nerve-wracking ridge swung left to the Blencathra summit. There was a fine view in all directions, with patches of sunlight picking out highlights through a few dark clouds. Far distant to the west was our next objective, Skiddaw, to which we boldly set off across Mungrisdale Common, as unappealing as its name.
      We walked in determined silence for about an hour and then, without warning, a few large drops of rain fell. Within seconds, many large drops of rain were falling. We were soon in a deluge that simulated the conditions of a test laboratory for a manufacturer of waterproof gear. My outfit soon failed the test, as did that of the others, judging by the oaths.
      Actually, I don’t mind being wet while I’m walking. It’s the process of becoming wet that I don’t like - that stage when my optimism that the rain will be keep out begins to feel misplaced; when patches of dampness creep in around the neck, the arms, the back, soon turning into little rivulets. Once the battle is lost, I can splash along regardless in deep puddles and, as the water trapped within begins to warm up, it even becomes a little pleasurable.

... Skiddaw House ...

      The slightly soggy peat of Mungrisdale Common soon turned into deep boggy pools, submerging all traces of a path. We floundered along, in the downpour, heading for Skiddaw House, which was dimly perceivable ahead, where we hoped to find shelter from the cloudburst.
      As we at last squelched towards the house I noticed (as I imagine those facing execution notice incongruous, irrelevant details) what a strange building it was to come across in such a location, miles from anywhere: four chimneys, three doors and eleven odd windows, the walls rendered like a suburban terrace, the whole thing semi-circled by conifers. But no porch to shelter in. We peered in the windows. Nobody about. Skiddaw House is run by a trust as a youth hostel and perhaps it is run in the old-fashioned way, with everybody turfed out after the morning jobs.
      We wandered around the back. Here we found a sort of shelter and, with some relief, piled in. We fell upon about a dozen other walkers already taking shelter. Harry soon knew who they all were.
      Steaming wet walking gear has a most unpleasant smell. Overcome with nauseous claustrophobia, I had to escape. I persuaded the others that there was no advantage in staying there. Even though it was still pelting down, we could not get any wetter. All that would be achieved by staying was that the quagmires would become even quaggier.

... Keswick ...

      So Harry said his farewells and we trudged off up Sale How. The walk up Skiddaw and down to Keswick was a silent nightmare, silent, that is, apart from the rattling rain. Inevitably, they got lost a few times.
      When we at last settled into a warm, dry pub I thought that I should try to make amends for initiating such a fractious day. Tomorrow, I said, we would walk to Braithwaite, drop everything we could at where we were to stay that night, and carry on for the Coledale horseshoe relatively unfettered. And, to celebrate the fact that we were now heading back, having passed the furthest point from Windermere that we will reach, I bought Tom a large cake.

Nun the Wiser

The Tale of Squire Ruskin

Hawkshead 3 Windermere 4

Pen Your Pimp: Another Book for Offcomers

The Duke of Westminster’s A to Z

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 8

... Braithwaite ...

      I came down to breakfast in my normal timely fashion and waited for the others. They arrived half an hour late, dishevelled and argumentative. I dared not ask if they’d had a good night. Tom glared at the breakfast menu and immediately confronted the waiter.
      “Is the potted char available today?”
      “Yes, indeed, and delicious it is.”
      “Is it local char?”
      “Oh, yes, everything on the menu is local if it is possible to be so.”
      “How local?”
      “How do you mean, sir?”
      “Well, I assume the char comes from some lake. Do you know which one?”
      “Er, no. I don’t think so. Does it matter?”
      “It matters to me.”
      “Well, in that case I think I’d better get the manager. Please excuse me.”
      I interrupted before he dashed off. “Before you go, could I say what I would like. We’re a little behind schedule. I’d like the potted char, followed by the full English, with black pudding and mushrooms, with coffee, black.”
      “And the same for me” said Richard. “And me” added Harry.
      After five minutes, the manager came to our table. “How may I help you?” he beamed.
      “Well, I’m interested in your potted char” said Tom. “I’d like to know where it comes from.”
      “It comes from Jim Sproke’s Furness Fish Supplies. And Jim supplies only the best fish. You may rest assured of that.”
      “No, no. Which lake does the char come from?”
      “Oh, I see. I’m afraid I don’t know. Does it matter?”
      “It matters to me.”
      “Well, in that case I’d better ring Jim Sproke. Please excuse me.”
      The three of us polished off our potted char. “Delicious” we agreed.
      After ten minutes, the manager returned. “Jim says that the char comes from Windermere. I trust that is satisfactory, sir.”
      “It may be satisfactory for Jim, and for you, and for these three. But what about the char?”
      “What about them?”
      “Aren’t you aware that the char were trapped in Windermere at the end of the last Ice Age and it is one of England’s rarest fish? And it is becoming rarer still through being caught and fed to ignorant buffoons like these three.” We tucked into our black pudding.
      “No, I wasn’t aware of that” said the manager.
      “Well, you should be. It should be an offence to serve endangered species as food. I suggest that you return the char to Windermere, where they belong.”
      “But they’re dead, sir. In pots.”
      “Well, return them to Jim and tell him where to stick them. It’s a disgrace.” And he stormed off without having any breakfast, especially not the potted char.
      I think the strenuous exercise was beginning to affect the emotions. Tantrums from Richard on Blencathra, sentimentality from Harry on Grisedale Pike, and now this. At least I remained in full command.
      Half-an-hour later we gathered on the steps of the inn, with fully-loaded rucksacks. I thought it best to try to clear the air. “What was that all about, Tom” I said.
      “Thomas to you” he said.
      “OK. Thomas. What’s the problem?”
      “Well, I’m as fond of good food as anyone, but we should all be aware of what we are eating. Char should not be eaten. And if you knew what was in that black pudding you wouldn’t eat that either.”
      I preferred not to know, so we set off, at last, from Braithwaite.

... High Spy ...

      We made our way across Newlands Beck and soon reached the slopes of Catbells. We paused briefly at the top so that we could admire the view over Derwent Water whilst Harry chatted to all the grandmothers and infants that Wainwright promised. We hadn’t time to dally so I hurried the team on down to Hause Gate and up to Maiden Moor, the top of which we passed over without being quite sure where it was. It didn’t matter, as we pressed on to High Spy, where I permitted a refreshment break. I sat there admiring the view of peaks we’d already conquered such as Helvellyn, Skiddaw and Grasmoor, and, ahead, the dome of Great Gable, with Scafell and Scafell Pike to its left. The highest peaks of our expedition were well and truly in my sights now.
      My companions, inspired by the name of High Spy, began - would you believe it? - a game of I Spy. The childishness of grown men never ceases to amaze me. Here we were, perched on one of the finest viewpoints of the central fells, and all they were interested in was I Spy. I ignored them. But after Harry had stumped them for 10 minutes with ‘L’ I thought it was time to move on. L, it transpired, was for Helvellyn. I suspect Harry really thought it was.
      As we set off, I said “I’ve got one for you .. I spy with my little eye something beginning with A”. I knew that would distract them while we dropped down to the tarn and then clambered up the steep slopes to the top of Dale Head. As we strode along Hindscarth Edge, I thought I’d put them out of their misery. “Give up?” I said. “OK, A is for Aystacks”.
      They groaned, in not too friendly a fashion, I felt. Then after a few minutes deep thought Richard said “I don’t believe you could spy Haystacks back there on High Spy”.
      “Would you like us to go back and check?” I said.
      Of course, he didn’t. You can’t, in fact, see Haystacks from High Spy but I knew that they wouldn’t think of Haystacks anyway. They reacted as though I had violated the spirit of the game. How childish can you get?

