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Lake District, June 2022: 9 – Needle Ridge, Great Gable, Kirk Fell

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Sunday 19 June

We packed up, had one last breakfast with mum, dad and Angus and left the campsite at 8.30am. Saying goodbye to them always puts a little lump in my throat because I’m secretly a bit soft, particularly when we’d just spent such an amazing week together, so we hastened to plunge ourselves into the mountains for one last day of adventure. They were to drive home that day but we’d booked the following day off work, so the plan was to return to Napes Needle – the iconic rock pinnacle on Great Gable where we’d climbed a couple of days previously – this time to climb the classic trad route “Needle Ridge”, summit the mountain, hike across to tick off its neighbour Kirk Fell, then drive home that evening.

Hike up Great Gable (899m)

We drove deep into the dramatic Wasdale valley one last time and parked again at Wasdale Head. Great Gable loomed ahead in all its distinctive pyramidal glory, its dark, jagged upper reaches calling to us with the siren song unique to high and distant horizons. Loaded with rucksacks full of metal and rope, we hiked the easy, flat mile to its base, then started up its steep southwestern face.

Having already hiked up to Napes Needle, we were prepared for what was coming: a long, steady march up a steep grassy path to gain 450m of elevation in just one kilometre. Green fells surrounded us like towering, frozen, rolling waves, their sweeping, curved edges pitted with rocks, scrub and streams that cut across the surface like long scars. Kirk Fell loomed to the left beyond an impassably steep ravine of grass and scree, which actualised the scale of our undertaking – in terms of vertical elevation gain/loss our first 450m would be followed by a five pitch rock climb for another 350m to the summit of Great Gable, then a descent of 300m to a col between the mountains, then a climb of another 200m to summit Kirk Fell, then a loss of 700m to return to Wasdale. That’s a lot of up and down.

We reached the scree slopes two thirds of the way up the mountain after an hour’s walk, keeping a keen eye out for the practically non-existent path towards Napes Needle. We were eager to take a less treacherous route than we had done previously but I’m not sure if we actually found it. Paths can’t easily be spotted where they run across loose, steep, uneven rocks, changeable terrain where boots leave no mark, so our scrabble along the mountainside was no less perilous and awkward than before. Thankfully we were now vaguely familiar with the triangular pinnacles and seemingly endless grey rock faces of Great Gable’s southern face, so finding Napes Needle was more straightforward than last time and we breathed a sigh of relief as its distinctive form came into view.

Needle Ridge

We scrambled up to the base of the Needle, geared up and as is typical of fickle mountain weather, it started raining – that light but cold and deceptively wet kind of rain. It had been cloudy and dry until then, and we willed it to stop – climbing slippery rock is unpleasant at best. Deciding to push on before it got too wet, Ryan led the first pitch at his own request, which was probably the trickiest due to its polished, slabby nature and seeping rock. Thankfully the rain stopped as he clung to the marginally less slippery left hand side of the slab, struggling a little to find a good gear placement, then pulled through the crux to both our relief. While belaying I chatted to another couple of climbers who had turned up, then I followed up the first pitch, which was easy but admittedly a fairly bold lead due to the polished, damp surface.

The climb was graded a comfortable VDiff so we didn’t bother changing into climbing shoes – our comfy, grippy approach shoes were fine. Rather than belaying at the points shown in the climbing guide, we lengthened the pitches for the sake of speed and ease, choosing the ledges and flat sections (of which there were plenty) that seemed most sensible to us. This made the climbing more natural and allowed us to get way ahead of the other two climbers, reducing the risk of sending rocks tumbling towards them and ensuring we didn’t hold them up. I led the second pitch, an enjoyable venture up a steep crack followed by a scramble over blocky rock, and we continued in this way, alternating leads all the way up the ridge.

We absolutely love classic climbing routes due to their long, adventurous, committing nature, inspiring history, exciting exposure and exclusive views only attainable by those who love the mountains enough to truly immerse themselves. Wasdale sprawled below us, the far reaches of glassy Wast Water almost touching the horizon, and the rugged, hulking Scafell Pike range sat across the steep, deep valley of Lingmell Beck beyond the crinkly, green shoulders of Lingmell. We were so immersed in the landscape that we barely noticed the pitches going by, and before we knew it we were at what is described in the book as pitch 5, a 40m scramble along the final part of the ridge. This last section didn’t really involve any climbing so we de-harnessed, flagged the rope and effectively free soloed along a long, narrow stretch of rock and grass, moving quickly along the undulating ridgeline. It was easy but exposed, with a serious drop off either side, and lots of fun.

