Month: November 2022

Lake District, June 2022: 4 – Borrowdale, Crummock Water, Eskdale

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Tuesday 14 June

We’d decided to split the holiday between two campsites in order to explore more of the national park, and our time at Thirlmere was up. We’d seen the eastern side of the Lake District, from Windermere to Keswick and the surrounding fells and lakes, and the second campsite at Eskdale would be a gateway to the less accessible and in my opinion more dramatic mountains of the southwest.

We folded the tent up, helped mum, dad and Angus pack the awning into the van and set off north just as some fighter jets roared over the valley. After a picturesque 10-minute drive we stopped at Keswick for fuel and a meal deal, then headed through the bustling town and south along the Borrowdale road that twists along the eastern bank of the mountain-backed, island-spangled Derwentwater. Our first stop was the Bowder Stone, set south of the lake in the wide, wild Borrowdale valley.

Bowder Stone

We parked sneakily in a roadside pull-in and took a wide footpath into some woodland. It was a short, leafy walk past a couple of small climbing crags to the Bowder Stone. Owned by the National Trust, the stone is a huge boulder randomly plonked in the “jaws of Borrowdale”, the narrowest point of the valley, which stands 15m wide and 9m high – about twice as high as a two-storey house. It’s thought to be the result of an enormous rock fall from one of the high crags above and, situated in an open clearing amongst thriving woodland, is quite a striking feature, perched seemingly on its smallest edge. An oddly in-keeping metal staircase granted us access to the top and we wished we’d brought a bouldering mat and some shoes – it’s clearly a popular destination, with two overhanging faces and some amenable, chalky holds.

After a brief loiter around the boulder, we returned to the car and continued southwest through the immense Borrowdale valley, tucked between high, lumpy fells spattered with sheep, rocks and that kind of rugged grass that can grow anywhere. Drystone walls lined the road, which was narrow, twisty and disconcertingly steep at times, and the relatively flat belly of the valley was filled by lush, green grazing land and more verdant woodland. We drove through the tiny villages of Rosthwaite, Borrowdale and Seatoller, all lined up along the single road giving access between the hills, and stopped after a considerable climb at Honister Slate Mine, situated high up at the head of Honister Pass.

Honister Slate Mine

We parked in the large car park overlooking Honister Pass and admired the creative slate sculptures dotted around, then wandered into the shop. It was filled with all sorts of lovely art, homeware (I hate that word) and Lake District related things, and an interesting little “museum” in a side corridor told stories of the mine. We watched through a window as some stonemasons hammered, cut and polished slate in their workshop, then bought a little vase sculpture as a souvenir.

Back outside, we walked over to the head of Honister Pass to take in the view and reminisce about that time the van overheated climbing the hill we were stood on, then got a puncture on the way back down. The slate mine is perched at the head of the valley, right on the brow between the Borrowdale and Buttermere Fells, and it offers stunning views over some of the wildest, least accessible hills in the National Park. In my opinion Honister Pass is the single most striking road in England: set in the bottom of a wide, symmetrical V, it snakes deftly between towering valley sides of hardy grass, purplish brown heather, bare rock and loose slate, and runs parallel to a lively, rocky stream. The pictures speak for themselves:

Crummock Water, Woodhouse Islands

After a good gawp we returned to Scabbers and pootled on down the Pass, taking in the immense scale and majesty of everything except ourselves and stopping only to tell an American mini driver that their bulging tyre was on the brink of a blowout. At the end of the valley we tried to stop in the pretty village of Buttermere but the car park was full, so we carried on and found a roadside parking spot by Crummock Water. Being a scheduled “rest day”, we took some camping chairs, books and snacks down to the large grassy area by the water’s edge to relax for a little while. It couldn’t be more idyllic, with the large, glassy lake sat beneath rugged, green-brown sides of rolling fells and a strip of tall pines half-concealing the road.

“Relax” isn’t a skill I have in my arsenal, so after finishing my sandwich I ran back to the car to get some swim stuff. I stepped down onto the narrow pebble beach and crept into the cold water in my usual manner – very reluctantly – to the amusement of a couple sat under a nearby oak tree. Eventually my vital organs came to terms with the temperature and I swam across to a tiny wooded island about 50m from the shore, circumnavigated it, and beached myself quite ungracefully amongst the poo of what must have been a hundred geese. Leaving a lonely, tattered football in situ under a tree, I slipped back into the water, did the same with an adjacent, smaller, equally as pooey island and swam back to the bank, proclaiming the mildly infuriating adage “it’s lovely once you’re in”. I tried to convince Ryan to have a swim, as I normally do – with consistent unsuccess – when we’re near any kind of water body, but he was too busy perusing the fish pages of my Collins wildlife guide.

I shivered into my fleecey drying robe and we packed up and left our lovely, quiet spot, commenting on how – for one day – our holiday style had progressed to that of an old, retired couple, but it had been “quite nice actually”. We drove along the length of Crummock Water on a narrow road still nestled between high fells, which gradually shrank and flattened to farmland as we headed north away from the heart of the National Park. We arrived in Cockermouth after a 25-minute drive and stopped at Lidl for supplies. It felt surreal that we’d just been immersed in a beautiful, untamed hinterland of mountains, valleys and lakes, yet suddenly we were surrounded by the mundane reality of supermarket aisles and school runs.

Blakely Raise Stone Circle

We flew around the shop and left Cockermouth for our next campsite in Eskdale. This would involve an hour-long drive down the western edge of the Lakes, which we decided to break up with a flying visit to the en route Blakely Raise stone circle, which was marked on my road atlas. We headed south for 20 minutes on the A5086, gazing longingly to our left at the long chain of undulating peaks in the middle of the National Park; it was so strange how suddenly they seemed to start and end, separated from us by a stretch of absurdly normal-looking arable and grazing land. We re-entered the Lakes at Ennerdale Bridge, went over a cattle grid and found ourselves driving through rolling, open moorland, reminiscent of Dartmoor or the eastern Brecon Beacons.

