Day Thirty Four

Saturday 29 May - Caldbeck to Carlisle.

The guide book describes this section in terms of winding down, which has more than a whiff of anticlimax after the drama of the Dales and the Lakes. A little time would tell. The Cumbria Way passes the gate of my b&b, so I picked it up as it sidled out of the village (the chap in charge at the pub the previous evening had seen me walking down the road, and knew exactly where I was staying – it’s that sort of place). Soon I was walking on the left bank of the Cald Beck, which flowed into the River Caldew, which I then followed most of the way into Carlisle.

The “official” route diverted from the beck to enter some woods, but I took a well-established path which stayed much nearer to the water, later re-joining the Cumbria Way. No sign of anticlimax so far; this was good walking country with proper mixed-species woods and sheep-cropped meadows. The lambs here were older, much the same age, I would say, as the ones in the Dales; lambing among the high fells begins later because of the high chance of harsh weather. So while the Great Langdale lambs were still at the jumping-about stage, the ones I was now passing were fattening up very satisfactorily in preparation for their appointment with the mint sauce.

Near Sebergham, a road starts to hog the riverbank, so the footpath sulks and takes itself over the river and steeply up the valley side. At Sebergham Church, it turns again to follow a route roughly parallel with the river again. As I followed the path on a respectful detour round Sebergham Hall, I fell into step with the local vicar/curate/whatever, who asked me where I was from. When I told him I lived in London, he divulged that, before he took the cloth, he had taught maths in South Harrow. He must have been going for contrast - I could detect few similarities between North Cumbria and South Harrow.

By now, I could see what the guide book was getting at. Having regained the riverbank, I was walking through a succession of water meadows, each a delight in it own right, but a bit samey after a while. Visual interest was provided by a distant view of Rose Castle, the residence of the Bishops of Carlisle.

It looks like a right hotchpotch of building styles, which is not very surprising. The earliest visible fabric is another 14th Century pele tower, like the one I had passed at Burneside Hall

(“Pele or peel towers - small fortified keeps or tower houses, built along the English and Scottish borders in the Scottish Marches and North of England, intended as watch towers where signal fires could be lit by the garrison to warn of approaching danger. By an Act of Parliament in 1455 each of these towers was required to have an iron basket on its summit and a smoke or fire signal, for day or night use, ready at hand.” Wikipedia).

This stood on the site of an even earlier motte-and-bailey castle. A 14th Century Bishop started the Big Build; the castle was burnt down during the Civil War, restored in the 18th Century, and added to in the 19th century. Paxton had a hand in the landscaping, and our old pals Wordsworth and Coleridge visited and approved. There are several theories about the name, but they are a bit boring.

After Rose Castle, there were more water meadows (polite yawn), but then more interest in that the route left the banks of the Caldew to pass through the grounds of a posh-looking school, and then past Hawksdale Hall, 19th Century, dull. Then the Cumbria Way went through an actual place (you know, houses, pubs… that sort of thing). Two places actually, Bridge End and Buckabank, both very small places, merely a warm-up for a big(ish) place, Dalston.

Now Dalston is a place with a sense of identity. Maybe most of its residents regard it as a dormitory for Carlisle, but it has a bit of a village green, a square and a fantastic sandwich shop. And a motto: “Whilst I live I’ll Crow”, which accompanies an emblem of a black and red cockerel. Dalston’s millennium project was to commission a splendid metal sculpture of said cockerel, which is superimposed on a previous monument and commands the green and the square. After munching a sandwich within sight of this splendid erection, I embarked on the final push towards Carlisle.

From Dalston, the route follows a dual-use footpath and cycleway all the way into Carlisle. After skirting a large Nestles factory, the tarmac track falls in alongside the Cumbria Coast Railway, with which I had become familiar on my coast walk. When the path diverted from the railway and then passed beneath it, unmistakeable signs of the city started to appear. After another large factory came an even larger cemetery, and a succession of suburban houses. The threatened rain had held off until now but, as I passed a children’s playground in light drizzle, four girls were sheltering below a piece of play equipment; one tried to bum a fag off me.

