Month: July 2011

Over a very civilised breakfast next morning, the landlord, not David, waxes lyrical about Pennine rain, something he seems to relish. Then just as we are finishing breakfast he tells us about some local art installation thing. It’s a pinfold by Andy Goldsbury, and its “just down the road” beyond where we turn off to rejoin the track. Many people might have found this a bit vague. Certainly John and Trish were not sucked in to the idea of seeing it, but of course it was just the sort of thing we would find irresistibly attractive. Even before we had repassed the crazed dog, still hurling itself against the glass, we both knew we were going to look for it. Not that we knew what we were looking for exactly. Or indeed where we should look exactly. But you sort of feel that you will know art when you see it. Unfortunately we never did see it. Even though we now know that we came quite close, it was not “just down the road”. Whether we would have recognised it had we got there is a question which will remain unanswered, as we turned round and retraced our steps to Knott Lane in order to rejoin the track. In compensation we did locate a stone circle by the side of the lane, and failed to herd up two straying sheep escaped from their field. (Very stubborn creatures, sheep.)

Back on the track, then. In retrospect, the walk from Orton to Kirkby Stephen was a most pleasant one. It begins over soft sheep-cropped grass fields enclosed by stone walls beneath Orton Scar. There are views to Howgill Fells. After a short moorland detour you come to Sunbiggin Tarn “an important bird sanctuary” rather lacking in birds today.

After the Tarn there is a short section of road where Ray spots a rare flower.

Then this very varied day continues over more moorland, then farmland, via a cow blocked gate to “One of the most important prehistoric sites in Britain”, apparently, being the Severals Village Settlement (Unexcavated!!) Whilst it looks no more than a field, you must not walk on it. It is all very pretty hereabouts, however, and we stop for lunch just by it, sitting by flower encrusted limestone pavement with a view down into Smardale Bridge. Across the valley are the ‘Giants Graves’ (Rabbit enclosures? Pillow mounds? No one seems sure.)

Down in the valley there is a bridge across the Scandal Beck, a few ‘hairy cooos’, a disused railway line (Tebay to Kikby Stephen), sunshine, and lots of little fish in the stream. Then its up and up again, alongside that very long wall, to see a view of the distant Smardale Viaduct.

The track continues up over Smardale Fell. Once over the crest we should see views of Kirkby Stephen, but we don’t. We can certainly see the Pennines, however, and they are close now. We descend, join a road, then turn back through fields and cross underneath the Settle to Carlisle Line.

After a diversion around the very muddy yard of Greenriggs Farm we enter the back lanes of Kirkby Stephen. Shortly these same lanes spit us out into the throbbing centre of the town. It is only the B6270, but it feels as though the town straddles the A1. There are lorries aplenty, cars, buses and motorbikes. Women with buggies and schoolkids on bikes throng the pavements. Noise. Confusion. We’ve been countrified for too long evidently. The up side of town life is, of course, the Tea Shop. Words cannot fully express the pleasure which can be enjoyed at this stage of the day from a cup of tea and a piece of lemon drizzle cake!

Ah, Kirkby Stephen, the northern equivalent of Totnes, capital of weird. Opposite the tea shop is Old Croft House, our B&B for the night. It is indeed an old house. A slightly rusty iron gate prefaces the solid front door. Inside, dark wooden panelling and red painted walls; a quirky suit of armour holding white gloves in the hallway.

The landlady hopes we weren’t hoping for an evening meal. Officially we were, but after yesterday our expectations have relaxed somewhat. She’s too busy to cook as she is moving out on Friday. Not going far though. Only to the other end of the village to enjoy a sort of retirement. “Couldn’t leave Kirkby!”

She ushers us upstairs, past an enormous book clad wall. “Weathers not good tomorrow.”