... Buttermere ...

      Despite an air of mutiny, we detoured slightly to the peaks of Hindscarth and Robinson. One has a duty, I feel, to visit all the tops that one passes near by, although my companions didn’t seem to agree. They said that they preferred to walk in a direct line. So I marched them all straight through the bog of Buttermere Moss, on the slope from Robinson to our hotel in Buttermere. They complained bitterly as our boots filled with mud but it didn’t concern me in the slightest. Because I anticipated that a large parcel awaited me at the Fish Hotel.
      If, like me, you avidly study the descriptions of great expeditions to, say, the North Pole or into the jungles of Africa, you will know that there is one thing that is left undiscussed. That is clothing. It goes without saying that the great explorers travelled for months on end without a change of clothes.
      Harry, as was becoming increasingly clear, was following the same policy. Richard, on the other hand, thoroughly washed his one set of clothes every night. Some mornings they were still wet as we set off, which may explain his grumpiness. Thomas had brought sufficient clothes that he could change them regularly, but that meant that he was carrying twice the load of the rest of us.
      With my superior insight into such matters, I realised that, unlike the Arctic or the African jungles, the Lake District is not isolated from our wonderful Post Office. So, beforehand, I had parcelled to myself at the Fish Hotel a complete change of clothes for the rest of our walk. I spent a pleasant evening parcelling up my dirty clothes to send home whilst the others scrubbed the mud of Buttermere Moss off theirs.

Photos:  Potted Char and Other Delicacies; Derwent Water from the slopes of Catbells; The view from my window at the Fish Hotel.

A Word’s Worth

One Fell Swoop

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 9

... Buttermere ...

      We departed from the Fish Hotel in good spirits, all of which belonged to me, freshly attired as I was. As we peered across the choppy lake towards the steep slope of Fleetwith Pike, it was apparent that this was a day for which the word changeable would be an understatement. Patches of cloud were being whipped across the tops, with the gaps between the clouds enabling the sun to highlight islands of bright green, which likewise tore across the hill-sides. The clouds themselves released whirling rain-storms enlivened by temporary rainbow colours.
      We strode along the well-worn path through Burtness Wood towards Bleaberry Tarn. In the sun the ridge up to Red Pike did indeed look red; in the cloud, it didn’t. As we crested the top of Red Pike we were engulfed in what I suspected would be the first of many rain clouds. We hurriedly donned our wet-weather gear and continued briskly along the broad ridge to High Stile and High Crag.
      Every few minutes the clouds parted to give us tantalising glimpses down the excitingly precipitous crags towards the village and the lake of Buttermere. In the other direction, our future targets of Pillar and Scafell made fleeting appearances. Somehow, the ephemeral nature of the view enhanced its appeal. We knew that if we didn’t appreciate it whilst we had the chance we might not get another one.
      We scrambled down the unpleasant scree to Scarth Gap and on towards Ennerdale Forest, which was, at last, being allowed to revert to natural woodland. Arriving at the Black Sail Hut, we found large numbers of people gathered, preparing to set off on their hike, obviously after a more leisurely start to the day than my well-trained team had managed.
      Again, many of them seemed to know Harry, who was soon acknowledging their best wishes and shaking hands with all and sundry. With a nod towards me, one of them shouted “Ist dat mein führer?”, or something similar, to the merriment of everybody. It was rather perplexing but it seemed good-natured enough, so I waved, rather stiffly, in acknowledgement, which provoked further gales of laughter.

... Great Gable ...

      Eventually, I was able to drag Harry away. We needed to focus on what I knew would be one of our most challenging climbs - that up Great Gable from Beckhead Tarn. I had intended to take us up Kirk Fell en route to Beck Head but, after our long delay at the hut, I decided to be less demanding of my colleagues. Instead, I took us along the contour below Boat How Crags.
      There was, however, no way to avoid the rough, steep slope of great boulders on the northwest flank of Great Gable. Here, unfortunately, the cloud settled in, making it difficult to determine the way ahead. After the misadventure on Hart Crag, I kept the team closely together. This was not terrain in which to let anyone get lost, or to have to search for them.
      We paused at the top of Great Gable to pay our respects to those named on the plaque as having died in the 1914-18 war. A ceremony every November does likewise. It felt incumbent upon me to lead a small service and, taking Genesis 22 as my text, I extemporised a sermon about Abraham taking his son up a mountain in Moriah for a burnt offering.
      Other hardy souls arrived at the top and they too gathered around. As the fate of Abraham’s son seemed to depress them, I moved on to Exodus 3, where Moses is entreated by God to climb the mountain over and over. This prospect did not enthrall the assembled throng much either. So, with the congregation now nearing a hundred or so, I turned to Luke 9, where Jesus and his disciples take to the mountain. “While he thus spake, there came a cloud, and overshadowed them: and they feared as they entered the cloud.” This, at last, they could relate to, and thus uplifted the multitude dispersed.

... Green Gable ...

      We solemnly made our way down the remains of the path towards Windy Gap and up Green Gable, the insignificant sibling of Great Gable. Again, the top was in cloud and as we wandered about trying to locate the topmost point, a strange vision appeared before us. A young couple, clad only in sandals, shorts and tee-shirts, emerged from the mist. They seemed in high spirits, oblivious of the wet clouds scuttling past them. I couldn’t at first understand a word they said but with Harry’s careful interpretation it turned out that they were asking if this was Great Gable.
      I do despair, sometimes. I have no time for those who set out to walk in the Lake District completely unprepared for the difficulties that they may face. And when they don’t even know where they are, I give up. Harry, however, took them under his wing. He asked to see their map, presumably so that he could point out where they actually were. I was no longer taking any interest but I saw that they produced from a pocket a scrappy piece of paper with only a few tops marked and some dotted lines between them, with no indication of contours, cliffs or anything else. They did not know what a compass was, let alone possess one.
      With great solicitude, Harry explained where they had arrived and elucidated from them where they hoped to go - on up to Great Gable, down the treacherous ridge that we had struggled up, and then along Moses Trod back to Honister. He also discovered that they were from Holland, which may explain their limited knowledge of mountain walking. And that they were on honeymoon, which may explain their limited interest in anything except one another.
      Harry, fearful that their marriage, or even themselves, might not survive an expedition up Great Gable in these conditions, wearing so little, began to describe the fearsome, dangerous mountain ahead of them. They couldn’t see the mountain, of course, but could only listen in astonishment at the alarming ordeal ahead of them, as described in the most vivid, eloquent fashion by Harry. After several minutes of this, they began to think, as Harry intended, that perhaps it would be better if they returned safely the way that they had come. Once they had persuaded themselves, Harry gallantly volunteered to escort them back.
      The others were also, by this stage, becoming quite fond of these foolish Dutch youngsters. Richard said that he’d go along with them too, ostensibly to keep Harry company. Thomas seemed about to join them but he thought better of it once I made it clear that the maps stayed with me. If others chose to depart from my ordained route without permission that is up to them. It is not my responsibility to look after all the waifs and strays that one encounters on the Lake District hills. I’d feel like the Pied Piper of Hamelin if that were the case.
      Thomas and I walked down to Seathwaite in silence, entranced by the transitory glimpses of sun in the valley. Predictably, the others were late to meet us in Seatoller, having become lost on Brandreth.

