Therefore, I resolved to test England's ability to endure an upstart American tramping on its sacred soil. In my defense, let me say that I am half English, as my Mother is from working-class Gorton, Manchester, and so I felt I had at least provisional clearance to walk the edges of Coombe Gill and lose my nerve on an outcropping at Sharp Edge, Blencathra.
Let me start with a vocabulary lesson and inform other Americans that they might not always find hills, mountains, creeks, valleys, waterfalls, or even trails, in the Lake District. Instead they may find pikes, becks, gills (gylls), crags, vales, dales, coombs, and forces. The mountainous peaks of the Lake District are known as the Fells, and trails are often called "tracks." What we call hiking is known as "walking," although how a trek up Helvellyn and a stroll down to the neighborhood pub can be both be accomplished by "walking" is difficult to understand.
My trip was not all that expensive—or how would I have been able to do it? I caught a bargain price announced in an e-mail from British Airways and traveled off-season (early March), taking a chance on the weather, and avoiding the crowds that are said to descend on the Lake District during the summer. I was lucky with the weather (see picture at top of this page) aside from a few icy squalls and periods of fog up high. I stayed at the Cranford House Bed and Breakfast in Keswick, where I was treated extremely well.
In the spirit of adventure, I downed the full English Breakfast at the B&B in the morning, then bought bread and excellent cheese from the grocery to carry as my lunch, and in the evenings went to a pub for my dinner. I recommend the goulash, washed down with a pint of Old Peculiar, as it is served at the Dog and Gun Pub.
My Lake District Walks
Day one: SKIDDAW. As a warm-up, I planned to take the popular hike over Catbells and beyond. This required catching the Derwent Water Launch, so I went down to the lake in the morning. Unfortunately, it turned out that the launch only ran on weekends this early in the year. There was no sign that informed of the situation. In fact, the only sign seemed to say that a launch was expected at 10:30. And I wasn’t the only hapless waiter—we formed a small crowd of the uninformed. A discussion ensued among all the collected hapless, and it was decided to accept the reality that, for whatever reason, no launch appeared to be running.
There was
a jaunty gentleman there,
dressed in flamboyant tweeds, and we spoke
briefly about the situation. “The sign,”
I said, “it leads one to
believe… “ Yes,” he replied, “perhaps there has been a takeover
of the launch by British Rail.”As I walked back to town I looked through my materials for another walk. It was already 11am, and I needed to salvage the day. A walk up a Fell named Latrigg looked possible. I worked my way through town and past Fitz Park following the walk description that I had.
Now—sometimes simply getting to the start of a walk upon the Fells is the hardest part. You have to navigate the streets, walking paths, “bridleways,“ etc., and the directions in walking guides can be confusing. Some of the landmarks cited can be altered, or even no longer there. You may be told to “go around the east side of the municipal pool, turn right through a break in the hedge, descend to the Public Footpath, pass through a four-rail gate, and take the path to the left which begins 50 ft past the end of the stone fence.” The English are probably amused by this, since they seem to like activities that involve pondering clues.
At any rate, I eventually found my way to the start of the walk and began climbing Latrigg. It is great round hill, soft-looking, covered with grass. This is where I discovered that most steep Lake District climbing trails are not cut with switchbacks, nor do they show any sign of much planning, nor are they maintained. The trails, or tracks, generally just go straight up the face of the Fell in many cases. Fells have multiple avenues of ascent and you can take your choice. In this there is the tradition of taking in the “views”—going out to view and appreciate the fineness of the landscape in the 19th Century tradition. Each different ascent will have different vantage points in relation to the world below with its valleys, towns, lakes, mountains, and the play of light and shade, and the parades of clouds. Some English walkers still adhere to this style, walking slowly and frequently turning to observe and discuss the new perspective. Of course, other walkers are the types that plunge ferociously onward, determined to reach some goal or height. When hiking in the U.S, especially in the Northwest, often the only real viewpoint is at the top of a climb—the rest of the path being heavily forested on the way up. For this reason, we may not fully understand this English Fell-walking style.
From the top of Latrigg, there is a beautiful view of stony Keswick and Derwent Water. But I felt the pull of the higher Fells above me. Famous Skiddaw was up there in the clinging clouds. I began to climb up Jenkins Hill, a wide, unrelentingly steep path straight up the hill. A couple of runners passed me. The woman slowed to a walk in time, but the man continued to run all the way to the top of that gruelling climb. At the top of Jenkins Hill, I looked up at the peak just below Skiddaw, called Little Man. I felt the pull of it too, and so continued on. Finally, there was only Skiddaw above me, and I pushed on.
The top of Skiddaw was wrapped in a frozen fog. A few other people were up there, fading in and out of the cloud-fog like ghostly spectres. I was not even completely sure if I had reached the official summit in that visibility, but I was definitely on top, and there were rock cairns which usually designate the summit. I remembered that in climbing Skiddaw, I had followed in the footsteps of Wordsworth and Coleridge, as well as countless thousands of others. It was a steep descent and a tired walk back into Keswick. I had done much more than I had planned for the first day. But I was proud and happy—the Lake District was everything I had always hoped it would be.
That night at the pub, I found myself in the same area as a group of 10-12 older gentlemen who were taking up three tables. I was able to witness and listen in to some of their verbal sparring with each other as I ate. One gentleman who I came to think of as "the little Charles Lamb man" had a joke or punning reaction to every comment. He also humorously threw butchered foreign phrases into his conversation, lots of French ones, and “das ist genug.” They were all waiting for a straggler named Jack who was said to be taking a shower (“He’s what…? Taking a shower, is he?”). When Jack arrived he was a good-looking grey-haired man in a black turtleneck, and the little Charles Lamb man said, “Jack, you look like double O seven, Jack—one of the early ones.” Later, he said, “Jack, you’re embarrassing me, Jack.” And Jack cooly responded, “Am I ? I didn’t know you COULD be embarrassed, Brian.”
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