We found the stones shortly after driving onto the moor. I mean no disrespect to Blakely Raise Stone Circle and I’m sure it has a long and fascinating past (in writing this post I read about its Bronze Age history and questionably reliable “reconstruction” in 1925), but we found it hilariously underwhelming. Perhaps the bar had been set by our visit to Keswick’s impressive Castlerigg a couple of days before, or perhaps because we live near Stonehenge, I’d expected at least a stone as tall as me. Instead we found eleven granite stones (“pebbles” would be a tad too harsh) peeking surreptitiously above tufty, moorland grass in a circle about 15m across, the tallest a metre high and most of them barely a foot. To its credit the setting was stunning, backed by vast, wild fells.

Eskdale

We continued south down the western edge of the Lakes. It was a lovely, scenic drive across open moor with wonderful views over the hills, and as we looked beyond the land across a deep blue sea we caught a glimpse of the Isle of Man. We cut back inland at a pretty, pastoral village called Gosforth, and as we approached Eskdale the hills grew, the roads narrowed and we lost phone signal.

We arrived at the National Trust campsite about 5pm. It was a lovely spot, set in the Eskdale valley amongst wild fells and lush woodland, and to us it was 5-star luxurious, contained by oaks and drystone walls with a large, clean toilet/shower block, a little shop, plenty of space between pitches, neatly cut grass and a tarmac drive. It felt as if the rest of the world no longer existed. We found mum, dad and Angus pitched by the entrance, pitched our tent and set about cooking dinner: my signature Thai green curry. Needless to say it went down a storm.

That evening we went for a walk through the picture-postcard village of Boot, where little stone cottages and flower-filled gardens made us wonder what on earth we were doing not living there. It had a pub, a shop and a working water mill, no main roads, and was set beneath a high ridge that seemed to protect the village from the bleak wilderness of the high fells to the north. We walked below and parallel to this ridge along a disused railway which seemed to have been taken over by nature, where birdsong filled the air and all kinds of plants grew anywhere and everywhere. We ended up at the small, pretty Dalegarth station, where the Eskdale railway still operates trains between this other-worldly place and Ravenglass on the west coast, then headed back to the campsite along the quiet country lane we’d driven in on.

Back at the campsite we sat in the awning, drank tea and gin (not together) and swapped details of our travels since Thirlmere. We were all very taken by the quiet, south-western Lake District.

Lake District, June 2022: 3 – Cathedral Cave, Grasmere, Helvellyn

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Monday 13 June

We woke and repeated yesterday’s little morning walk a short way up the side of Brown Crag to look over Thirlmere valley, see the lambs and stretch the dog’s legs. The sky was grey and didn’t look too threatening, but we got a bit rained on anyway. We had breakfast and left at 10am for a walk to Cathedral Cave, which we’d found in the Wild Guide.

Langdale

After some poor direction-giving – I’m exonerating myself as a mere pawn of Google Maps – dad drove the van down a long, narrow, twisty lane off the road between Ambleside and Coniston, only to find it was a dead end. I got out and ran up the lane to make sure, only to receive the disappointing and slightly embarrassing confirmation from some hikers that we’d have to turn back the way we came. I delivered the unwelcome news and we trundled back up the lane, then took the slightly more substantial looking road to Little Langdale and found a roadside parking spot by some ludicrously nice houses.

We piled out the van and took a footpath through some very pretty meadows. Everything seemed to thrive in the idyllic Langdale valley, from buttercups and cornflowers to oak woods carpeted with bright green mosses and ferns, and the low hills lacked the intimidating, serious feel of the higher fells. The open fields were divided by drystone walls, hedgerows and babbling streams, and perfect little stone cottages dotted the hillsides. After about a kilometre we reached the dead-end lane and followed the tree-lined path west along a river for another kilometre, then attempted to scout out Cathedral Cave.

Cathedral Cave

The cave wasn’t named on my OS map, which marks it as “Quarries (disused)”, so after coming across a sign by a steep bank warning visitors to enter at their own risk, Ryan scrambled up for a closer look while I stopped to show a couple of Dutch hikers the map. For the sake of my bad-knee-d mother, we continued along the path until we came to a more obvious route up and a National Trust sign for Little Langdale Quarries. We read about the area’s slate-quarrying history between the 1500s and 1950s, then walked up the path and went through a person-sized tunnel in a large rock face to Cathedral Cave.

The tunnel opened into a large, rocky cavern with a smooth floor, roughly hewn walls and a high ceiling that sloped upwards towards a vast, raised opening at one end. A pile of jagged boulders lay strewn below this huge, open window, and through it poured broad daylight which illuminated the ferns and mosses spilling in from outside so that they shone a brilliant shade of green. The ceiling was evidently propped up by a huge, leaning pillar of rock in the middle, and on the far side a large pool of clear water reflected the rough brown walls as if manifesting the cave’s resonating echo.

I consulted the basic quarry map that I’d saved earlier and we went through another tunnel below the window, then clambered up some rocks to an open courtyard that was full of verdant foliage and enclosed on all sides by high, rocky walls. Angus, Ryan and I explored cramped, dark tunnels, looked down on Cathedral Cave from the window, and climbed as high as we could up rough steps to try and gauge the full extent of the quarry. We popped out onto a hillside from one of the upper levels and were treated to a picturesque view of tranquil Langdale, with its undulating green fields and abundance of trees. We spotted mum, dad and Bosun poking around a slate miner’s hut, which looked fairytale-like tucked between leafy, white-trunked silver birches, and reassembled for the walk back to the van.

We walked down to the path we’d taken earlier and crossed a stone bridge over the wide, shallow river. The walk back was very pleasant, along a little country lane lined with tall hedges and drystone walls, then through the idyllic hamlet of Little Langdale, with its scattering of rose-fronted cottages overlooking the gentle valley. We clambered into the van and set off for Grasmere in anticipation of some gingerbread.