Photos: Buttermere; The Great Gable memorial service.

Border Conflicts

Fell-Walking Tip 15

A Week in the Lake District

Many Happy Returns to Bassenthwaite

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 10

... Seatoller ...

      This, we knew, would be a day to savour! - the kind of Lake District day that we dream about. Not only would we climb to the highest point of England but, as we set off from Seatoller, we could see that we would be blessed with one of those bright, perfectly clear days that we always hope for but are rarely given.
      Rather than tramp along the familiar valley through Seathwaite, I led the team up through the wood and on to Thornythwaite Fell. Seathwaite is the wettest inhabited place in England (140 inches a year) but I had no fear of rain on such a day. I just felt that the sooner we were on the tops and able to enjoy the fabulous views the happier we would be. And so it proved.

... Glaramara ...

      Glaramara is described as a long, sprawling, heavy, plum-coloured hump in the Herries Chronicles of Hugh Walpole. But the name is irresistible. It is a mountain that just has to be climbed. We paused at the higher of the two summits of Glaramara to take in the view, perhaps the best from any Lake District top, with its central position and relatively modest height providing a 360-degree panorama of higher fells: to the east, the Helvellyn ridge, with High Street in the distance; to the north, Derwentwater with Skiddaw and Blencathra beyond; to the west, a fine prospect of Green Gable and Great Gable, where conditions had been so different yesterday - all terrain that we had already conquered, as we proudly reflected.
      Then our eyes turned south to peaks still to be tackled: Coniston Old Man, Crinkle Crags, Bowfell. But could we see our main target for today, Scafell Pike? We didn’t argue - but we couldn’t agree. It seemed to me that the great buttresses of Ill Crag and Great End obscured the very top of Scafell Pike but it was hard to be sure.
      So, although it would have been very pleasant to stay a few hours debating the matter and absorbing the multi-faceted view in all its glory, we set off to investigate. We walked south along one of the most delightful ridges in the Lake District, with a succession of neat little tarns tucked into grassy depressions below minor stony peaks, all the while surrounded by the evolving panorama.
      We paused again when we reached the summit of Allen Crags, still entranced by the views. Helvellyn, Skiddaw and Great Gable could still be seen, the last boldly portrayed behind the most attractively-named Lakeland tarn, Sprinkling Tarn. The visibility was so good that it was easy to pick out on the flank of Great Gable the silhouette of the famous Napes Needle. To the south and west the forbidding prospects of Great End and Ill Crag confronted us, now undoubtedly obscuring the Scafell Pike peak. We lingered for quite a while at the Allen Crags haven as we surveyed below us a series of walkers toiling up the thoroughfare towards Esk Hause and on to Scafell Pike.

... Scafell Pike ...

      Eventually, we accepted that it was time for us to do the same. We scrambled down the southern slope and up to Esk Hause, one of the busiest crossroads in the Lake District. Following the multitude heading south-west, we skirted Ill Crag, where at last the summit of Scafell Pike came definitely into view, still some distance away but, on a day such as this, presenting little difficulty.
      I briefly delayed the exhilaration of conquering England’s highest summit by leading the team off the standard route to cross the rough jumble of rocks on Broad Crag in order to take in the view, which could never be better than it was today, from a northern perch, looking across to Great Gable. Now, the climactic moment could be postponed no longer. We jubilantly reached the huge circular cairn that makes the highest point of England yet higher. Needless to say, the view was all-encompassing. We looked down upon previously-majestic heights - except perhaps to the south where Scafell looked as high (but we’d worry about that later).
      So, this unforgettable day was all but over. It was all downhill from here. We headed towards Lingmell and down by Lingmell Gill to Wasdale, content that, whatever adventures the days ahead held, the walk to Scafell Pike had been perfection.

... Wasdale Head ...

      After a convivial repast at Wasdale Head I expected to sleep the sleep of the fully contented. But it was not to be. I was tormented by a dreadful nightmare. I dreamt that I was awoken by a fearful wailing and shouting outside. In my dream, I gave up trying to sleep through this terrible noise and peered out of the window. It was a clear, cloudless, moonlit night but I could see nothing, at first. But then I made out a light moving on the slopes of Scafell Pike, and then several of them, some moving up, some down. And over on Lingmell I could see yet more lights moving about, all to the accompaniment of diabolical yelling.
      What was going on? Why were so many people up on the hills at night? Was it a search party? Had there been some catastrophe on the fells? Had a plane crashed perhaps?
      In the dream I felt compelled to awaken my colleagues. We surely needed to do something to help. My team could make no sense of it either but, on balance, preferred to return to bed. I would not let them, however, and dragged them along to awaken the hotel owner to call the emergency services.
      He had the briefest glance out of the window, and said “*!!*%£!* three-peakers”. Harry realised what he meant. It seems that every night of summer people attempt to raise money for charity by climbing the three peaks (Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike, Snowdon) within 24 hours. Being the middle of the three, Scafell Pike is usually tackled at night.
      “It shouldn’t be allowed” I said “making such a racket in the middle of the night. Selfish buggers.”
      “But it’s in a good cause” Harry replied. “They’re doing nobody any harm. It’s a tough challenge they’ve taken on.”
      I tossed and turned in my bed as I argued this out with Harry. During this nightmare Harry made the startling revelation that he himself was, in fact, using this two-week Lake District expedition as a sponsored walk. What a liberty! How could Harry let me put all the work into arranging this trek and then secretly support a charity that I might not even approve of. Richard and Thomas were none too happy either.
      It is strange how a dream can make sense of odd events during the day. It explained why Harry ‘hopped behind a rock’ every few hundred yards. He was not responding to excessively frequent calls of nature. He was creating calls of his own, ‘tweets’ I believe they’re called, to his many ‘followers’. He had thousands of them, he said. They were tracking his progress on the fells, literally in many cases, it seemed, judging from all the apparent friends we met. So that’s why he wore such a uniquely colourful outfit - in order to be easily recognisable. He even admitted that in his tweets he refers to me as ‘mein führer’.
      In real life I am, of course, a man of the most equable temperament. I cannot understand those people who, at the mildest - or even the severest - provocation, resort to violence. There is no disagreement that cannot be resolved by reasonable discussion, I always say. But in a dream our inhibitions are loosened. Mine are, at least. I punched Harry. Hard. On the nose. Twice.
      At all events, that is how I remembered the dream when I awoke too early after an unpleasantly fitful night’s sleep.