The most interesting feature of the walk into the town is the new flood wall, built after the disastrous floods of 2005. It is astonishing that it has been necessary when you see how far down the river is – many feet below the previous flood banks – and how placid it looks. “This floodgate will be closed when flooding is expected,” reads an Environment Agency notice. Fancy!

Then it was the last hurrah for the River Caldew, as a skewed bridge (called the Skew Bridge) took me across the river for the last time, leaving it to find its own way to its junction with the Eden about a mile away. I turned towards the centre, walking past the cathedral (pausing for coffee and something in the Chapter House coffee shop) and applied myself to a little light shopping before catching my train.

Day Thirty Three

Friday 28 May – Keswick to Caldbeck.

I can usually navigate my way cross-country with few errors, but get me in a town and all bets are off. It’s partly the map’s fault – the footpath I needed is airily shown passing straight through a large hotel, which it doesn’t. I had to guess exactly where it went, and spent a few curses extracting myself from a suburban cul-de-sac.

Having found the right road out of town, I then turned on to a bridleway which rises quite steeply. Others were using the route – this is a feeder for Skiddaw and Latrigg Fell, as well as the path I was to take. First a steep zig-zag path leaves on the right for Latrigg then, near a car park, a new (I guess) limited abilities path makes a gentler ascent to the Latrigg viewpoint – what a good idea. Soon the path to Skiddaw heads relentlessly upwards on the left, leaving this Back o' Skiddaw wimp to take a lower path which soon started to contour round Lonscale Fell.

Smooth at the start, the path got rougher as it traversed the slope below Lonscale Crags, then improved again as it passed the ridge known as Burnt Horse. Turning North West to cross a peat bog (not very boggy, actually, after the recent dry weather), I reached Skiddaw House. Now, this a YHA hostel, and it says on the website that it is very welcoming. But the gate seemed to be locked and carried a “private” sign; nearby was a “no public right of way” sign, so I didn’t feel very welcome.

I turned away and crossed some more peat to begin yet another contouring exercise – which is an attempt to dress up the fact that I sauntered along a lovely level path for about three and a half miles. Above Mosedale the path reaches a road end. Three cars were parked up while their occupants roamed the fells. A grassy bank by Grainsgill Beck was a pleasant lunch spot.

Then the hard work began. I followed a track up the bank of the beck; it had been metalled in the past, but was now breaking up. When I reached the site of disused mineral workings, the track became much more interesting. It scrambled up near the beck, sometimes rocky, sometimes boggy, and sometimes rocky and boggy. I call it a path, but actually it is designated as a bridleway. The idea of riding, or even leading, a horse up here was quite mind-boggling. I envisaged the RSPCA being helicoptered in to serve a summons and rescue the poor beast.

Over something less than a mile, this assault course took me from 1,000 to 2,000 feet, and then turned North for a gentle climb up to High Pike, the last fell top on this journey. Before me, and to my left, the Solway Firth could be seen in the haze, with the North Cumbria plain in the foreground. A helpful orientation table helped me identify places I had visited or walked in the shadow of in the past few days.

I made a bodge of coming down from the summit, following a treacherous path which oh-so-gradually diverged from the route I needed. Realising this eventually, I whipped out the magic phone to get a GPS reading, and took the opportunity (how sad am I?) to catch up with my emails. The grid reference helped me to get back on course without difficulty, and a string of paths and lanes took me into Caldbeck.

Although it is not among the high fells (the country had become rolling and lush) Caldbeck is an authentic Lakeland village, and very unspoiled and pretty. After supper, I duly did the tourist thing and sought out the graves of John Peel (the fox-hunting man, not the lugubrious DJ) and Mrs Mary Harrison, better known as the Maid of Buttermere. She was a pub landlord’s daughter whose renowned beauty drew Wordsworth and Coleridge to check her out, and a con-man who “married” her bigamously, and was later hanged for posing as an MP (who’d want to do that today?); she later dodged the limelight by marrying a Caldbeck farmer.