Our room is not so much a bedroom, more a fairy glade. Clashing green and pink walls are surmounted by a fabric covered ceiling gathered together in the centre. It gives the impression of a large tent. The walls are hung with numerous fairy pictures. The small colourful bathroom is crammed with bathing products and includes a foot spa. The bed is old fashioned and high, and it is rather dark in the room. Too dark to read anyway. I suppose that, given the unusual surroundings, it is not surprising that we have our first and only falling out of the walk here. THE BOOK has to take some of the responsibility for this, as it turns out that I am not the only one to be spooked by the description of the way over Nine Standards Rigg… the poor paths, the deep bogs.. especially the deep bogs. I am worried. Instead of keeping this to myself I have to tell Ray, and I have to go on about alternative paths, and what happens if the mist is down, and so on and so forth. I feel better after our discussion, but he does not.

Following a rest we hit the high spots of KS. Namely the Church (Cathedral of the Dales with Viking Loki Stone), the furlong signpost, and the Temperance Hall and Hotel. We even hear and then see one of the flock of large blue Macaws that roam the town by day and home at night. (Quirky? KS?? Nooo)

With the matter of tomorrow not settled between us, and the weather deteriorating, it was a bit of an unquiet night.

(Although not as much as it was for John and Trish sleeping next door who claimed that their room was haunted!)

Wake up in The Hermitage on another bright and beautiful morning. No pressure today as we have a short ‘recovery’ day of 8 miles. The main route carries on to Kirkby Stephen, some 20 miles away, but we are going to make the less stressful detour to Orton, and stop there for the night. Outside the beautifully maintained garden is bathed in sunlit dewiness, and there is already someone up a ladder painting the windows. There is a fantastic breakfast. I think it’s the only actual FULL English I have on the entire trip, witness to yesterdays exertions, and its really good. Even the marmalade seems special. Everyone seems cheerful too. Even the painter. “Well, you av to take advantage of dry weather round ere!”

I am foolishly excited about crossing the M6. All this nature we have seen, and I am thinking about a motorway. Something not right there surely. The walk through Shap is surprisingly long. It is a brilliant example of that ‘O’ level geography settlement phenomenon, the ‘Ribbon Development’. It is hard to imagine now what it must have been like here when the village was on the main and only western route for most of the traffic going to Scotland. Particularly quiet and empty on this Sunday morning, it must have then been thronged with lorries and fumes. It is still the highest main road in the country, and I can remember in early life hearing news report about traffic stranded in the snow at Shap.

It’s a 20 minute walk out to the bridge over the M6, through houses and then over fields. In the distance over to the right you can clearly see the Lakeland Fells, and even make out Kidsty Pike. This occasions a twinge of regret. As Wainwright says, leaving the Lakes is sad, and in some ways the best of the walk is now over. On the other hand there is a sense of achievement. We made it across the lakes with legs and feet in working order. The next section is into the unknown, as neither of us knows much about Westmorland, so that is exciting too. Onwards, then, across that motorway!!

Crossing the M6 does not disappoint. After days of foot paced travel the cars seem to be going at rocket speed. How can they go so fast?? We fail to capture it on camera anyway… no wide angled lens, it looks like any old dual carriageway.

The route continues via a quarry, and on up over some moorland still in view of the M6.It is already getting hot, or maybe its just me.A shady break is taken under some obliging trees before we emerge onto another moory treeless expanse. One thing you learn on this walk is that, as with bogs so it is with moors. There are many different types. This one is a limestone type of moor.

Just off to the right there is, allegedly, an ancient stone circle. Wainwright mentions it as a double circle. Of course Raymond, that renowned antiquites bagger, is off across the tussocks with stone detector on ‘stun’ before you can say ‘are you sure th…’. Clearly feeling the effects of yesterday my enthusiasm for this is low. Nevertheless the circle is found, admired and photographed. Afterwards the path is also refound. It’s a strange thing to me, but if you go off of the path on moors or bogs for only a short distance, it disappears completely from view. There’s something perceptual and philosophical going on there. Deep.

A short distance up the track we meet an American waiting patiently for his wife, who has also gone in search of the stones. They later become known as Bob and Priscilla, a couple from Connecticut with a liking for Real Ale and British puddings.

Soon after this Ray is taken with a field of thistles! In the context of the rest of the day this particular wildflower spotting proves to be rather insignificant. Next we see the limestone pavements as we approach Crosby Ravensworth Fell. Something I have only seen on TV or in books. Yes there really are clints and grykes, and yes they really do have little rock gardens growing down in them

The distant horizon now reveals the Pennines, our next objective, and a sight to carry us forward if one were needed.