Photos:  The rest of the crowd on the Scafell Pike cairn did not admire the view but spent their time consulting their technology to check that they were indeed on the top of Scafell Pike; Wasdale Head Inn.

At Your Beck and Fell

Away With the Councillors

Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary (September 22)

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 11

... Wasdale Head ...

      We were surprisingly quiet at breakfast, considering that we had just enjoyed a mountain walking day that could not be surpassed. Perhaps that was the problem. We realised that the best was over. From now on it was mainly a matter of completing our commitment, to walk on to Windermere. Harry was late joining us for breakfast, and when he did so he was strangely taciturn. He averted his gaze from us. When, at last, I managed to catch his eye I saw that his nose was badly bruised.
      I looked at Richard; Richard looked at Thomas; Thomas looked at me. We all looked at Harry. Nobody said anything. Could it be? Surely not. But things were beginning to make sense. As the realisation sank in, I felt the urge to punch his nose again but this was no longer a dream. Instead, I continued not to speak to him.
      The day ahead was a simple one. We were to complete the Mosedale Horseshoe, which meant that we did not have to carry all our gear with us. Or rather, the day would have been simple if the clouds were not halfway down the mountains. It is one of the delights of the Lake District that the weather on one day bears little relation to the weather on the next day. Yesterday, it was clear, blue sky; today, we could not see the sky at all. The basin of Mosedale was completely enclosed by dark, foreboding mountains cut off below their prime.
      As we set off alongside Mosedale Beck Harry loitered far behind. He found it difficult to do so because our progress was halted every few yards by Richard, who wanted to study a wheatear ahead of us with his binoculars and to take many photographs of it. The wheatear was a perky companion, settling by the path about ten yards ahead of us and, once Richard had completed his studies, flying on ahead as we approached. It was as if it was showing us the path forward.
      Fascinating though a wheatear may be, it grew increasingly frustrating to have to stand and wait while Richard completed his operations (and Harry feigned some reason to linger behind us). Eventually, Thomas and I found a side-path that enabled us to detour ahead of Richard and up towards the Black Sail Pass.

... Black Sail Pass ...

      As we walked along, Thomas explained Richard’s deep interest in bird-watching, which I had not previously been aware of. As a youth, Richard had become seriously addicted to birds. He became besotted with rare, exotic, vagrant birds and at the slightest whisper that such a bird had arrived in the UK he would be off on his motor-bike to spot it. He developed a reputation as a bird photographer, a skill which it takes many years of patient practice to perfect.
      He got to know all the leading British ornithologists and, over the years, he began to find this strange set of men (and a few women) even more fascinating than the birds. They had the most peculiar habits and customs. He began to take photographs of the bird-watchers rather than the birds. He became a bird-watcher-watcher.
      The bird-watchers didn’t mind too much. They were generally too engrossed in their birds to notice what Richard was up to. Richard, however, began to feel that there just weren’t enough opportunities for his bird-watcher-watching. And they were often many hundreds of miles away, on the Scilly Isles or in the Orkneys, for example, and by the time he arrived the bird-watchers, as well as the birds, had flown.
      So Richard began to spread ‘whispers’ of his own, that a particular rare bird had been spotted at some location convenient to him. He set himself up there in advance, so that he could take photographs of the bird-watchers as they arrived and set about their bird-watching rituals.
      Eventually and inevitably, Richard was rumbled. He was banished in disgrace. Since that day, Richard has never gone bird-watcher-watching or even bird-watching. He does, however, retain a deep interest in birds. It’s just that nowadays the birds have to come to him. He has no interest in building up a long tick-list of seen birds. He prefers to study in depth the behaviour of the individual birds that he sees in his own garden. He maintains meticulous records for every single bird, all of which he comes to consider a personal friend. By the time we reached Black Sail Pass he had gained a wheatear as a friend.

... Pillar ...

      We waited in the cloud at the crest of the pass. I didn’t want a repeat of the Fairfield fiasco. Then, however, the cloud was stationary, forming a thick mist. Here, it was swirling about, providing fleeting glimpses into the distance. It was like a thick, breezy drizzle.
      It then struck me that Harry had allowed me to be wracked with guilt at my irresponsible leadership in letting him get lost on the way to Fairfield, when in fact the incident was entirely due to him surreptitiously tweeting his followers. And I remembered that incident at the Black Sail Hut a few days ago when I was made a subject of ridicule. The bastard! I felt like losing him again, if I had the chance.
      When the three had at last gathered, I ostentatiously manipulated the map and compass, for I wanted them to appreciate the mastery with which I tackled these difficult conditions. In due course, I led them up the broad slope of Pillar but that, I felt, would not provide a worthy challenge, so I soon took them off onto the side path to Robinson’s Cairn.
      Needless to say, they had no idea who Robinson is or was, so I enlightened them. John Robinson was a local man who was part of the first rock-climbing fraternity. As the cairn’s plaque says “he knew and loved as none other, these his native crags and fells” - particularly the massive pinnacle of Pillar Rock, which we were approaching.
      I am sure, however, that I myself would have been more at ease with most of his co-climbers than with John Robinson, who was, no doubt, a rough local fellow. They were civilised men, like professors, who regarded rock-climbing as an academic challenge to their modest courage. If by some mishap one was left dangling by their finger-tips over some precipice he was liable to utter mild imprecations in Greek, with some apt quotation from Homer.
      One particular pioneer, Walter Haskett-Smith (I always feel that a man’s worth is proportional to the number of hyphens in his name +1 (the +1 is because I wouldn’t wish to imply that a hyphenless man is worthless)) considered that ‘artificial aids’ such as ropes, spikes and ladders should not be used because they were “a means by which bad climbers were enabled to go where none but the best climbers had any business to be”.
      I know exactly what he means. Although I haven’t given rock-climbing the benefit of my expertise, I often feel the same when walking the Lakeland fells. These are places that only the best fell-walkers have any business to be. I also approve of their diffident descriptions of their dangerous and difficult exploits, a tradition that continues to this day in the British ranking grades for the severity of rock-climbs, from ‘a doddle’ (actually, a real challenge) to ‘a trifle tricky’ (impossibly severe).
      The path to Robinson’s Cairn was narrow and exposed. The occasional glimpses of the cliffs nearby induced some trepidation in my colleagues. As we moved up a rock ridge and across some scree, fearsome visions of Pillar Rock itself reared ahead. I pointed out the steep cliffs and Walker’s Gully, so named because a man named Walker had fallen to his death there. This did not reassure them, as I anticipated. I sensed that they feared that I was leading them up Pillar Rock itself, a misconception that I was content to let lie. The face of Pillar Rock loomed ahead, appearing to block our way. We clambered up a traverse, with the head of the pinnacle to our right. Only then did I indicate the steep path up to the left.
      We soon reached the top of Pillar, where I paused for lunch and to give my team the chance to express everlasting gratitude for saving them from the extreme dangers of Pillar Rock. The rest of the walk passed uneventfully. As we dropped down to Wind Gap the cloud began to lift and by the time we reached Yewbarrow we could see late afternoon sunshine casting shadows over the magnificent valley of Wasdale.