Grasmere

We arrived in the village 20 minutes later and split up so mum could bimble around the little gift (tat) shops at her commendably leisurely pace. Our first stop was the famous gingerbread shop, a small cottage with railway green windowframes and a permanent queue. There’s just enough room to stand at the counter and marvel at the layers on layers of shelves stacked full of jars, bottles and paper-wrapped treats – it feels like a little portal back to the Victorian age of paper doilies, white-frilled aprons and home remedies (all containing ginger). The smell of fresh, warm gingerbread was tantalising, and we barely made it out the shop before each tucking into a sweet, spicy, chewy slice.

Gingerbread aside, Grasmere is an almost uncannily pretty village, sheltered between fells, watered by a gentle river that flows clear past the charmingly simplistic St Oswald’s church, and filled with picture postcard slate cottages, many of which make pretty little shops and cafes. Once home to Romantic poet William Wordsworth, it’s become something of a tourist attraction, with hotels, shops and even the car park bearing his name. Personally I think this hype detracts from the authenticity of the place, but as one of the horde I speak hypocritically (although I came for the gingerbread, not a poetry-themed spa day).

We walked around Wordsworth’s peaceful, almost annoyingly pleasant daffodil garden, where memorial paving stones bear the names of their sponsors, then walked to the Co-op on the far side of the village, which – as it’s such a small place – took a grand total of about three minutes. We grabbed a meal deal to stave off the torment of our remaining four pieces of gingerbread (it comes in packs of six or twelve) and walked back to the van, somehow involuntarily collecting Bosun from dad on our way. Ryan, Angus and I perched on a wall and as we ate lunch, we marvelled at mum’s ability to browse at such a stoically unhurried pace and dad’s capacity to endure (he hates shops).

Helvellyn, Nethermost Pike, High Crag, Dollywaggon Pike

When everyone was back at the van we returned to the campsite, had a cup of tea and prepared for the evening. Located in the Thirlmere Valley, the campsite was within walking distance of Helvellyn, England’s third highest peak. It forms part of a vast, hilly ridge that stretches down much of the eastern side of the Lake District like a knobbly spine. I’d climbed it a couple of times before but only from Glenridding to the east via the famous Striding Edge, so I was keen to approach from the west. We planned the route, packed our bags and set off at 4pm.

We went through the farmyard and headed up the western side of the vast landmass. We climbed steeply up a narrow path past drystone walls and lush ferns, which turned to bare rocks and rugged yellowish grass as the terrain grew higher and harsher. As the valley behind us shrank, the glassy, black water of Thirlmere Reservoir stretched between its undulating, wooded hills and ridges and distant peaks appeared on the high horizon. The gradient eased slightly and as is customary we found ourselves crossing a lot of open, boggy ground, then we joined an obvious, steep, rocky path that climbed the mountain parallel to Hevellyn Gill. The path dissolved into a kind of open, gently sloping plateau that formed the top of the ridge, where grass grew patchily, sheep roamed freely and rocks littered the ground.

We walked southeast along the ridge for about a kilometre. The easy gradient gave us the chance to admire the stunning view north across Thirlmere to hulking, angular Skiddaw, which towered over the silver-grey surface of Derwentwater as it nestled between irregular slopes. The western horizon was formed of endless hazy blue peaks which all merged together in one long, enticing chain, and the nearer, greener fells rolled into one another as if the result of a single, sweeping brush stroke. The weather had been mild, still and cloudy but clear, but as we approached the summit we found ourselves pulling on raincoats to repel the suddenly wet air and squinting over the brim of the ridge to catch a glimpse of the eastern mountains through the fog. Naturally, the stone trig point crowning the top sat just above the cloud line.

We had a sandwich and some sweets in a drystone shelter near the summit, then continued south along the ridge to Nethermost Pike (891m), High Crag (884m) and the delightfully named Dollywaggon Pike (830m). This involved walking in a relatively straight line along the edge of the steep, high escarpment that forms the eastern face of the Helvellyn “spine”, whose sheer, rocky aspect is in stark contrast with the rolling, green slopes of the western side.  Considering I’ve referred to the top of the ridge as a “plateau”, there was a fair amount of elevation loss and gain between Helvellyn and each of the other three summits (if they qualify as such), but the gradient was moderate and the path was easy to follow. Fortunately the fog was isolated to the very top of Helvellyn so we had clear, near-panoramic views over rugged valleys, undulating ridges and an array of countless, layered, diversely shaped peaks.

Striding Edge was particularly impressive as we looked back from Nethermost Pike, its long form stretching up to the base of Helvellyn like the blade of a serrated knife. Hardy grass grew stubbornly wherever it could establish roots, and wherever it couldn’t was dominated by sheer grey rock and loose scree. U-shaped valleys carved the hills into seemingly random, rugged shapes, and the slopes to the east flattened suddenly to common-or-garden farmland at the distant edge of the National Park, beyond the snaking curve of Ullswater.

Our modest reward for adding the three satellite peaks to our hike was a photo at each cairn. We turned around after Dollywaggon and retraced our steps up and down High Crag, Nethermost Pike and Helvellyn, then rejoined the rocky path down Helvellyn Gill. We decided to avoid the boggy ground so followed that path steeply down for about a kilometre to the edge of a forest. As the sun dipped it cast an other-worldly light over the landscape in front of us, highlighting the fluffy edges of the heavy-looking clouds, accentuating the layers of mountains over Thirlmere and bathing the rough slopes in a golden-green glow. Near the base of the slope we branched right, crossed a rocky stream and followed another path that ran parallel to a drystone wall for another kilometre, a fairly level stretch that entailed some fighting through bracken.

We rejoined the path from the farm and walked down the last steep hill to the campsite, getting back 9 miles later and – precisely in accordance with my calculation – just after 9pm. I slept contently in all my smugness.

Lake District, June 2022: 2 – Ullswater, Castlerigg, Keswick

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Sunday 12 June

After a sound sleep I crawled out of my tent, collected Angus and Bosun and we walked a short way up the hill to look over Thirlmere valley. The farm’s inquisitive lambs came over to say hello and Bosun was very excited at the prospect of some wooly playmates, so he remained on a very tight lead. The wind had dropped and the sun shone through a thick layer of fluffy white cloud, making the valley look extremely green with its grassy belly and forested hillsides climbing above the dark water of Thirlmere reservoir. We decided that we did like the campsite after all, and headed back down the hill for a breakfast of cereal and dad-seared toast.

