The Book of Enitharmon

I went out with the Barrow Ramblers for the first time today. A day spent in the Lake District is never time wasted, but this one was considerably less successful than I might have hoped.

The day was spend in the fells around Threlkeld, where the three groups were scheduled to meet at the end of the day, in the Horse and Farrier pub. Barrow Ramblers does three walks each Sunday, of difffering rigour but al;l ending at the same place. This week the A walk was working over Blencathra (pictured, an impossibly handsome mountain which many Lakeland devotees regard as their favourite fell despite being only the fifth highest.) The B group were doing the Dodds, a high ridge that forms a northern outlier of Helvellyn, and the C group were doing a valley walk. In the circumstances - weather, having had recent respiratory problems, and not having been up there for several months - I felt I had to swallow my pride and join the B group, which was first off the bus. And then it all started going wrong. The walk leader - half my height - came up to me and demanded to know where my rucksack was. I said I hadn't brought one (I don't have a daysack, only a full-size rucksack, and that would have been over the top for the matter in hand, especially as I had map, compass, emergency rations, gloves, hat and so on distributed about the pockets of my waterproofs. Then she saidf rather huffily that she didn't think I should be going with them. I explained as calmly as I could that I have known the Lakes from a very young age, I am very much aware of its considerable dangers, and I was in fact prepared. Within reason anyway - this wasn't a scramble, it was a steep ascent to a high grassy plateau. She said it was my own responsibility then. So we set off on the very steep climb to the summit of Sticks Pass. And then...

And then I felt an asthma attack coming on. I was already marked. I did the decent thing, said I was going to descend before I might have got into a situation that made things difficult for the party, and would make my own way to Threlkeld and meet everyone later.

From there I improvided my own walk, taking in the slopes of High Rigg, dropping down to Wanthwaite across the Vale to start climbing the Old Coach Road. I had half a mind to carry on and meet the B party coming the other way, but I stopped off to investigate the neolithic settlement on Threlkeld Common, and from there, because Threlkeld Common is neither fish nor fowl and time was getting on (and because I find something unfathomably sad about that corner of the district because it feels like the wild country is running out and all that's left is the dull pastoral of the Derwent Vally, not to mention the depressing A66 for which somebody should have been shot) I dropped down into Threlkeld and the Horse and Farrier. As I say, time in the Lake District is never time wasted and this was no worse than many other solitary walks I've had there, but that wasn't the point of the day. I had the worst of everything: I didn't get on the high tops, even alone, and I didn't have the companionship, even ona valley walk.

When the B leader arrived, she said I would have had a wonderful time on the C walk. Well, that was me put in my place. Not even second-class B, but third-rate C. Perhaps even uniquely awful - almost all of these people were older than me and they were skipping up that steep slope and nobody else was puffing and wheezing.

So yesterday, after a grizzly few days, I called Gavin to ask if he was up for another walk like last week's gentle amble around Wallowbarrow Gorge, because that seemed like the best cure for a difficult time. So today I met him and William in Lindal, bright and early, and he took me on the most challenging walk I've ever been on. Ok, I probably did more challenging ones around here as a child, and as a teenager in the French Alps, but at that age you skip over the hills like a mountain goat, don't you? Quite a bit of rough scrambling, and a ridge route with three serious summits rather than straight up and down.

I'm knackered now, have just soaked sore feet in a hot bath (Truffle got over-curious and fell in, with resulting panic and injured dignity. But I thoroughly enjoyed it. It was a beautiful clear day for it, although there was a bitter wind up on the tops.

Just to make things difficult, my Flickr Pro account has expired and I'm a bit boracic for the next few days, so I wasn't able to upload more than a fraction of my pictures. Boo! Hiss!

Anyway, here's a sample uploaded straight to LJ of where we went.

Wetherlam (762 metres)

Wetherlam is lower than its neighbour, Coniston Old Man, but it's a big bulky mountain, and a rough, tough old thing. I seriously thought at one point that I wouldn't make it to here.

Swirl How (802 metres, the highest point of the day)

The top of Swirl How is reached by an even nastier scramble than the one up Wetherlam. I'd got my wind by now, though, and enjoyed this rather exhilarating climb despite the bitter cold.

Great Carrs (788 metres)

A bit of an anticlimax, really, because it's a nice easy ridge walk from Swirl How.


Although the views from the ridge, like this view of the Scafells, are far from anticlimactic.


This is Wetherlam from Wet Side Edge, our descent route. I was up there today!


This is Swirl How (left) and Great Carrs (right), with the ridge between. I was up both of those, too!


Somehow we ended up here, at the Manor Arms (highly recommended) in the too-pretty-to-be-true (or to be affordable) little town of Broughton-in-Furness.


Cheers m'dears!

After yesterday, the kind of wild and woolly day that reminds me that I don't think we're in Berkshire any more, Tosca, I woke today to a gloriously clear and sunny morning, and snow on the mountains. That's Coniston Old Man peeking over the industrial estate.

It didn't last. Not the snow, and not the clear blueness. It's raining now, as it gets dark.