[I later read Melvyn Bragg's The Maid of Buttermere. Although it's a bit odd stylistically, veering from novel to documentary, it's a page-turning read, and brings the early 19th Century compellingly to life. Highly recommended.]

Day Thirty Two

Thursday 27 May – Great Langdale to Keswick.

This was a really good day. There was plenty of blue sky, but also lots of cloud. It could go either way. By the time I had walked about a mile and a half to the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, it had started raining. Quick switch to waterproofs, rain stops. No surprises there.

There were half-hearted showers over the next hour and a half, and masses of purple-black clouds piled across. But enough of the weather. I walked up Mickleden on a decent track towards the big action of the day – the ascent to Stake Pass, about 1200 feet as near straight up as I like to attempt.

Not that it was difficult in any technical sense; the path (more a staircase) is a miracle of engineering design. I think it was done by the National Trust (if it turns out that The National Park authorities or anyone else did it, I apologise). Stone has been painstakingly laid on stone to provide a perfect climb for walkers (that is, no scrambling). A few others were making the climb, taking it in turns to stop and admire the view back down Mickleden and Great Langdale (and possibly catch our breath at the same time).

At the top is Langdale Combe, a dish with a lip over which I had just emerged. Then came Stake Pass and then descent into Langstrath. This was not so smooth. The path is badly eroded and difficult, but the cavalry (this time definitely the National Trust) is on the case. Bags of stones (presumably helicoptered in), a small digger and some hand tools stood ready. Strangely there were no people. It was like a Mary Celeste of building sites. Perhaps they had just popped down to the nearest village for a coffee and a fag, in which case they might be gone some time.

As I walked away from the bottom of this descent, a young chap passed me. “Am I near the top?” he asked. I pointed up the way I had come down: “Straight up there,” I said. “Oh no,” he said, “my destination is Langdale.” “That’s right – up there,” I said. He just strode off, but I noticed that he stopped quite soon to check his map, and I checked mine. There is another way up, by way of Angle Tarn, but it’s still as much “up” as the way I came. I should have just said, “No – you’re not near the top”!

Foolishly, I had Langstrath on my list as an easy saunter. Not a bit of it – it is a rocky path across scree-littered slopes. When I got the chance I crossed a bridge to the other side of the beck, to check out the alternative path, only to be engulfed by sheep being driven up the valley. Ewes grumblingly shoved aside for me, while lambs fired off in all directions as though driven by explosives. The farmer brought up the rear with his dog and his inevitable quad bike. What did they do before these were invented (quad bikes, I mean, not dogs)? Perhaps they had to walk…

There were no further alarums before I walked through the National Trust campsite and into Stonethwaite. I wasn’t in the mood for the pub (I wanted to stay outside on such a lovely day) so I crossed the beck again and walked on towards Rosthwaite. This path was an example of the no-trouble-taken school of erosion control; “they” had simply dumped coarse chippings all over the path an left the poor walkers to tamp it down. In the meantime the walking surface is horrible, and walkers avoid it wherever possible by stepping off the side – exactly what “they” are trying to avoid. Harumph.

Rosthwaite has a wonderful farm-based tea room, the perfect lunch stop. I asked for a Herdwick pastie to die for. The lady serving me looked completely blank, until a colleague told her that’s what it says on the menu. “She doesn’t often read the menu.” Was this a criticism? I couldn’t decide.

The pastie was great, but I didn’t die; instead I pressed on, walking down the narrowest part of Borrowdale, in the shadow of Castle Crag. I had no time to climb up this wonderful “miniature mountain”. I soon reached Grange where I visited the shop-cum-café for lunch part two, a White Magnum ice cream. A bit of (very quiet) road walking lead me to a series of footpaths up the West side of Derwent Water, with cheery old Cat Bells to my left.