The forecast consisted of wind, cloud and rain, so rather than make ourselves miserable getting wet we decided to go on a boat trip around Ullswater, the national park’s north-easternmost and second largest lake. We bundled into the van and dad drove us to Glenridding, a pretty lakeside village. It was only about four miles from the campsite as the crow flies, but we had to circumnavigate the uncompromising bulk of the Eastern Fells which made it a twisty, scenic half hour trip.

Ullswater boat trip, Glenridding village

We parked in the large, central car park at Glenridding and hurried (unnecessarily) down to the ferry landing. We had a cup of tea in the cosy café on the water’s edge and boarded the Lady Wakefield at 11am. She was a medium sized passenger boat with lovely, glossy wood panelling on the deck and inside the large, two-storey cabin, which reminded me of an old train carriage with its rows of tables and chairs, tiny toilets and downstairs bar.

We sat out on the deck as the boat chugged along the long, thin lake. The banks on either side rose steeply above the water and Helvellyn sat behind us, its lofty ridge framed perfectly in the “U” between two curved slopes. Patches of dark forest peppered the grassy hillsides and the land undulated at random, occasionally flattening out enough for a house or two to nestle into the lower slopes, and everything all around the lake was some shade of green. It was lovely to be out on the water with such a unique, immersive view of the surrounding fells, even if the wind was a bit chilly.

As we passed Aira Force waterfall the loudspeaker told the tale of unfortunate Lady Emma, whose knight fiancé found her sleepwalking by the waterfall one night. As he tried to wake her she slipped and drowned in the water, so he lived out his days mourning in a nearby cave. Apparently she continues to haunt the 66-foot waterfall, which sadly can’t be seen from the lake. We also learned how poet William Wordsworth’s famous Daffodils poem (“I wandered lonely as a cloud…”) was inspired by the yellow banks of Ullswater in spring, and how the lake is one of only four in the world that contain the schelly, a fish in the salmon family.

The boat rounded a corner and stopped at Howtown, a cosy-looking hamlet at the base of high, grassy Hallin Fell and Loadpot Hill. A few people boarded and unboarded, then we carried on to Pooley Bridge at the northern tip of Ullswater. As we approached the hills flattened out and lost some of their wildness as rugged slopes gave way to neat farmland, and more buildings cropped up around the edge of the lake. At Pooley Bridge the captain warned against getting off the boat because the high winds meant they may cancel the later return trips to Glenridding, so we stayed on board. I didn’t mind – Pooley Bridge looked a bit too flat for my liking.

On the way back we sat and admired the view from the warm cabin, where I tracked our progress on a map and ate biscuits. Despite being an abnormally restful activity, it was quite nice sitting in comfort and looking at the mountains from afar, and the trip – about 17 miles there and back – was a lovely way to see the whole of Ullswater. When we were almost back at Glenridding I was delighted by the tiny, wild islands in the middle of the lake, one of which would have been perfect for a night in a hammock, and envious of whoever could afford to visit the posh hotel on the edge of the lake.

We got off at the pier and walked over to a beautiful lakeside meadow, where Bosun was unleashed to play in the water. We returned to the pretty village centre, nipped into a slightly-too-touristy shop to grab picnic bits, then waited near the car park for several weeks while mum shopped for a hiking pole. Only after I’d lost the will to live did we make it back to the van, then drove back to Bosun’s lakeside meadow for a picnic of sandwiches, crisps and biscuits – mother was redeemed.

Castlerigg Stone Circle

We left Glenridding about 2:30pm and drove back up the twisty road, then west along the A66 to Castlerigg Stone Circle. We parked in a layby and ambled over to the stones. The c.3000BC circle consists of 38 grey slabs, some above head height and some below knee height, is one of the oldest stone circles in the country, and is thought to have been used as a place for communities to meet, trade and hold religious ceremonies. It stands in a hilltop field that offers panoramic views west over Keswick, backed by the rolling, hazy blue Derwent fells, south over the rugged green valleys of Castlerigg, east over moor-like Threlkeld and north to the towering peaks of Blencathra and Skiddaw. It could only have been more atmospheric if we’d had the place to ourselves.

Keswick

After bimbling around the circle and gawping at the landscape, we went back to the van and headed down the hill into Keswick. I’m very fond of this town, with its pretty cobbled high street, multitude of outdoor shops and lakeside position on the northern edge of Derwentwater. We looked around the information shop in Moot Hall, a lovely, grey stone building plonked in the middle of the high street with a tall, distinctive clock tower that used to be a marketplace downstairs and a courthouse upstairs. We wandered down some back roads and spent a while in another historic building, now the George Fisher outdoor shop, which contained a lot of very nice, very beyond-my-budget gear.

Bored of shops, Ryan, Angus and I found our way through pretty, quirky streets to Hope Park, a lovely public space near the lake with lots of pretty flowers and little gardens. Then we found nearby Crow Park, a large green field full of sheep and geese that sweeps down to the northeastern edge of Derwentwater, and decided to bring mum and dad back later. We reconvened in the town, moved the van to a lakeside car park, had a cup of tea and headed back out to find somewhere for dinner. All the pubs were busy, but luckily mum and dad found the Pocket Café Bar, a tiny, independent pizza place. 10/10 would recommend – lovely pizza.

We returned to Crow Park to walk off dinner. A huge flock of Canada geese pecked and paddled around the water’s edge and the forested, perfectly round Derwent Isle sat neatly on the calm, glassy blue water. The lake was backed by the high green ridge of Cat Bells and the surrounding Derwent Fells rose and fell in hazy, sloping triangular layers. A short, circular walk took us along the lakefront, into a little wood where Bosun sneaked his way into the water, past a field of tall grass, which Bosun very clumsily chased me through, and back to the van via the sheep/goose field.

Dad drove us back to Thirlmere and we were once again amazed by the brightness of the night sky, which looked almost pale blue late into the evening. It was a lovely ending to a lovely day.