The legs are weary, and at one point we descend and ascend the sharp sides of a little dry valley. When we emerge onto a road we realise that in that valley must have been the cairn with the unlikely claim of being Robin Hoods Grave. Ray is put out. We have missed an antiquity (To be fair we don’t miss any others. It only happened this time because I had THE BOOK, and my navigation is pants. I’ve never got much of an idea how far along a path we are.) If I were anything of a wife I would have insisted on going back. Sad to say, I only thought about my aching legs, and wasn’t keen to go backwards. I now regret this failing deeply, and would most humbly like to apologise dear Ray. (Whilst knowing that this doesn’t in any way make up for my selfishness…)

Anyway, we didn’t get to see Robin Hood’s ‘Grave’. We walked on instead up a somewhat boring section of road until we reach a viewpoint where I receive a photography lesson.

Same path, two shots. They do look completely different.

On past a lime kiln where a group of Australians are having a photo stop. Then we turn off the main track.

From this point we descend towards Orton, alongside the MOST beautiful stream. Wildflowers are everywhere in profusion as we cross and recross the tinkling stream on small picturesque bridges. There are so many different kinds you can hardly believe what you see. It really is a kind of bucolic idyll, and makes you feel that perhaps the countryside isn’t so doomed after all whilst also making you wonder if it was mostly like this before THE CAR.

You want this little path to last and last, but when we eventually emerge into Orton it is like walking onto the film set for Middlemarch. The path comes out between beautiful gold coloured Georgian style manor houses, not even on a tarmac road. It is an uncanny feeling, taken with the lovely path. Like time travel.

It is about 1.30, so we are in time for a pub lunch, even if they close in the afternoon. The recently reopened George Hotel is easily found. Its very quiet indeed for a Sunday. There is a TV, but its fairly small and unintrusive. It is also relaying sound consistent with the programme being shown (football) unlike those wall sized TVs in many pubs these days. I demand a beef burgher – rather out of character. I am starving again. More beer please. Course, we shouldn’t have too much as we have an evening meal booked at the B&B. A sumptuous 3 course affair according to our information.

Later we proceed outside for a large ice cream from the Orton Chocolate Factory. Yum. The chocolate Factory itself is similar to the small enterprises in Swansea and Pembertons in Llanboidy, except that it has a large café area and a bigger shop than I have seen elsewhere. The chocolate novelty items on sale are awesomw in their variety. Unfortunately not likely to survive in a rucksack, so we buy a couple of bars. After that, time to spare until we can check in about 4.00, so atour of the village reveals more beautiful houses, a shop and post office, a set of stocks and a church – All Saints – with a white tower.

The proprietors of Barn House will be waiting for us with tea and cakes we are told, so when we pass a village Strawberry Tea event with union jacks flying we resist temptation in spite of the friendly shout, “Come on in. We’ve got plenty to spare!!”

There’s a school here too. What must it be like to live here? Can’t help but wonder if it is a idyllic as it seems.

Our B&B is outside the village at the side of a little housing development, inside one of which a barking dog is hurling itself furiously against the glass by the front door. (One of the very few dogs we saw en route, and the only unfriendly one I can remember.)

Our landlady for the night is busy in the garden when we get there. No tea and cakes in evidence. It seems that Lilian and David have moved on… Disappointing! Later the second disappointment when no evening meal seems to be forthcoming. Although we later find out this is because the pub is now open, it would have been nice to know. (Mickeldore failure we later realise, when it happens again in Kirkby Stephen.) The house seems to have been purpose built for B&B, as the guest half is self contained. Our room has its own staircase up to modern arty interior decorated with posters from the Tate Gallery and tones of Shocking pink and Lime green. Lots of magazines. I find a recipe for Sloe Whisky.

Later, back in the pub, we meet up with John and Trish, and there is much talk of Golf and related matters. Not something we can really contribute much on.

Everyone knows that this is ‘the biggie’. Everyone knows it’s the longest day, the most ascent etc, even if its not true. This is the day you have to get through, when your knees may go, or your Achilles or whatever.