The last stretch into Portinscale is a bit of a stinker. After crossing a series of meadows – all perfectly pleasant but with zero lake views - you have to walk through the unexciting and sometimes busy streets of Portinscale itself, with a switch of footpath from one side to the other just near a dangerous blind bend – criminally stupid. It’s a great pity that a proper lakeside footpath can’t be established.

From Portinscale to Keswick, the route is a footpath across the flood plain at the North end of the lake, with marvellous long views of sky and mountains in every direction. Keswick was (literally) just shutting up shop when I arrived, but I was confident that the chippy would still be open when I was showered and ready for it – my confidence was not misplaced.

Day Thirty One

Wednesday 26 May - Windermere to Great Langdale.

I could have cut the corner and swum the lake, diving in at Bowness, heading North West to the head of the lake near, say, Clappersgate, and been handily placed for hypothermia treatment in Ambleside. So I walked round.

I'm sure the one-way traffic system in Windermere has improved the flow, but it means that normal activities such as window shopping and pavement gossip take place in an atmosphere of low-level crisis, especially if you are in the network of pleasant shopping streets that have become an elongated roundabout.

Luckily, escape on foot was swift. I followed a much-walked path up to the rightly-popular viewpoint at Orrest Head. Several other people had walked off their breakfasts in the same way. Despite the gloomy weather forecast, it was beautifully sunny. I swapped walking notes with a very nice chap from Manchester, who was planning an active day in the open air to celebrate his girlfriend's birthday - she was out of earshot, so I never found out whether she had the same or different plans.

From Orrest Head I walked roughly North, descending into and out of valleys which joined the Windermere valley at right angles. When I reached Town End (an outpost of Troutbeck) I followed a lane which contoured the hill before heading downhill to another popular beauty spot, the heavily wooded Jenkin's Crag, and then to the outskirts of Ambleside.

In many ways, I like Ambleside. It's bustling, but not completely overcome by either tourists or traffic. The ludicrous aspect to the town is the dozens (literally) of outdoor clothing shops, catering for everyone from serious mountain hard men to dedicated posers in search of something "sportif". I popped into a bar for lunch - an enormous ploughman's - and then adjourned to the gents to change into my waterproof trousers. It had started to rain as I approached Ambleside, with towering clouds threatening more to come. But as I left the bar in all my gear, the rain had (of course) almost stopped.

I walked a short way along the Grasmere road, turning on to a footpath which would take me to Loughrigg Fell. I didn't intend to climb to the top of the fell - just lazy, I suppose. A bridleway climbs part of the way up, then levels out and goes round the fell, before descending towards Loughrigg Tarn, around the West of which other footpaths would take me.

The tarn is stunning. Lying in a natural grassy amphitheatre, with the sun shimmering on the water, and even a couple of yokels (sorry, fishermen) to complete the scene, it was worthy of Constable or one of that Dutch crowd. A very quiet road took me across to Elterwater. The Post Office has gone the way of so many, leaving only the pub to take money from the tourists.

It had started to rain again as I approached the village, and as I walked alongside Great Langdale Beck, the heavens opened. I holed up under a tree for about a quarter of an hour, afraid that my waterproofs would be overcome by the deluge. Once the worst was over, I pressed on through the village of Chapel Stile, and half a mile or so further into Great Langdale and my overnight stop.

As she waited patiently for me to peel off my soggy clothing, the lady at my farm b&b told me that what I had walked through had been the first decent bit of rain they had had since Christmas. Relying as they do on a private supply, they had been rationing water and sending their washing into Ambleside. They were very welcome to all the water which had bounced off me. Later it transpired that four people had been struck by lightning in three separate events in the Buttermere area, just over the hill.

Day Thirty

Tuesday 25 May - Grayrigg to Windermere.

This was a day of simple pleasures, and one which was not entirely simple. "Ooh! it's back to winter!" moaned the bus driver at Kendal. Oh no it wasn't. It was overcast and much cooler than the previous two days, but it wasn't wintry, it was dry, and it was a perfect temperature for a walk.