Lake District, June 2022: 1 – Lancaster, Windermere, Thirlmere

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Saturday 11 June

Our week-long family holiday arrived not a moment too soon and I was so excited to show my parents the Lakes for the first time. We left the New Forest at 4am and had a mercifully uneventful 4ish-hour drive up to Lancaster, where we parked in the centre by the bus station and met them for a bimble.

Lancaster

Lancaster is a nice city, perhaps (like most) a little tired around the edges, with attractive sandstone buildings, quirky little side-street pubs and a wide high street filled with market stalls and chain stores. We wandered along the high street, waited an age for Ryan and Angus to get a Gregg’s, then turned left down a road that led to a grand, tall-columned town hall by a quiet, grassy square, where an imposing statue of Queen Victoria stood proud on a magnificent plinth of stone and bronze.

After some indecisiveness about which way to go next, a short walk up a pretty, cobbled hill took us to the beautifully intact Lancaster Castle, whose tall, two-towered, pleasingly symmetrical gatehouse overlooks the city. The walls are made of blocky yellow, red and grey stone and it ticks all the castle boxes – battlements, arrowslits, a portcullis, a delicately carved figure inlaid above the gate and a large, well-kept lawn and pretty flowerbed out the front. A fun-sponge of a security guard told us sternly that we couldn’t take the dog in, so we peered into the courtyard and admired it from the outside, where we read about its long history as a prison and ongoing use as Lancaster Crown Court.

Satisfied with Lancaster and keen to reach the Lakes, we walked back down the cobbled hill to the car park and left the city. It didn’t take long to get through the suburbs and onto the M6, and as we approached the edge of the National Park the hills rose around us, kindling my excitement to be in the mountains again. Despite one wrong turn thanks to my poor direction-giving, we made it to Windermere in about 45 minutes.

Windermere

Ryan and I parked at Booths – a very posh, Northern version of Waitrose – and walked down the hill into the little town, having forgotten that it isn’t actually on the edge of Lake Windermere – previously we’d stopped at Bowness, just down the road and right on the water. It’s a pretty, bustling little town with lots of lovely shops but we decided it was a bit too busy with tourists like us, so having failed to bump into the others after a circuit of the centre we had a drink at the delightfully quirky Crafty Baa, a tiny, timeless pub with an overwhelming number of miscellaneous items hanging from the ceiling and a mind-boggling selection of craft beers. We sat on a pallet bench in the cosy garden out the front and sipped fruity Herefordshire cider, utterly content as we watched the world go by, then made our way back to the car.

Our first classic Lake District view came as we drove along the Ambleside road, which twists and curves along the eastern edge of Lake Windermere and offers wonderful glimpses of the rolling fells that give the water a striking backdrop as they rise up from the west bank. The peaks were tantalising, and I felt so excited to be back. We stopped briefly in the middle of pretty, bustling, outdoorsey Ambleside to grab some supplies and a couple of parking discs that give free, limited-time street parking in several areas, then met mum, dad and Angus in the car park by the northern tip of Lake Windermere. We decided collectively to give Ambleside a miss on the grounds of it being too busy, so we left for the campsite. It was early afternoon and we wanted to get pitched and settled in good time, and I was particularly keen to establish our plans for the week.

Thirlmere

The campsite was situated on the A591 road between Ambleside and Keswick, just above Thirlmere reservoir and below the hulking east face of Helvellyn. The 20-minute drive from Ambleside was lovely: twisty through Rydal and Grasmere, then incredibly scenic as we cut between the dramatic Eastern and Central fells, whose rugged, steep sides were carpeted by rough, dull grass interrupted by large patches of heather and evergreen forest. The mountains had got me again – for the first time since our March trip to Snowdonia, I experienced that exhilarating, humbling realisation, which dawns on me again and again as if every time were the first, of my own overwhelming smallness.

We got to Thirlspot Farm about 2pm, set up camp and spent the suddenly windy, rainy afternoon sheltering in the awning. Ryan and I were in my trusty, no-frills, 15-year-old tent, which has more than served its sentence over the years (as demonstrated by the heavily taped poles) but is certainly not – as it claims to be – suitable for four people, although it is perfect for two with a couple of bags. Angus was in his neat little two-man, mum and dad had their campervan with pop-top roof and side awning, and we were all crammed together between a gravel track and a wire fence.

We weren’t sure on the campsite at first, which was just a thin strip of grass running parallel to the main road that was shielded from the noise only by a hedge and a narrow line of trees, but it grew on us over the next few days. Because that road cuts along a huge valley, the campsite sits nestled below the steep, grassy, rocky western slopes of Brown Crag (610m) and Helvellyn (949m), which gave it a wild feeling and made us appreciate the vastness of the fells. The farm was pleasantly old-fashioned, the resident lambs were charming, the toilets were clean, the showers were hot, the road was quiet at night and there was only space for a handful of campers at a time, so it felt quite private.

A strong southerly wind was whipping up the valley and drizzle came and went, so after setting up we sat in the awning, ate mum’s homemade brownies, recovered from the journey and made plans for the rest of the week, which involved several books and maps, at least two different weather forecasts, a notebook and some minor frustration at everyone’s indecisiveness. Mum cooked a delicious veggie chilli con carne for tea and to our relief the weather improved that evening.

It was a very atmospheric first night below the mountainside; bright daylight reflected off the clouds until late, and I don’t think it ever really got dark – it was as if the normal rules of day and night didn’t apply in this wild place. All tired from our early start, we went to bed at 9ish and I dropped straight off, remaining dead to the world until morning.

Girona, Spain: Forest Hike to Castell de Sant Miquel, Home

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10 July 2022

It was the final day of our little holiday and we were determined not to waste it. With the flight home not being until 8pm, we asked our AirBnB host if we could store our small luggage bag in the hallway until the afternoon and she kindly agreed. We left about 10am for Castell De Sant Miquel, a tower on a hilltop in the middle of a vast, rolling forest. Getting there would involve a 1.5 hour hike that had been recommended to us by one of the people at the bike shop the day before, starting from the middle of Old Town.