We pulled up onto Great Gable, whose summit is a sea of loose boulders, and walked a short way to the top, marked by a cairn and a plaque commemorating local mountaineers lost in the First World War. We sat and stared at the panoramic view of rolling fells, chatted to some hikers, then made our way down the mountain’s east side. The path was steep, awkward and almost indistinguishable among the litany of unhelpful rocks, and our knees were relieved when we reached the relatively flat col between Great Gable and Kirk Fell. We stopped here to talk to a 70+ year old solo hiker with an astoundingly long, difficult-sounding itinerary, passed the nearly-empty Beckhead Tarn, and started up the side of Kirk Fell.

Kirk Fell (802m)

It was a grassy, minimally rocky ascent up an easy but steep path to the top of Kirk Fell, a shapely mountain with smooth, regular slopes in comparison with its jagged neighbour. We made it up in about 30 minutes and stopped at the plateau on top to munch some Grasmere gingerbread, chat to a friendly northerner assessing a small mountain leader group and admire the breathtaking rolling landscape from our last summit of the trip. We looked down on the tiny buildings and patchwork fields of Wasdale Head directly below and reluctantly gathered ourselves for the final descent.

The path led us straight down the south face of the mountain in one sustained line and was long, very steep and at times quite awkward for our well-worked legs. It involved a combination of grassy “steps” and loose rocks, which required careful route-picking to avoid starting mini rockfalls, and was only a mile long but with over 700m elevation loss. Wasdale Head seemed not to get any bigger until the gradient eased slightly and the cricket-to-football-sized boulders were replaced by a sea of ferns split by a wide, grassy path – the home straight. We went through a gate at the bottom, trees rose up around us and suddenly we were back at the Wasdale Head Inn, where the babbling of an idyllic, picture-postcard stream signified the end of our time in the high fells.

We returned to the car feeling quite wistful and started for home about 4pm. It was a lovely drive out of the Lakes across the undulating eastern moors, followed by a brief stop at Broughton-in-Furness (won’t rush back) for fuel and a commiseratory McDonalds to mark the end of a wonderful trip. The drive home was mercifully uneventful once Scabbers (the beaten up old Yaris) stopped making dubious squealing noises, and we made it back in just over 7 hours.

A relatively big mountain day was the most fitting way to conclude a lovely holiday, which is something I struggle to do in words. We had such a good time exploring the Lake District with my family and managed to squeeze in a great mix of activities across the whole National Park, although as always we could have stayed there for a good deal longer – probably in perpetuity. Doubtless it won’t be too long before we’re back.

Lake District, June 2022 – 9/10 overall. Minus one for the fact we had to leave so soon.

Lake District, June 2022: 8 – Hardknott, Coniston, Ravenglass

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Saturday 18 June

It was our last full day of the holiday together, although nobody wanted to think about that as we were all having such a good time. Our plan was to head over Hardknott Pass and visit Coniston. Mum and dad treated us to croissants from the campsite shop, then we all piled in the van and headed east through Eskdale for the Pass.

Hardknott

Eskdale is a stunning valley, more agricultural and less wild than dramatic Wasdale (see previous day’s post) but similarly hemmed in on both sides by high fells peppered with rocky undulations and scrubby vegetation. The basin is filled with lush, stone-walled fields, seas of greener-than-green ferns and swathes of verdant woodland. We stopped halfway up the hill to look at the remains of Hardknott Roman Fort, which was clearly once an impressive structure, the remaining walls standing 2-5 feet tall and showing the position of the old headquarters, commandant’s house and bath house. Its striking position overlooks Eskdale to the west and the serious-looking fells around Scafell Pike to the north. The view over valleys, mountains and forests was sensational and well worth the climb up the hill, even for mum, who has knee problems and was giggling uncontrollably as she tottered all around the fort.

Then came the Pass. We bundled back in the van and continued up the hill at the head of the valley. As we got closer the gradient got steeper and the bends sharper, mum sounded her distress call (which goes something like “Ross, I don’t like this” in a panicked tone) and as the wheels began to spin we realised that the front wheel drive, long wheel base, fully loaded van might struggle. Luckily there was nobody behind or in front, so mum, Angus, Ryan and I bailed out and left dad to negotiate the 30% gradient and hairpin bend with Bosun for moral support. It was equal parts funny and nerve-wracking, but he made it up with minimal wheel-squealing and we raced up the hill to clamber back in.

We continued along the Pass feeling relieved. The landscape on the other side was different, higher and wilder, the road cutting through a wide, U-shaped valley between sweeping slopes of hardy mountain grass. We descended into this valley slowly, down a slightly gentler gradient with slightly more forgiving hairpin bends, and continued through the belly of the valley along Wrynose Bottom. We started climbing again and we made it through Wrynose Pass with relative ease, which opened out to sweeping moorland and a landscape that gradually flattened with distance. We headed downhill into pastoral Langdale, the idyllic valley we’d explored at the beginning of the week, and drove southeast on much more sociable roads to Coniston.