Photos:  Bird-watcher-watching: bird-watchers in ‘action’; A glimpse of Pillar Rock as the cloud briefly lifted.

Cumbrian Weather: Another Book for Offcomers

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Fell-Runner

Barking up the Wrong Tree

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 12

... Wasdale Head ...

      At last I had them where I wanted them: completely in thrall to my supreme fell-craft. After I had single-handedly saved them from the perils of Pillar Rock, I would no longer have the irritation of my authority being challenged. I could not yet avoid the irritation of their company. Harry, of course, was persona non grata to us all after the revelation of his walking for charity. Richard’s pernickety ways were increasingly getting on my nerves. I strive for perfection too - and often achieve it - but I feel that fell-walking requires a certain amount of adaptive give-and-take. And Thomas was increasingly belly-aching at the continuing lack of the gourmet food to which he was accustomed.
      Mentally I had their measure now - and physically too. While I felt that I was only now getting into my stride, the others found more and more to complain about. Blisters, sore ankles, bad backs, dodgy knees. They had only a few more days of pain and misery, so I didn’t sympathise.
      I resolved not to take advantage of their misfortunes. Victory was in sight but I must be magnanimous. I decided, for example, to spare them the terrors (to them) of Lord’s Rake in reaching our first objective of Scafell. Instead, we would walk up the broad flank above Burnmoor Tarn, safe but dull though it is to a seasoned fellwalker like myself.
      As we set off along the path that leads to the tarn we caught up an elderly couple who were walking a dog. Caninology is one of the few subjects upon which I am not an expert. I cannot tell one breed of dog from another. I think, however, that I can safely call this dog a ‘pooch’. It was an overly cute, dainty dog, quite unsuited to fell-walking.
      Harry soon fell in with them, as is his custom. At least, he fell in with the woman and the pooch. The man - no doubt, the husband, as he was silent from decades of practice - kept apart. The woman was remarkably jovial and chatty, and was delighted to regale Harry with details of the pooch’s history, nature, customs, and so on. The pooch itself bounded happily about the path. I was hardly listening but even I couldn’t help feeling that it was a fine dog indeed.
      And then it bit Harry. He had absent-mindedly reached out and the pooch had clamped its teeth around a finger. It was yanked off the ground as Harry tried to shake his finger free. Harry, naturally, let forth a stream of swearwords. I assumed that the woman, a dignified lady, would be quite offended but as soon as she had the opportunity she replied in kind. If I may censor her response, the gist of it was that it served Harry right: the poor dog was understandably alarmed by the hideous purple-pink outfit. I had become accustomed to it by now but I felt that she had a point.
      Meanwhile, Richard leapt into action. This was the moment he had come prepared for. A real emergency, at last. He rummaged in his vast backpack and soon found his first-aid kit and immediately attended to the wound. While the argument raged between Harry and the woman, the husband continued to stand apart. He looked over to the depths of Wastwater, perhaps reflecting that he wouldn’t be the first to drop a wife there. I joined him, but I didn’t interrupt his profound thoughts.
      As we ignored the argument, a noise gradually intruded upon our thoughts. A farmhand, shouting, was racing a buggy up the track. In this commotion, we had forgotten the pooch. Then I saw it, way up the fell, racing around, yapping at the heels of the Herdwicks. Hardy sheep though they are, they are not used to sheepdogs gathering them up in such a fashion and as a result they were careering headlong down the slope.
      The buggy stopped and, without a pause, the farmhand raised a rifle and shot the dog. The argument abruptly stopped. He drove up to collect the corpse and returned to us. “Was this yours?” he said. The woman began to swear at him and he swung round to her, brandishing his rifle and I thought for a brief moment that he was going to shoot her as well. The husband became alert with anticipation. But he just dropped the dog at her feet and drove off, muttering, with some pride it seemed, “Twenty-three this year”.

... Scafell ...

      I got the team moving up the Green How flank. We made steady progress but I noticed that Richard had extricated one of those little books from his backpack, as he often did, and was perturbed about something. So I asked him and he said “According to Wainwright, this route ‘is as much out of fashion as the Victorians who favoured it’.”
      “Well, so what?” I said. It was as though we were not allowed to walk somewhere without Wainwright’s approval. “Do you want to get stuck in Lord’s Rake? Do you want to climb Broad Stand? Do you want to walk through Mickledore to Foxes Tarn and up the other side?”
      He didn’t. We continued to Scafell where we did not linger but pressed on down the fine ridge to Slight Side. As we dropped down from Slight Side I began a lecture about the Hard Knott Roman camp that we were approaching: AD 120; Mediobogdum; 100 yards square; 500 soldiers; cohort of Dalmatians; between Ambleside and Ravenglass camps; 5 feet thick wall; earth embankment; abandoned by AD 400. I felt it my duty to enlighten my colleagues as we went along.
      Every so often Richard would pause and study the camp ahead with his binoculars. All these little stops were quite anoying, so I asked him what the problem was this time. He said “Well, it looks like the Romans are still there.”

... Hard Knott ...

      What was he talking about now? I took the binoculars. It was very strange. There were four pinkish blobs on the site of the camp. It was desecration: it was like someone had pressed their bubble-gum on the Mona Lisa.
      As we approached the camp, it gradually became clearer. There were four tents within the camp site. Surely people were not so stupid as to think that a Roman camp is a camp site for tents? As I surveyed the scene, I became quite angry. These people had ruined the tour of the site that I had planned. Not only that but they were showing disrespect for our heritage. Can you imagine a family having a barbecue in the middle of Stonehenge or tobogganing down Silbury Hill? Yes, actually, I think I can. People today do not appreciate the past. If it is not illegal to camp at Hard Knott then it should be.
      The tents appeared to be deserted but as we neared them we noticed two people sitting on a wall - a Roman wall that has stood here unmolested for nearly 2000 years! I was livid. I told them what I thought but they seemed incapable of understanding. I began tearing out all the tent pegs. They stepped up to stop me but my three men, at last providing the support I deserve, stood before them. I soon had all four tents flat, in crumpled heaps. Unfortunately, there was no wind to blow them away but at least they were unusable in that condition. I stuffed the tent pegs in my backpack and marched off, my men hurrying after me. I only recovered after an evening at Black Hall farm of the type that only traditional Cumbrian farmhouses provide.

Photos: The pooch; The Hardknott camp site.