Ascent up Les Gavarres

We walked through the quaint streets (I’m nearly done banging on about them), through the castle-like cathedral area, across a narrow dried-up river channel near the pretty John Lennon gardens and east out of the city. Within just a few minutes it felt as if we were in a rural village, walking along a quiet road lined with rustic houses which soon turned to dry, hedge-lined arable fields. After about a mile and a half we reached the edge of the Gavarres massif, a vast range of relatively low mountains covered in a dense forest of oaks, pines and other lush green vegetation, and we took a well-signposted gravel path into the trees, which provided some respite from the relentless sun.

The hike up to the tower was hot but enjoyable and it felt very exotic, given our unfamiliarity with non-British forests. Noisy cicadas filled the air with a constant, croaky hum and I was amazed by how the trees seemed to thrive despite the dry, dusty conditions. We passed a herd of goats rambling casually up a track after a goatherd, stopping to chew on leaves with their tinny goat bells tinkling. The winding, hilly route passed a couple of interesting features, including a tall double column sculpture and the ruins of medieval stone farmhouses with information boards in several languages, and at a clearing in the trees we stopped to look over the distant, sprawling red rooves of Girona backed by layers of hazy blue mountains in the Guilleries massif.

Castell de Sant Miquel

As we approached the top of the hill the gravel path turned to bare, slabby, rooty granite, then levelled out to a flattish plateau. We walked up to the castell, which sits on one of the many summits of the Gavarres. It appeared suddenly through the trees, seemingly out of nowhere, a perfectly square, three-storey stone tower with a set of exterior metal stairs leading up to the entrance on the first floor. Behind it stood the semi-intact remains of a long stone chapel, a section of old wall and a lonely information board that told us in vague terms that the tower was built in 1848 on the remains of a medieval hermitage (religious retreat). As I write this I’m surprised at how little of the history seems to have been recorded – Google offers no substantial results.

We wandered into the crumbled open end of the chapel and along to the intact-rooved end, where a large, rough-edged hole served as a window that perfectly framed the far-reaching views over rolling forest and way out to a smooth, distant sea. A small altar stood looking a little sad in the middle, and the place exuded lonely, slightly mysterious simplicity. We went back to the tower, climbed the steps and popped out on the flat, square roof.

We were prepared for the incredible views because the structures stand in a clearing that allowed us to catch glimpses of distant mountains above the treetops, but we weren’t quite prepared for the overall effect of the totally unimpeded 360 degree panorama that hit us at the top. We looked down on verdant, almost rainforest-like woodland that rolled over undulating hills all around, stretching way out to the south and east in deep green swathes. This gave way to a short length of smooth blue sea that sat in a wide valley between gently rising mountains, which – apart from that little bit of coast – stretched around us the entire length of the horizon in a long, hazy blue chain. Expanses of butter-coloured farmland and little towns formed a mosaic on flat plains and in valleys, and Girona looked strangely small tucked below the highest peaks. It was breathtaking, and so novel compared to the UK landscapes we’re used to.

Hike back to Girona

We walked around the top of the tower, taking it all in, then climbed down the metal stairs and headed back into the trees the way we came. After the rooty granite “steps” we took a right fork to make the route circular, then tramped down a wide, dusty dirt track lined with conifers and birches. After about a mile we crossed a main road and walked back to Girona along a quiet, rolling country lane, past rugged fields, large, spread-out rural houses and lots of trees occupying all the in-between bits of land that hadn’t been otherwise claimed.

As we neared the city the houses became more packed in but still large, spacious and quite plush-looking. This was clearly a well-off suburb, with clean streets, bright whitewashed walls, lovely views over the distant mountains and a startling number of private pools. We walked down the hill to the medieval area around the cathedral, glad to have squeezed such a lovely walk into our last day, and treated ourselves to a refreshing smoothie from a little shop near the basilica, which we drank overlooking the river.

Homeward bound

We reluctantly conceded that the holiday was over and walked the cobbles of Old Town one last time to collect our bag from the AirBnb. After saying goodbye to our host we squeezed into the tiny lift, went through the narrow passageway onto Placa del Raims, crossed the bridge and returned to the bus station through the long, straight, less quaint streets to the west of the river. We grabbed drinks and snacks from a tiny convenience store and waited in the air conditioned station for the bus, which was due about 3.30pm. Time dragged, partly due to the our unnecessary earliness and partly due to the Sunday afternoon quietness of the large station plaza, which was beautifully sunny yet eerily quiet and empty.

We were lucky to board when we did as the bus driver told us it was cash only, which would have left us stuck if the very kind American in front of us (who we’d already spoken to at the station) hadn’t insisted on paying our fares. As the bus took us out of the city we gazed wistfully over the long streets hectic with signs, overhead cables and shop shutters, then over dusty fields and rustic farms before reaching the airport. We hung around outside for a while, then hung around inside for a while, then finally went through security and reached the great, sprawling duty free / lounge / restaurant bit, which had huge glass windows looking out across hazy blue mountains. It was a nice, small airport, which was a huge relief given that our flight was delayed by an hour. We had a Burger King (Vegan Whopper – delicious) on a small terrace, lamented the end of our little holiday and had an uneventful flight back to Bournemouth.

Girona: 9/10 would recommend. Minus one point due to the citywide absence of triangular sandwiches, but that’s a personal thing.

Girona, Spain: Cycling City to Coast

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9 July 2022

I got up early and had a life-shortening experience washing and de-knotting my sea-salty, matted, impossibly tangled hair. I returned to the bedroom two hours later, a broken woman, to find Ryan half awake and wondering if I’d died in the bathroom. I think part of me did. We left the apartment and headed through Old Town to Eat Sleep Cycle, a modern, reassuringly English-sounding bike shop, intending to hire bikes and spend the day pedalling away the trauma.

They didn’t have any standard mountain bikes to fit Ryan, which I suspect was to his relief as we ended up with a couple of gravel e-bikes. We nipped down the street to a Spar for food and drink while they prepared the bikes and set off on our ride about midday, pleased with the helpful, friendly service at the bike shop. They recommended taking the Via Verde (green path), a disused railway line turned into a cycle route, southeast towards the coast, and joked that they’d buy us a beer if we made it to the beach and back by the time the shop closed at 7pm. It was game on.

