This was to be the best weather day of my trip. My plan was to attempt to climb Scafell Pike, England's highest peak (meaning that peaks in Wales and Scotland are somewhat higher). I've heard it said that on a clear day you can see Ireland and the Isle of Man from the summit. My plan was too hurriedly thought out, however, and I did not make it to the summit—but had a lovely day of hiking on the Fells.
I took the Honister Rambler bus through Borrowdale to Seatoller. The road is very narrow running through the beautiful valley. Much of the way, both shoulders of the road are defined by stone walls and as the large bus goes along there seems to be breathtakingly little room for oncoming vehicles to pass. Because of the bus ride, I was getting a pretty late start for Scafell Pike, and I wasn't exactly taking the most direct route. The start of the hike was confusing. I lost the track and found myself climbing a wooded hill with clearings and numerous gates, and shadowed by an insistent and opportunistic goat who tried to rush the gates as I opened them. Clearly, I was violating someone’s private property. The real track was down near the bank of the River Derwent and then across a bridge and a 90 degree turn across a field.
It was 10:30 am before I finally began the real climbing—up along Coombe Gill, over Thornythwaite, Glaramara, and Allen Crags. It was good, hard climbing—rocky, marshy, and quite icy on the northern faces—much like what we would call a “traverse” back home. It was hard to say exactly where the track was, or if it really mattered. The track came and went, and there were cairns scattered all around. I began to take a few waypoints on my GPS for the way back, anticipating that the return route might seem confusing in this landscape, especially if the weather should change. It was pretty arduous.
The views were gorgeous. There were frozen tarns in the cirques and the day was clear and beautiful. I managed to reach the shoulder of Great End and walked out onto Esk Pike (or at least, I thought that was where I was). Several inches of snow were on the ground. I could see Scafell Pike, seemingly just across the way, but it was already 2:30 in the afternoon and, with a three hour return walk, I knew I could not make the summit and have any chance of catching the last bus back to Keswick from Seatoller. And perhaps this was just as well. Scafell Pike looked treacherous and icy at the top. (Two walkers reportedly died this same weekend from slips and falls.) One of the deaths was on Helvellyn.)
So I turned around and began the three hour walk back to Seatoller. I could see there was a shorter route heading down to Seathwaite, but I decided I had better stick to the route I knew. I walked back over Allen Crags and Glaramara.
It
was all scrambling over peaks
and
crags, while admiring the views north, south and east. The
shadows were
deepening as I reached Seatoller, and the temperature was dropping
fast. There was better than a half hour wait for the bus, so I
walked up into the little village, all white brick and built around a
curve of the narrow road, to see if I could find an open pub. Too
early in the season—everything closed. I went back to wait at the
bus stop, wearing all the clothes I had in my bag. Cows came up
to the fence to stare at me, and then began a call-and-response lowing
across
the fields, like some kind of bovine, gospel choir.Back in Keswick, I went out for dinner and a well-earned pint. A group of young men sat nearby. One of them appeared to be new to the group, because another man said, “Where are you from, then?” “Wigan,” the young man replied. “Wigan, is it?” said the other, “not too many would admit to that.”
DAY FIVE: BLENCATHRA Last day in Keswick. I took the bus to Scales as a jumping off point to climb Blencathra. The route featured along gradual ascent to Scales Tarn which sat in its small cirque, white and frozen.
From here you could
either take an easier, longer trail
to the left or the shorter, steeper route to the left over Sharp Edge,
a well-known rocky outcropping leading to the summit. I decided
to try the more exciting Sharp Edge, because a guidebook had called in
“easily negotiable in good weather.” Reaching the bottom of the
outcropping, I climbed what looked like the
most boot-worn path but soon found myself out on a ledge with a
dizzying drop below me. Any route before me that may have led to
the summit appeared to be fit only for experienced rock
climbers—unless I had somehow missed an easier route. I began to
careful back track along the ledge when a good gust of wind blew off my
hat and I watched it plunge down into the abyss. This unnerved me
a
little. After reaching safer ground, I decided to give up on
Sharp Edge
and descended back down to Scales Tarn take reach the summit via the
safer trail. Finally I was on top of Blencathra. Cold, squally weather constantly changed the views. Small streams of light poured down between clouds like they were poured out of a flour sack. A nice Scottish couple agreed to take my picture at the summit so that I could document that I was really here. Soon after, I headed west along the ridge line to Bleas Fell, wearing all my gear in the biting wind. Finally, I descended and walked all the way back to Keswick over the fells, through fields, along lanes, paths, and bridle paths, through gates and kissing gates, past sheep, stone walls, stony farmsteads, along becks and creeks—entering town through Fitz Park crossing the River Greta. Passing through town I stopped at Bookends and bought Samuel Pepys :The Unequalled Self by Claire Tomlin.
Out to The Dog and Gun again in the evening. It was my last night in Keswick. It was difficult to think of leaving this wonderful place. The days had gone by so fast and I knew that I could easily stay several more weeks—heading out upon the Fells each morning. The Dog and Gun was very smoky this night—sometimes a problem in the pubs. There is a movement to ban smoking in the pubs and it may succeed soon. Ireland has already done this, and if the Irish can do it, so can the English, right? There was a group of 5 at the table next to me, all smoking. I was so deep into the Life of Pepys and my pint of Old Peculiar that it took some time for me to realize that I was being slowly but surely asphyxiated . Ironically, the main dinner topic of this group concerned how they would all like to stop smoking. Yet the anxiety of this idea seemed only to make them draw deeper on their cigarettes, which gleamed as bright as flares. You could almost hear the tobacco being immolated in the intense heat. Five pairs of lips sucked on cigarettes like pythons squeezing their prey.
I went outside into the nice air of Keswick. I suppose that once the smoke and ash of coal fires would have affected the air here, but now it is moist and clean tasting. I walked over to the west end of town in the dark and looked at what I could see of Crosswaite Church. Somewhere here was the graveyard and the burial place of Southey. Greta Hall, where Coleridge lived, is said to be part of the school grounds and perhaps not open to the public. I wished that I had budgeted more time to look into this, but that would have taken time away from the Fells. Back at the B&B that night, I watched the football match between Manchester United and Oporto. All of Great Britain was watching it, and so I felt I should also. I really enjoyed the match, but MAN U lost and they were eliminated from the Champions league, causing consternation and shock among the commentators.
The next morning I washed the mud of the Fells from my boots with a hose at the side of the Cranford House. I was off to visit my 84 year old Uncle near Blackpool, then my 97 year old Auntie and my cousins at Manchester, and another cousin in Hampshire. I caught the bus to Penrith. A sign on the bus said, “Please have correct fare ready and help speed the bus.” At Penrith, I had time before my train arrived to go across the street and look at the rubble of Penrith Castle. The glory days were over for this structure as it lay in ruins in its shabby park. All the information signs were missing or defaced with graffiti. It is always a bit of a let down to come from a natural setting into urban realities. From the vale of Patterdale to the vandals of Penrith, I suppose. Wordsworth thought that nature offered glory to the spirit and the soul. It is a shame that more people are unable or unwilling to see that on this troubled and chaotic planet.
Nevertheless, I had finally made it to the Lake District—and during the time I was writing all this,—all I could really think about was going back again!
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