Bluebird Flies Again

Farrago in Court

The Legends of Lakeland 26: The origin of mountain-climbing

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 13

... Black Hall ...

      We set out promptly, crossed Cockley Beck Bridge, and headed straight up the slopes of Grey Friar. That’s the way to tackle Grey Friar - immediately, to get it over with. Grey Friar is one of those hills that lacks distinction. The slopes are dull. There is little of interest on the top. And it is not on the way anywhere (unless you are tackling it from an odd direction, like us).
      So we were surprised to find, when we reached the top, that a couple were already there, sipping champagne in some sort of celebration. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would celebrate reaching the top of Grey Friar, but Harry soon found out why. It seemed that the man had just completed a challenge to reach the top of the 60 highest peaks of the Lake District in the 60 days before his 60th birthday.
      How ridiculous! Why do people set themselves these challenges? Can they not appreciate fell-walking for its intrinsic merits, taking the rough with the smooth, accepting rainy days as well as sunny days, without feeling the need to tick off mountains on some arbitrary list? It never occurred to me to count the mountains conquered in our two weeks. That was not the point at all. But at least I could understand why Grey Friar was the last of his 60 peaks.
      I let my men join the celebration for a while as I surveyed the scene. The only thing to say in Grey Friar’s favour is that it provides a fine view, especially towards the Scafell region. Here, arrayed before us, were the peaks that we had so recently climbed. It was with some pride that I pointed this out to my colleagues, and even they were impressed with what they had achieved. I then turned our gaze 180 degrees towards our main objective for the day, the Old Man of Coniston. It looked easy walking, so we set off in good spirits.

... Old Man of Coniston ...

      First I took the men on a slight detour to the cairn on Swirl How, in order that they may appreciate the view into Greenburn. We then strode south, over the gentle rise of Brim Fell, and on to the Old Man. The name alone ensures that the Old Man is many people’s favourite fell, almost a member of the family. For many fell-walkers it is recalled fondly as the first Lake District hill they walked up, for it is a favourite expedition for tourists staying in the village of Coniston. The large platform on the top is usually awash with walkers, some of whom no doubt are there taking pride in that first conquest. I wandered apart to look at what we had mastered: High Street, Fairfield, Helvellyn, Blencathra, Skiddaw, Scafell Pike and, yes, even Grey Friar.
      However, as I looked south, over Coniston Water, I could see clouds approaching. I moved the men on, towards the path to Low Water. We were soon in amongst the dereliction of the abandoned quarries. The other three were intrigued by the huge piles of slates, the rusty old machinery, and the various fenced-off shafts. They even found a shaft that was not fenced off and asked me for permission to have a look inside. We were well ahead of schedule and coasting home on our last couple of days, so I let them wander in.
      I settled myself nearby to wait for them. I surveyed the desolation around me. The clouds were now closing in, to help augment this scene of utter bleakness. It is ironic that perhaps the most popular Lake District walk should pass this region so unlike our image of idyllic Lakeland. But, of course, there are old mines, quarries and other industries on many Lake District hills. Most have been so long abandoned that they have almost merged back into the hills. But not here on the Old Man.
      As I sat there, my mind wandered to think of the many men, perhaps up to a thousand on the Coniston hills, who had such a hard life mining these tough hills. Perhaps my three colleagues were getting a stronger impression of this hard life. Where were they? Fifteen minutes had passed.
      I returned to my reveries. I wondered what they mined here. The Coppermines ex-Youth Hostel gives us a clue. Perhaps there was more than copper. The different colours of the tarns suggests many different minerals.
      Where were they? Another ten minutes. I was getting cold: a drizzle was settling in. I peered into the shaft. I could see a tunnel at the end of the light. Beyond that, nothing. I could hear nothing either. I shouted in. An echo, but no response. This was most unreasonable. They couldn’t expect me to just sit and wait. So I shouted in that I’d set off for Coniston. I’d dawdle along, so that they could catch me up. They couldn’t possibly get lost on a path as clear this.

... Coniston ...

      I reached our hotel in Coniston and signed in. “Will your friends be joining you?” asked the man.
      “They’ll be along in a minute” I said. I went up to my room and had a leisurely shower. I then wandered down to the bar.
      “Will your friends be joining you?” asked the man.
      “They’ll be along in a minute” I said. I was quite enjoying the solitude. It made a pleasant change after the enforced company of the last thirteen days. I had learned to tolerate their strange ways, despite the many difficulties they had caused me. Now I had the opportunity to relax and reflect on all the fine walking that I had done. I strolled into the restaurant and sat down at a table set for the four of us.
      “Will your friends be joining you?” asked the man.
      “They’ll be along in a minute” I said. I partook of a rather challenging mulligatawny. And then a Westmorland sausage (I do like to flout convention sometimes). Followed, as always, by sticky toffee pudding, which is said to have been ‘invented’ at Sharrow Bay in the Lake District in the 1970s.
      Afterwards I retreated to the bar. Where were they? It was not like them, especially Thomas, to be late for their evening meal. I thought that I had better check with the man at reception. No, they had not signed in. He asked when I had last seen them and I explained about the mines on the Old Man - at which point he became rather concerned. “You’d better ring Mountain Rescue” he said, passing me the number and a phone.
      It all seemed a bit melodramatic to me but I did as he suggested. I told them exactly where the men had gone and without so much as a ‘thank you’ they said “We’re on our way”. I didn’t even have time to offer to help them but I don’t think I intended to anyway. I’m sure Mountain Rescue know what they’re doing. So, confident that I had done everything that I possibly could to help, I went to bed, where I had my most contented sleep for some time.

Photos:  Cockley Beck Bridge; An old Coniston mine; Sticky toffee pudding

Drama in Court: Ladies’ Bigamy Case Halted

The Way We Were, with Solomon Seal

The Wild Places: Another Book for Offcomers

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 14

... Coniston ...

      I came down to breakfast with quite an appetite. And there they all were. I had forgotten about them. They stood as one, to shake my hand and thank me profusely for saving them from disaster in the Coniston mine. I insisted: “It was nothing”. But, no, they were adamant. They were most impressed by my wisdom in not entering the shaft myself to find them. That way, they said, all four of us might have been lost forever. “Yes, of course” I said.
      It seemed that they had walked into the shaft using a torch that Richard had with him. But when they were far inside Harry had dropped the torch into a deep pool. The mine became pitch black. They had kept together, struggling along trying to find a way back, but had become more and more lost. Eventually, they had decided to sit tight to save energy, knowing that their leader outside would know exactly what to do in this emergency. “Quite right” I said. It was very sensible, they said, to call the expert Mountain Rescue team. “Yes indeed” I agreed.
      After breakfast, Thomas quickly replenished our stocks, for the last time. “One day to go” he said. There were two actually, but an end-of-term feeling had crept in, so I didn’t correct him. Today, however, we had a long walk ahead of us. From Coniston we walked first to Wetherlam. The route I had planned for the whole walk did not involve any retracing of steps but I made an exception this morning. My companions had come down the Coppermines path in the dark last night, so I thought it only fair to return that way and then cut over Lad Stones to Wetherlam. From Wetherlam I took us down the edge past various pits, shafts and workings on Tilberthwaite Fell but my companions were somewhat disinterested in them. From the abandoned mine buildings below the reservoir we walked below Rough Crags to Wrynose Bridge and then up Pike o’ Blisco.