Girona to St Feliu de Guixols (25 miles)

We headed out of the city along cycle paths (the cycling infrastructure seemed much more comprehensive than in England) and followed the river south. We were so excited to get going that we hadn’t really listened to the directions and struggled to find the start of the route, so we carried on along the river until we found a Via Verde sign. We managed to go wrong again at a slight fork in the path and ended up heading towards a different part of Girona, so after cycling up a twisty hill we turned around, went back to actually look at the sign, and righted ourselves onto the route.

Finally back on track, we rode out of the city and through hot, dry, golden fields on a wide, flat dirt path. We passed through a residential outskirt of the village of Quart, which was very clean and eerily quiet given that it was midday on a Saturday – what we think of as prime time for people to be out enjoying their gardens, but the hot Spanish sun lacks the novelty of its English counterpart and seems to inspire indifference. We popped out at the other side of the village and rode south for several miles through more open fields.

The landscape was a patchwork mosaic of golden wheat, tall green corn, orderly vineyard and leafy woodland with the occasional farm or miscellaneous building scattered at random, separated by rows of thriving trees and hedges. The horizon was dominated ahead, behind and to the right of us by a long chain of rolling, hazy blue mountains, which must have been the Massis de les Cadiretes, Massis del Montseny and possibly the easternmost Pyrenees. It was stunning, tranquil, and very hot.

We loved the electric bikes. They had three power modes which we used conservatively, saving the battery for the way back, but we tested them a few times and the controlled acceleration of high power mode was a real buzz as I pushed down on the pedals. For the first time ever, I understood the appeal – it meant we could still have a long day of pedalling while being able to travel much further than on normal bikes, and I liked that I could turn the power off to make it harder.

We went slightly wrong at the town of Cassa de la Selva as “we” assumed directions instead of stopping to properly look for signs, and ended up cycling along a fairly busy road through the slightly shabby town. Luckily we spotted the flat, straight path across some fields after passing through, rode along a dusty drive past a memorably lovely house looking over fields and mountains that reminded me of something I might once have built on the Sims, and continued back on track through the agricultural patchwork.

About halfway along the trail we were tempted by a café at Llagostera, a pretty, quiet town with tree-lined streets and some impressive allotments, but decided to press on to get to the coast and back. After Llagostera the landscape changed from flat farmland to undulating forest. We cycled east parallel to the main C-65 road that cuts between the Gavarres and Cadiretes massifs through the Ridaura valley, then down a long, fast, curving hill into the thick trees. The forest was loud with the panoramic, cricket-like buzz of cicada insects and lush with vegetation, including bark-shedding eucalyptuses and partly stripped cork trees.

We emerged from the forest at a small town called Santa Cristina d’Aro, where we managed to get lost thanks to a poorly signposted section of the route. We rode through the quiet, dusty streets out to a large roundabout, turned around instead of joining the main road, explored all exits of another roundabout, cycled past the same bar four times – probably to the great amusement of the customers – and realised that if we’d gone straight on from the forest we’d soon have found the signs. Frustration turned to bemusement and we continued on the route, which now took us through a patchwork of residential streets, small industrial estates and little patches of farmland as we approached the coastal town of Sant Feliu de Guixols and the end of the Ruta del Carrilet. I was particularly taken by the view to our left, where an array of houses nestled sporadically in amongst trees high up on the thickly forested hillside.

We continued through this urban sprawl towards the town centre and decided that Sant Feliu looked too large and busy for our liking, so we took a left and cycled down a road to Platja de Sant Pol, a small beach that follows the curve of a pretty, C-shaped bay enclosed by land on three sides. The beach and all the little seafront restaurants were pretty but all very busy so we snapped a couple of photos, grabbed some cold Fantas from a shop and headed back the way we came.

Return to Girona

We made our escape from the peopley place and opened up the power on the bikes to get back to Girona for 7pm. It had taken us about three and a half hours to cycle the 26.5 miles there and the time was 4pm, so we had 3 hours to get back and were feeling the pressure a little – there was no room for error. Luckily we were flying, and now that we knew the route we were less likely to get lost. We went back through the forest, up the long hill to Llagostera, back through the fields (notably past an old farmer pootling along on an ancient red tractor – a postcard-worthy image) and towns and into Girona. The panoramic mountain views in the hazy afternoon light were stunning, and although we’d cycled past several other bikers on the way there was barely anyone coming back. It felt like a fairly substantial distance – I mistook a couple of urban areas a few miles out for the edge of the city and kept being surprised that we weren’t back yet. The additional power took the brunt out of the hills and allowed us to really open up on the flats, and by the end of the day we were enamoured with the electric bikes.

53 miles later, we made it back for 7pm. We dropped the bikes off and went back to the room to relax, listen to the Catalonian song we’d heard a couple of nights ago and wash the thick layer of dust off our skin. We headed out for dinner at 9ish, wandered around deciding where to go, and settled on the Indian restaurant recommended by a friendly man who’d chatted to us about Bournemouth in an ice cream queue. It was a tiny place in one of the narrow streets of Old Town, and we sat at a table out the front. The toilet was hilariously quirky – the smallest room in the world with a nail and a twisted paperclip for a lock – but the curry was amazing.

After dinner we walked through the bustling streets of Old Town, crossed the river and returned to Placa de la Indepencia  one last time. I decided that I couldn’t have an abroad holiday without a cocktail, so I indulged in a fruity, rum-based “Rastaman” from Fockviu, one of the many bars spilling along the edge of the large square. We sat, people watched and drank, feeling very satisfied. Full and tired, we left the square, crossed the river at the red cage bridge, paused halfway across to watch the lights of the pretty buildings dance and shimmer on the calm black water, walked back through the warmly lit little streets and collapsed into bed about midnight.

