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.