... Crinkle Crags ...

      We paused at the top of Pike o’ Blisco (which Richard noticed the Ordnance Survey, as pedantic as himself, insists is Pike of Blisco) to admire the classic view of Langdale, with thin rain clouds adding a rainbow tinge to the hills opposite. Over to the left was arrayed our next objective, Crinkle Crags.
      I could see a large party of walkers toiling up the path to the first crinkle. They seemed to be making slow progress. In fact, as I studied them, they seemed to be making no progress at all. Some seemed to be lolling about, perhaps having a snack break. Others were milling around as though they were looking for something. I couldn’t work it out at all. We set off in their direction and as we approached I realised that they were workers, not walkers. They were repairing the worn footpath by setting large slabs that had been deposited on the hillside by helicopter.
      This admirable work, sadly so necessary in the Lake District nowadays, was being funded by a European disdisablisation programme, whereby popular footpaths are made usable by the disabled. Very commendable, I thought. The Council had naturally decided to tackle the most popular paths, such as that over Crinkle Crags, first. I was a little puzzled how the disabled would get up here to appreciate this fine work but I didn’t ask any awkward questions to cast any doubt upon it.
      However, as we continued to chat to the workers, we found out that the plan was to continue this smooth, almost level, path all the way over Crinkle Crags to the foot of Bowfell. ‘Decrinkling’ they called it. This, I felt, was many steps too far. You can’t smooth out the crinkles! The workers assured me that they would leave the Crinkle Crags profile unchanged, so that it may continue to be admired from Langdale and elsewhere. Their path for everyone would be hidden behind.
      Harry, Richard and Thomas seemed to regret that the path didn’t exist already, especially as they confronted the second crinkle. I let them grapple with the difficulty of climbing the mini-cliff before leading them safely round the side. The up-and-down traverse was its usual delight: I could scarcely believe the sacrilegious plan to smooth it out. I, for one, would ignore the new path if it ever existed.

... Bowfell ...

      On the top of Bowfell we observed a curious incident. A man who had been sitting having a snack there stood up and before he had taken more than a step or two to continue his walk he tripped himself up and completed an ungraceful somersault, landing with a considerable thud. I had no sympathy for such a clumsy oaf but Richard and Harry hurried over. Richard patched up a nasty gash on his hip but could not help solve the main problem, which was that the fall had broken the man’s belt. Appearing none the worse for his tumble (he was no doubt somewhat simple at the best of times), he set off with an “Only ten miles to go: I’ll be alright”, hoisting up his trousers every few yards. Perhaps those workers are right: maybe we do need safe paths everywhere. I took it as a warning to avoid silly accidents, so near the end of our pilgrimage.

... Dungeon Ghyll ...

      From Bowfell we walked down The Band into Langdale. We dropped into Dungeon Ghyll for a well-deserved pint in what the owners advertise as “Cumbria’s best kept secret”, which is rather self-defeating. It was all very relaxed and convivial. Richard perplexed the owner by asking to see the dungeon but otherwise all was well.
      Until we went to sign in. Then we found out, as the owner insisted, that we had no booking. So far, I must concede, my team had carried out their duties well. Apart from our little misunderstanding in Coledale, our evening stays had gone smoothly. Thomas had kept us adequately nourished; and Richard had been fully prepared for all eventualities (apart from Harry dropping his torch in a pool).
      Harry was not the most organised individual but eventually he managed to extract from his backpack a scrap of paper confirming the booking. The owner looked at it and immediately put it down. “This is The Old Dungeon Ghyll” he snapped, and turned away. Harry’s booking was for The New Dungeon Ghyll, which was a mile or so down the valley. This, I felt, was a shame as I was rather fond of the original Dungeon Ghyll. I don’t know the history of the two Dungeon Ghylls in detail, or whether there is or was any animosity between them, but of course originally there was only one Dungeon Ghyll. It didn’t need to call itself ‘Old Dungeon Ghyll’ then. But when the second place set itself up and had the nerve to adopt ‘New Dungeon Ghyll’ as its name the first must have felt obliged to add the ‘Old’. I don’t see why myself: York didn’t call itself Old York in response to New York.

Photos:  Langdale from Pike o’ Blisco; Cumbria’s best kept secret (it says so along the bottom); The Dungeon Ghyll Hotel (it says so on the wall).

The Lake District National Park-and-Ride Scheme

The Original Twelve Days of Christmas

The Life of Dame Mary Merewether

Corrections and Elucidations

Four Men in Their Boots, Day 15

... Dungeon Ghyll ...

      Invigorated by the thought that this was our last morning, we set off up the steep path to Stickle Tarn. Steep it was but also brief compared to many earlier climbs and we were soon beside the tarn. I had intended that we should climb at least one of the Langdale Pikes but when it came to it there were rather a lot of nobbles to choose from, so we didn’t. We felt no need to exert ourselves now. Instead we turned right and made our way over the undulating, indistinct ridge of Blea Crag, Swinescar Pike and Spedding Crag. It made a change to be off the beaten path and away from other walkers. Here, we could amble across, with nothing to worry about, lost in our own thoughts.

... Loughrigg ...