Girona, Spain: Snorkelling on the Costa Brava

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8 July 2022

I woke in pitch darkness wondering why I felt so awake, until I realised it was 9am and the window shutters had completely blocked the daylight from our room. I suggested hiring a car for the day to go and see the mountains and national parks north and west of Girona – Les Guilleries and Parc Natural de la Zona Volcanica de la Garrotxa. After a couple of biscuits and a peach kindly provided by our AirBnb host, we headed through the warm streets of Old Town and across the river to find the car hire place.

The city west of the river is newer and less charming than the east, but the streets were clean and quiet. We walked between tall buildings and through the large plaza by the station in an unsuccessful search for a convenience shop selling sandwiches – it seems that Catalan businesses have quite sporadic opening hours, and there’s certainly no such thing as a meal deal. We grabbed paprika crisps from one shop, sun cream from another, and eventually found the car hire place in a strange, dead quiet residential area – all shuttered up.

Platja d’Aro Municipality

A little exasperated, we decided to head back to the station to catch a bus to the coast. We walked along clean, quiet main roads past a busy corner café (presumably full of car hire people) and a couple of telecoms engineers working on a pop-up table under a parasol, to the amusement of Ryan (the telecoms engineer.) At the large, air-conditioned bus station, a lovely English lady helped us find the right bus and we waited in the queue for the 11.45 departure to Platja d’Aro.

Rather than the low, long, slightly oppressive box full of people, handrails and stop buttons that I’m accustomed to as a not-very-regular participant in the English public transport system, the bus was what I’d consider a touring coach. It was comfortable and nobody paid attention to the face mask signs. The journey took us through quiet, dry towns with pale buildings and low-angled terracotta rooves and past flat, golden fields backed by distant mountains. It was interesting to see some of rural Catalonia, and we arrived in the large coastal town of Platja d’Aro after 40 minutes.

We checked the return times and walked through a large, palm-lined plaza towards the sea. This town felt more modern and touristy than Girona, with lots of beach apartments and an almost Miami-like vibe – to us, anyway. We turned off a street onto the beachfront, which was crammed with outdoor bars and restaurants looking out over pale sand and clear, blue water.  Platja Gran d’Aro beach was busy enough but far from crowded, and we walked for 20 minutes along the wide, paved promenade to the quiet northern stretch of sand.

Platja Rovira Beach

The path curved and narrowed into an open passage as we walked between a rock face and a low wall, which took us up some steps and through a tunnel. We emerged at the back of a sandy cove where interesting rock formations punctuated the sand a little way below us, including an upright pinnacle that begged to be climbed, and verdant shrubs spilled from the wall where the land dropped away. We carried on and the path arced around to the left revealing Platja Rovira, another small stretch of sand separated from the cove and main beach by rocks jutting into the sea. We liked the look of this beach, which was also busy but not rammed, so we wandered down to find a spot.

We set our towel (Ryan didn’t bring his) down at the far end below more high, vegetation-topped rocks, and buried our valuables ready to go in the sea. The “sand” was more like extremely fine, smooth, almost white gravel, which felt nice underfoot and was blissfully easy to brush off. We managed no more than a few minutes “relaxing” before grabbing our snorkels and trotting off to the sea, which shelved steeply and provided respite from the burning heat, which thankfully was tempered by a light breeze.

The water was clear, deep and incredibly blue. We swam over rocky worlds absolutely mesmerised by the unfamiliar fish – colourful purple-yellow-green wrasse, large, bottom-feeding mullet, some kind of piranha-shaped things with fine stripes and thick lips, snake-like red and black things, huge shoals of tiny shiny things and small bright orange things, all hovering around the anemone, urchin and grass-like weed covered rocks.

We snorkelled for half an hour, swam across to a floating pontoon for the sole and fully legitimate purpose of jumping off, and headed back to the beach for a second attempt at relaxing. That didn’t last long, and we ended up packing up and walking back to Platja Gran d’Aro in search of some lunch. We found a medium-sized supermarket on a street behind the beach and were bemused to find only four sandwiches in the whole shop. We left with a strange combination of snacks – a sandwich that was half omelette, half ham and cheese, some dubious looking ham and cheese toasties, paprika Lays, a couple of mojito beers, a litre of sangria and a quarter watermelon.

Platja Gran d’Aro Beach

We stopped to eat at a grassy, shady spot along the beachfront. The watermelon, sangria, crisps and ham and cheese sandwich were lovely, but the omelette sandwich was a serious undertaking – heavy, vinegarey and generally unpleasant. I’d expected Ryan to share the melon but he didn’t want any, so having decided to return to a different part of the beach, I waddled back to the north end of Gran Platja d’Aro feeling very full. We sat near the rocks at the end, buried our stuff in the gravelly sand and pulled on snorkels ready to go and find some more fish.

We spent another half hour mesmerised by the colours and shapes of the underwater world, where undulating rocks formed foundations for cities of fish, spiky black urchins, huge anemones and grassy weed. We braved taking my waterproof iPhone 12 Pro in the water and despite the immense difficulty of simultaneously clutching it with one hand, constantly rearranging our cheap snorkels, not kicking rocks and staying afloat, we got some great footage (in amongst the mass of blurry, noisy, shaky footage). We headed back to the sand about 7pm on deciding that in our attempt to take videos, we’d swallowed way too much seawater.

We buried my legs in the sand for no good reason, drank sangria and messed around on the rocks, then set off back to the bus station along the still buzzing promenade. We caught the 8.30pm bus back to Girona and enjoyed the sunset over the distant hazy blue mountains, golden fields and quiet towns.

Back in Girona

We went straight from the bus station to our apartment, dumped our bags and quickly changed before heading out for dinner. We walked through the narrow streets of Old Town, which were lit warmly and colourfully by the various restaurants and shops, to the Konig restaurant by the tall, beautifully lit Basilica. We sat outside in kind of a courtyard by the open, carless street and were once again amazed by the lateness of life in Catalonia – we didn’t start eating until 11pm but the restaurant was busy with people, including young children. Feeling still full of melon and salt water, I had a prawn, egg and avocado salad with bread and Ryan had a lovely risotto with prawn and scallop skewers and grilled courgette. Satisfied, knackered and still salty, we headed straight back to our room and dropped off to sleep.