For us it’s a day to go off route. Wainwright said you should make your own Coast to Coast, and not slavishly follow the proscribed path. Well today is it. It is quite a good feeling, thinking that our decisions are our own, for a short distance at least.

Amazingly, it is again a lovely day, and all my alternative bad weather plans for buses at two o’clock to Penrith, or a boat up the lake to Pooley Bridge, are surplus to requirement. Great. Good breakfast. Pictures of the landlady’s young son completing the Patterdale Round adorn the wall. (‘An interesting and varied day of hiking and scrambling with some fantastic views. The route starts from Patterdale and takes in Helvellyn via Swirral Edge or Striding Edge, Nethermost Pike, Dollywaggon Pike, Grisedale Tarn,Fairfield, Cofa Pike, St Sunday Crag and Birks.The route is approximately 16.5Km and involves 1,450m of ascent.’) They breed them tough around here it seems. He looks to be about 12.

As we boot up we tell her of our intension not to go back to Patterdale and ascend to Kidsty Pike via Angle Tarn as per THE BOOK. We have been down that route before, and there doesn’t seem to be much purpose to going back an extra mile plus to Patterdale. We plan to walk up the valley to Hartsop, go up to Haweswater, and ascend steeply to join the main route at The Knott. She thinks that is a good plan, and reckons it might save about 3 miles for us. Then she recommends another detour. The way down from Kidsty Pike is notoriously steep. Even THE BOOK calls it “gnarly”. Why not walk up the Roman Road (High Street) back towards Pooley Bridge, over High Raise, then turn off towards Bampton Common and down to Haweswater that way? This sounds like an OK sort of a plan. Maybe.

We set off into a gloriously beautiful morning. There’s something special about the light in the valley. Everything is suffused with a glowing dewy newness. Its like the morning of life. I am definitely coming over all poetic.

The path is good. Hartsop is lovely. The path up to Haweswater is steeper than we thought, but still fine. At Hawewater, the lake is all but deserted. This is such a great way to come. Our path up to The Knott is chest splittingly steep, but not long, and we are soon joining the main highway past the Straits of Riggindale and turning left for Kidsty Pike.

“Kidsty Pike… One of the finest views in all Lakeland”, intones my Wainwright impersonating companion. It has been such a great morning, and it’s a real teehee to be turning off down High Street and avoiding Kidsty Howes.

Along High Street all is sweetness and light. We know the path, and its easy but boggy. We can see Ullswater below from the top of High Raise. Its even getting warm. I’m glad we made an early start.

So on we go. And on. And then along. But unfortunately we have not spotted the turn off to Bampton Common. We didn’t ask the landlady for much detail. as we have our map. The path seems obvious on it, opposite the path up from Fusedale….

We never did find that path. The cotton grass is long up here in its summer profusion. God knows where it was. Ray decides that we must cut across country, ie bog, in the correct sort of direction. This is incomprehensible to me.

How can you walk where there isn’t a path? Over bog??

He seems to think this is OK though. So we set off in a direction he thinks is where we should be. Luckily, after our recent dry spell the bogs hereabouts are probably as dry as they ever get. You do have to watch where you put your feet. There are sheep tracks to follow and sheep to talk to (they seem surprised to see us), and after a very long 15 minutes or so, then going down deepinto the peat to cross a stream and up the other side, we can see a couple of paths going somewhere. They bring us out onto a common quite a way above Haweswater where we should be. (Respect Ray!)

Should we contour down to the Lake or continue along the path? Ray plumps for the path, and although this was not necessarily the worst choice it does take us an eternity to come off of the common; past a farm, through several areas of waist high bracken past free animals, over a stream. All in full on sun. No shade to be seen. We also have several anxious moments when we seemed to be getting further away from where we should be, before we finally emerge onto a road at Burnbanks, the village at the end of Haweswater. The Coast to Coast sign is a few yards away.

That was quite an adventure!! And still quite a way to go.

This third part of the day takes us along a shady stream and over farmland, and by the time Shap Abbey comes into view we really are rather tired.