      Cutting above Redbank Wood, we reached the Loughrigg Terrace above Grasmere. This is the most touristic setting but nonetheless appealing. I stirred the men for one last effort, to climb the modest peak of Loughrigg Fell in order to better appreciate the view.
      Grasmere and Rydal were a picture below but the real reason I had persuaded them up here was higher. This lowly eminence provided a surprisingly wide-ranging view of many of the hills we had walked upon. To the east lay the Yoke - Ill Bell - Froswick ridge that we had strode upon on our first full day, so long ago. High Street was hidden but next we could see on the horizon Red Screes to Fairfield, where we had lost Harry. We could see the beginnings of the Helvellyn ridge and, through the Dunmail Raise gap above Grasmere, Skiddaw, where we had been drenched. So far away ... had we really walked all the way there and back in a great loop?
      We sat there for some time reliving our adventures. We could not see Grasmoor, High Spy, Great Gable or Pillar, but we remembered well what happened there. Next on the horizon were the Langdale Pikes, where we were but this morning, and then Bowfell and Crinkle Crags of the day before. They obscured the highest point of Scafell Pike, where we had our glorious day, but there was a glimpse of Scafell. And then, further round, the Old Man of Coniston, where I saved the men from tragedy.
      We savoured the scene and our many accomplishments within it. It was Harry who, in an unusual spasm of urgency, moved us on. He led us southwest towards Ambleside, spread out below us. We entered a sheltered hollow by Lily Tarn and came upon a large marquee with many people standing outside, for it was a fine, sunny day.
      Clearly, this was an event of some significance for it to be given permission to put up a marquee here. As we neared, Harry strode ahead and began shaking hands with all and sundry. We were surrounded by a crowd, thrusting glasses of champagne into our hands, slapping us on the back, shouting “Well done”, and so on. I didn’t know what was going on but I felt relaxed about it all. Nothing could go wrong now, for we had only a gentle stroll to Windermere railway station ahead of us.
      I fear that I had rather too much champagne too quickly for an empty stomach and I did not fully absorb what Harry said when eventually he introduced us to the people he had shaken hands with. Some were officials of the charity for which he had gained sponsorship. They were most grateful to me for all I had done on their behalf.
      There were also a number of local dignitaries. A Mrs Bubble, who was something to do with the council, thanked us on behalf of the county of Cumbria. Someone who was introduced as Charles’s mother (although I never found out who Charles was) gave a little speech about a magnificent contribution to tourism in the Lake District. A nice young girl called Abigail said something about our adding to the culture of the Lake District but I have no idea what she meant. Not sure she did either. And then a Major Dobby Smith, and a Judge, Michael Thwaite ... who were all these people?
      I was increasingly befuddled and bewildered by all this nonsensical adulation. In my haze I began to recognise some faces among this great crowd of people. Over by the barrels (where else?) were some Friends of Mardale Green. They waved me over for some beer. It doesn’t really mix with champagne but I didn’t care anymore. I felt like unwinding. After a while I realised, rather too late, that there was a substantial buffet in the marquee.
      I noticed, standing alone by the tarn, that young Dutch couple, who I had developed such an affection for on Green Gable. What fine brave youngsters they were! I went over to give them a hug. Standing even more alone was that foolish fellow who broke his belt on Bowfell. He said he had come to say thank you, which I graciously accepted. But I didn’t hug him.
      A group chatting to Harry were vaguely familiar. After some prompting, I remembered them as that jolly crowd we had fallen in with at Skiddaw House when we sheltered from the rain. And another group - were they the ones at Black Sail who laughed at me? I found it hard to focus on them. Perhaps I should have gone and sorted them out but I couldn’t be bothered now.
      It all felt a bit like the end of a pantomime, when the cast all gather on the stage to take a bow. Most of the characters you’d hardly noticed before. And there were many of them here too. Harry had said hello to so many people I could hardly be expected to remember who they all were. And there were some people here I’m sure I’d not met before. There was a lovely lady, Sheila Corker. Somebody said she liked to run naked on the hills. I asked her to show me but she said “Not here”. I think that means “Yes, somewhere else”. So that’s promising. I have her phone number here, or somewhere.
      She was having a laugh, reminiscing with a constable, PC Pennystone, I think. I don’t know why the police needed to be in attendance - perhaps because of the Friends, who are notoriously rowdy, as they were becoming here. There were also a couple of religious people, a Reverend Fenella and a Canon Limpet (ridiculous name but I think that’s what he said!). Talked mainly to each other, which was just as well. No idea why they were here. Nothing remotely religious about our long walk. And there was a jovial Irishman, Seamus Dannybeck. He seemed the life and soul of the whole party. What a credit he was to that fine body of people, the Irish! Another group accosted me. Seemed rather earnest. Didn’t catch all their names - Peter, Sue, Myrtle, I think. Wanted me to be honorarary president of some society or other. Well, I was the worse for wear but they can’t catch me out as easy as that. Said I’d think about it, whatever it was.
      And there was dear Sheila. Have I mentioned her? Lovely Sheila. “Sweet little Sheila, you’ll know her if you see her; Blue eyes and a ponytail; Cheeks are rosy, she looks a little nosy; Man, this little girl is fine”. Nice song - by, who was it?, Buddy Holly?, if it wasn’t him it should have been - but not a good description of Sheila. She’s no little girl: she’s a real woman.
      Where were my friends? My dear friends. My best friends. I’m always looking for them. Didn’t we have to move on? Which way to Ambleside? There was much cheerio-ing and thankyou-ing but at last we moved on. I think we did. We moved anyway. The path was much rockier than before. I had trouble keeping on it but my three friends grabbed an arm each and walked me along. No, that can’t be right. Whatever, between them, we moved.

... Ambleside ...

      Somehow we were sat in a tea shop in Ambleside with four black coffees. The others helped me to the toilet, which I made full use of. I said hi to everybody in the cafe but they weren’t as friendly as my good Friends of Mardale Green - or super Sheila (where was she now?, I wondered). They just muttered “disgraceful”, “appalling”, “this time of day!”. What time of day was it anyway? No idea.
      I don’t think they knew who I was. So I told them. “While you’ve been sat here for two weeks with your cake and tea, I’ve been to the tippy top of hundreds of mountains. Maybe thousands. And I’ve just been shaking hands with Mrs Bubble, and nice Abby, and Charles’s mum, and Major Dobby and lovely Sheila. 'Never knew a girl like a little Sheila; Her name drives me insane ...'". I was made to sit down.
      Richard was studying a piece of paper that he’d got out of his backpack. Various numbers were being batted about: five five five four thirty two six fifteen ... I insisted on paying my share but I was told not to worry. So I didn’t. Next thing I knew I was on a bus. This didn’t seem quite right. Weren’t we supposed to walk to Forrest Head or somewhere? I was told not to worry. So I didn’t. “Me and Sheila go for a ride; Oh-oh-oh-oh, I feel all funny inside; Then little Sheila whispers in my ear; Oh-oh-oh-oh, I love you Sheila dear ...”
      I may have dozed off. I don’t remember anything until I was being pushed onto a train. I was told not to worry. So I didn’t. My magnificent three friends would look after me. I was nearly asleep ... YYYYYYYYYYYYYYY ....

Photos:  Lily Tarn; 555 bus.

Appendix: Notes on the Rainy Day Rambles Manuscript

These Boots

Save Our Sausage

Tak Hod: A Book for Offcomers

Four Men in Their Boots

You Don’t Need a Weatherman ...

Plane Sailing on Windermere

The Way We Were, with Silas Jessop

The Fairy Fell Roundelay

Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary (June 15)

What Bare-Faced Cheek?

Nature Notebook

High Society

Low Brow Opening

Mrs Mudderdale’s Diary (August 13)

How Pathétique

Nun the Wiser

The Tale of Squire Ruskin

Hawkshead 3 Windermere 4

Pen Your Pimp

The Duke of Westminster’s A to Z

A Word’s Worth

One Fell Swoop

Border Conflicts

Many Happy Returns to Bassenthwaite

At Your Beck and Fell

The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Fell-Runner

Bluebird Flies Again

Farrago in Court

The Legends of Lakeland

The Way We Were, with Solomon Seal

The Wild Places

The Lake District National Park-and-Ride Scheme

The Life of Dame Mary Merewether

Note about the Photographs

    © John Self, Drakkar Press