From Grayrigg, I soon rejoined the Dales Way, which I intended to follow almost to Windermere, with one diversion. This is rolling country between the Dales and the Lakes. Not always gently rolling - there were some sharp, if short, ups and downs. A rare bit of level walking took me past the front of a decent-looking mansion called Shaw End, haha and all. Paths and tiny lanes led to a crossing of the A6, luckily not too busy.

The Dales Way went up the front drive of Burton House, and then through its back yard. "Tea Stop", said a sign. "What?" said I. "Billy's Tea Stop in here", said another sign. "In here" was a shed, and inside the plot thickened. The place was festooned with notices, all nice ones, but there were no people. I was invited, in print, to make myself a hot drink or a cold drink, have a biscuit or a flapjack or an ice cream, and make myself at home.

Billy (7) and Stevie (4) are brother and sister, and have a menagerie of animals stumping around the yard and the adjacent pens - goats, chickens, ducks, Gloucester Old Spots... sorry to those I've left out. There was also a posse of soft-toy animals to keep me company as I drank my coffee and munched custard creams. The idea is that the contributions made by happy drinkers and eaters should go towards keeping the animals (the living ones, not the stuffed ones) in their own meat and drink. As well as a fridge for milk, there was another one for the pop and ice cream. It's not clear whether Billy or Stevie (presumably in school while I was visiting) rush home to knock off a few more bottles of the damson gin which is also on offer - I rather think an adult may have helped with this, as well as with some of the notices (sorry if it was all your own work, Billy and Stevie). It's a fantastic idea, and I sincerely hope that Billy, Stevie and all the animals thrive.

Soon after this wonderful interlude, I skirted Burneside. Burneside Hall is a farmhouse attached to the ruins of a 14th Century pele tower. I then walked upstream alongside the River Kent, another South-flowing river which empties into Morecambe Bay. This riverside walk was a highly enjoyable hour, perhaps not as magical as the one alongside the Lune yesterday, but with a similar mix of water meadows and gorge-side squeezes.

At Staveley I diverted to the village for a lunch stop. In the grounds of the former Margaret Chapel - only the tower remains - I sat by a freshly-dug grave and munched a sandwich and a banana. When the bell started to toll, I thought it best to leave, lest I encounter a coffin party. A chap who was checking the grave assured me that the funeral was taking place in the parish church some way away, so there was no rush. But I trotted off anyway, re-joining the Dales Way for another delightful hour or so.

Between Staveley and Windermere the route lay across what was now distinctly Lakeland countryside, a mix of gentle and the occasional steep climb or fall on grassy paths with sheep and cattle for company. Having left the Dales Way for its final descent to the lakeside at Bowness, I intended to keep to field paths almost into Windermere, but the curse of suburbia fell upon me. The twists and turns of the roads in a dreary housing estate (which had swallowed up the paths) threw me off course, and I ended up walking through a succession of dull streets to reach the town centre, an anti-climactic end to a good day's walking. But I knew what would cheer me up - a visit to the Lakeland mega kitchen equipment shop, not for a whisk or some doilies, but for coffee and something in their deservedly-popular caff.

Day Twenty Nine

Monday 24 May - Dent to Grayrigg.

It was cool. I had to wear my thin fleece for... ooh, half an hour. It was lovely. And then it was hot again. Actually it was a gorgeous day, blue sky with a few wispy clouds, and a bit of a breeze.