There’s a lovely old couple out walking their Yorkshire terrier. “Go on in the grounds,” they advise me, “and have a proper sit down!”

We still have to get to Shap though. THE BOOK tells us its only 20 minutes more. Ray is behind me, which is odd, and I realise without thinking about it, that he is exhausted. So we proceed along the road to Shap singing loudly… anything that comes to mind… anything to stop thinking about walking.

Lucky lucky. Our B&B is one of the first we encounter in the village, but priorites are Beer, Beer and Beer. Just after the B&B is The Bulls Head. Its definitely not Lakeland. The garden is a trifle shabby. But the pint of shandy we both have disappears like water poured onto sand. Better go on to our lodgings then.

The Hermitage is imposing, and the landlady welcoming. Goodness only knows how we get those brick lined suitcases up the creaky stairs. Our room is tilting wildly to one side. It is a very old house, but our room has… yes, it really does have… a bath!!!

Sometime about now Ray starts shivering and feeling bad. We realise in due course that he must have sun stroke. He has first bath,takes Paracetamol and Ibuprofen, drinks a pint or two of water, and retires to bed.

When its my turn. I am enjoying my soak when through the wall comes the unmistakable splash followed by groans of ecstasy as another Coast to Coaster slides into hot water.

This has been such a strange day. There’s been so much of it, and we have totally lost track of time. How did that all fit in to one day?? And how did we have time to go out to eat later?? It doesn’t make sense to me now at all, but I know we did. The sunstroke victim rallied, and we were about to go into the empty Shap chippy, where three eager assistants looked up, pleased at the prospect of some custom at last, when we were hailed from the Bulls Head by the U3Aers, who were just ordering their meal there. Of course we joined them.

The deserted chippy attracted no custom, until they were closing and a group of teenagers descended. For a split second it looked as though the chippy in chief would turn them away. Damn you. We’d rather throw the chips away than serve you 2 minutes after closing time. But he relented. “There can’t be much for teenagers to do here on a Saturday night,” commented somebody.

As for us, somehow we ate a large meal each, enjoyed an evening of good company, and felt OK. We must have been in some sort of timewarp.

A “short” stage.

Once again we awake to a great morning. How can this be happening in the Lake District? The view from our B&B window is just as stunning in the morning light. Downstairs the service is attentive, and the ornate chandeliers in the breakfast room a wonderful shade of pink. Nigella’s cookbooks can be seen in the corner.

After kitting up we set off for the village. This being such a short stage, we are not in a rush. Time to take the scenic route to the start of the walk. Down to Croft House Bakery, where the shop assistant is sitting outside in the sun, before we disturb him to purchase 2 cheese savoury rolls. It is altogether different in Grasmere this morning. Quiet, early morning dew filled air, a new start, a day full of promise. Instead of going back to the main road we retrace some of our steps from yesterday, and follow the route via Thorney How Youth Hostel, ambling up narrow deserted lanes overgrown with meadow sweet. Eventually, though, we cross a bridge to the main road, and the route proper begins.

According to the book we are about to begin “a protracted climb up a bridleway”.

A short distance ahead is a division in the path at which point you can choose the steeper route with views of Grasmere, alongside Little Tongue, or the easier slabbed route up the right side of Little Tongue. My natural inclination is to take the easier route, with a few reservations. But in the event, when we get to the point of choice, the National Trust have closed the bridge over to the right, deeming it to be “unsafe”, so the choice is made for us. I console myself with the thought that Ray would want to do the steep route, and no doubt so would Wainwright!!

Just at this point we meet a man who seems to need confirmation that the left hand path is the one. After a brief chat he steams ahead of us, up what soon becomes an ever steepening grassy track. We are quite impressed with this achievement, as we labour steadily behind. There are views of Grasmere. These may be enjoyed whilst trying to avoid heart attack on the way up. At one stop we catch up the lonely walker. He tells us a sorry tale of how his wife has had to give up because of the state of her feet. She is going into Cotswold in Grasmere today to see what can be done about her boots, and is hoping to rejoin him walking later down the track… He is obviously quite upset about her. We meet them again over the course of many days. The golfers from Kent… John and Trish.

Onwards and upwards, over a crag. At the foot of a large area of boulders scattered like giant scree we catch up the U3Aers having their coffee break, and Glynn his cigarette. They tell us how they saw the National Trust sign on the ground by the bridge, and thoughtfully decided to re-erect it before crossing over to the easier path themselves. Oh how we laughed. Luckily we all saw the funny side.

All good things must come to an end, and even the 1500ft ascent into the basin of Grisedale Tarn is at last gratefully achieved.

The lovely morning has become grey. We can see the famous ‘zigzags’ up Dollywagon Pike towards Helvellyn, and the black Tarn itself, which today looks rather brooding. I have had some kind of strange desire to get here to see the Tarn, and the Brothers Parting Stone, since we came to Ullswater 2 years ago. Or perhaps even before that.

The steep path we have just come up was one of the main ways out of the Lake District by foot, in days gone by. People wanting to get to Penrith would have come this way. Wordsworth would have used it, maybe when he and Dorothy went to Ullswater on the “host of golden daffodils” occasion. Definitely, when he and Dorothy walked so far from Dove Cottage with his brother John, who was leaving to Captain the East Indiaman ‘Abergavenny’ in September 1800. John was amongst the 300 drowned when the ship sank off Portland in 1805. Dorothy and William returned to the spot, to mark their parting, in June of that year, and William wrote ‘Elegaic Verses in Memory of my Brother’. In 1882, Canon Rawnsley formalised the monument here, and had verses from the poem carved onto it.

In spite of this, it is not immediately obvious where exactly it is!! It takes Ray some time to locate it down off of the track. It is a large stone, and the carving has become faint with weathering and lichen. Even touch cannot fully decipher the verse. I can just make out .. Here did we stop… and While each… descends. In spite of this I find the whole thing so simply moving. Somehow, emblematic of all partings, in this lonely empty place.

Later, the internet provides,

Here did we stop; and here looked round

While each unto himself descends

For that last thought of parting friends

That is not to be found.

Brother and friend, if verse of mine
Have power to make thy virtues known,
Here let a monumental Stone
Stand-sacred as a Shrine.

We had the family’s early history from the visit to their house in Cockermouth, and it was certainly tinged with sadness and melancholy.

We ate our sandwiches there, by the stone, in thoughtful isolation. Ray had wanted to go on up the St Sunday Crag route, and is disappointed that I now feel too tired to go up there. So when we set off down the Grisedale Valley we are fairly silent. It is steep down a rocky path, and the sky is still overcast. After a particularly steep bit there is a new bridge courtesy of the National Trust. A lovely stream, must be Grisedale Beck. I need a paddle. Boots and socks off, the water cold and delightful. Restorative.

. I am still putting my socks back on when two young men stop at the bridge… ON BIKES! They are happy to tell us that they carried the bikes up over Swirrell Edge to the top of Helvellyn in order to cycle down. Mind boggling even if the path was good, but its full of rocks… They aren’t wearing any protective gear either. The confidence of youth.

We decide to continue on to Glenridding instead of branching off to Patterdale Village, and the lane comes out just before the first boatyard. As luck would have it there is a tea shack beside the lake, selling scones with Damson Jam. Not to be turned down. Ullswater looks as lovely as it did last time we were here. We can see the lake steamer pier in the near distance. At regular intervals large noisy farm vehicles are transporting quantities of hay or silage along the main road. They must have decided today is the harvest somewhere around here.

It’s a fair walk further on along the road to Patterdale, with the obligatory stop at Patterdale Post Office. Not that we want to buy anything. And much further on again to our farmhouse B&B, dodging the traffic where there is no pavement. By the time we turn up the farm track we are definitely ready for a break. Unfortunately the farm, Greenbank Farm, is not well signed, and what with sheep shearing, and an over enthusiastic shearers dog, we do not spot it on the first pass. Nearby neighbours do not know it – allegedly! But we turn back, and all becomes apparent eventually.

We are in the company of three cheerful chaps tonight, two of whom have gone over Striding Edge, one of whom did not enjoy it!! The farmhouse meal is good, but there is one massive disadvantage. NO BEER!!!