Dent seemed to be still sleeping when - not very early - I took the unbusy road West, down the dale, picking up the Dales Way after about a quarter of a mile. The footpath followed the left bank of the on/off River Dee for more than a mile. I glanced at the map. The plot was to keep heading West, then turn North to cross Dentdale and enter the next dale to reach Sedbergh. A heading roughly North West would then take me to Lowgill and the M6; a quick diversion to the South would find a way over the motorway, then the West/North West direction would be resumed as far as Grayrigg, whence I would catch a bus to Kendal for the night.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, ambling alongside the Dee. The path ran out, and it was back to road-walking some way from the river. But once again the compensations were scenic. To my left, the steep side of Middleton Fell, to the right a succession of buttercup-filled water meadows. And birds, lots of birds, swooping if large and skittering about if small, all singing away fit to burst. And no traffic. A sharp right took me down a bridleway to a ford across the river. Luckily there was a pedestrian bridge, otherwise wet feet would have ensued. Beyond the ford, the bridleway rose semi-steeply, crossing a road and skirting Gate Manor, a rather grand side gate being rather dragged down in the world by the wheely bin parked beside it. Don't they have something in wicker for the gentry's rubbish?

A quick up and down and I was in Sedbergh, perched above the River Rawthey. The Dales Way holds its nose and makes a wide diversion to avoid entering Sedbergh. This is a common occurrence, and seems silly. If these promoted walks are supposed to benefit the local economy - and commonsense dictates that they should - it must make sense to route them past the shops, b&bs, and so on.

I'm sure that the Dales Way route round the town is very lovely, but it was no penance to walk through "England's Book Town". Wales has its Hay-on-Wye and Scotland its Wigtown, and now we've got one too. Not that I did any book-browsing. The wise man he say, man with walking boots on his feet and rucksack on his back should avoid buying more books. Besides, I had other purposes. Firstly I had to buy a replacement rubber ferrule for my stick, having left the last one in a Ribblesdale bog.

Then a shot of caffeine was in order, and finally I bought something for lunch. The lady in the hardware shop was flustered by a combination of customers and ringing phone, while the four ladies in the cafe all seemed flustered just by having customers even without having to answer the phone. I fear for their peace of mind as the season progresses.

I hadn't checked the contours on the map - the succession of lanes and paths which took me back to the Dales Way was a roller-coaster affair, if peaceful. But the views, North East to the Howgills, and West to the first of the Lakeland fells, were superb. But the treat of the day was to follow once I was back on the Dales Way: an idyllic amble up the bank of the youthful River Lune, which flows South and eventually finds the sea near Lancaster.

For me it put on its gentlest gurgle-and-burble. Always beside the river, the path sometimes crossed water meadows, and sometimes it was squeezed upwards as the valley narrowed. A riot of floral colour was dominated by blue. Bluebells, occupying their favourite spots in the dappled shade below well-spaced trees, spread far along the river bank. Just fantastic.

Two men were just packing up a picnic as I passed, unwilling to share their lunch with some inquisitive (or rather acquisitive) cows. I learnt from their experience and crossed a stile into an unoccupied field for my own snack.

Crossing the Lune at Lowgill, the Dales Way turns South East, toying with the West Coast main railway line and the M6. Before crossing these I walked beneath yet another viaduct - Lowgill - which carried a now-defunct railway line through Sedbergh to Clapham. I read that the railway company had trouble hiring navvies for projects like this because they found the area too dull. But I also read that they were well used to importing their own entertainments of a hair-raising kind, so I'm not sure what the problem was.

After a steep climb and a long grassy walk near the noisesome motorway, I turned West and crossed it on a farm-track bridge, then soon left the Dales Way again to cross fields and the railway to Grayrigg.

As I came down the steps from the footbridge over the railway, a train approached. I raised my hand, and the driver returned my greeting - a positively Railway Children moment. But fear not; there was no landslip and my red flannel petticoats were not called into service. [It later occurred to me that this joke might be in doubtful taste. There was a fatal railway accident in precisely this location in 2007. I meant no disrespect.]

After a peaceful sojourn among the gravestones of Grayrigg churchyard, I caught a bus to Kendal. Kendal is a place ruled by elaborate one-way traffic systems, but the castle, on a grassy mound just outside the town, is a delight, enhanced by a lack of "do not" signs. A great place to watch the sun set.