Coniston

We went straight to Coniston Water, a five-mile long lake on the edge of the village. Dad hired us a little pleasure craft and as we pulled on buoyancy aids we coaxed Bosun to enter the boat rather than the water. Two seats faced forward under a little open-backed cabin and benches at the sides and back of the “deck” allowed enough space for us to all squeeze in. The dog enjoyed climbing as close to the edge as we’d let him and we motored south down the middle of the lake, taking turns to steer. It was lovely being on the open water in such a scenic place: on the far bank the dense trees of Grizedale Forest climbed steeply up and over the long ridge that runs parallel to the lake, and on the other side the green, undulating Old Man of Coniston towered over the village and its surrounding woods.

After an hour of cruising around the lake we landed the boat and walked the short distance to Coniston village, a very pretty, quietly bustling place full of neat stone buildings, various little shops and a few pubs and cafes, all set beneath the high, rocky flanks of the Old Man of Coniston. Mum treated us to a lovely lunch in the Green Housekeeper tea room, then we wandered round the village. Ryan and I nosed in a couple of outdoor shops, an eco shop and a nice art/gift shop, then we all reconvened at the van and agreed to go to Ravenglass via the coast.

West Coast

We drove for an hour through the rolling, relatively tame, agricultural countryside of the far southern Lakes and stopped at Stubb Place, a strange area along the western coast which felt deserted. The road ran parallel to a long, pebble beach on one side and a large, flat swathe of grassland on the other, which looked very odd to us, having spent the past week in England’s most mountainous area. The dramatic skyline of the rolling southwestern fells sat above this flatness in a long, hazy grey chain, and a military zone up ahead gave the place an eerie, slightly run-down feel. Bosun ran down the beach for a swim while we had cups of tea in the van and watched him frolic in the waves.

Ravenglass

From Stubb Place we drove a short way up the coast and around a marshy estuary to Ravenglass, the village mum, dad and Angus had visited via train when Ryan and I climbed Napes Needle. It was a tiny but very charming place, set on a curve of the estuary where the Rivers Irt, Mite and Esk meet, and we parked in the village centre overlooking a long, flat stretch of water and silt. We walked along the main street, which is wide and old-fashioned with no road markings and a long row of pretty, painted cottages either side; it would have been utterly timeless had it not been for the few parked cars. We turned a corner,  read about the village’s rich history as a Roman naval base, port and fishing village, and came back along the edge of the estuary, where the low tide revealed long mud flats and grassy, marshy peninsulas on the opposite banks that must be paradise for wading birds. Residents of the houses backing onto the path could have fished out of upstairs windows at high tide, and we were baffled by a little Post Office that was strewn with newspapers and looked derelict, except that the shelves were stocked with chocolate bars and the fridges were full of fresh milk.

By this time we’d all worked up an appetite, so after some minor bickering we agreed to go to the charmingly named Ratty Arms, an interesting pub situated on the Ravenglass railway platform with cosy train-themed décor (naturally Angus chose this pub, which was acceptable as he was paying). We sat in the pretty courtyard garden drinking cider and reflecting on the holiday until our food came, which was excellent – I had an outstanding seafood salad, then a slab of sticky toffee pudding. It was a lovely final evening in the Lakes together, and after dinner we waddled back to the van and returned to the campsite at Eskdale, a 20 minute drive that took us from the coast back to the mountains along winding roads. We went to bed after an Ovaltine and more chatter in the awning, desperately wishing that the holiday wasn’t nearly over.

Lake District, June 2022: 7 – Wasdale, Egremont & St Bees

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Friday 17 June

The weather looked unreliable so we all decided to have a van-based day exploring the area. We had breakfast, piled in the van and headed off to Wasdale, Eskdale valley’s dead-end neighbour where Ryan and I had set off from to climb Napes Needle the previous day. We were keen for the others to experience the dramatic landscape of the drive along wild Wast Water and the remote quaintness of Wasdale Head hamlet.

Wasdale Head, St Olaf’s Church

Dad navigated the twisty roads and we arrived in the valley after a 20 minute drive. We stopped at a wide, grassy area of Wast Water’s western bank so Bosun could have a swim. He frolicked merrily, unconcerned by the chill of the dark, glassy water, while we hopped over rocks and took in the vastness of the rolling mountains all around us. The most iconic was Great Gable, stood majestically at the head of the valley, its triangular glory perfectly framed  by steep, symmetrical fells on either side.

Damp dog in tow (it’s impossible to effectively towel dry a thick-coated labrador) we got back in the van and continued along the narrow road to Wasdale Head. We parked up and walked along a path between delightfully bucolic stone-walled fields to England’s smallest parish church, St Olaf’s, which sits in a little wooded churchyard in the midst of the fields and fells. It’s charmingly tiny, with a low tiled roof, pebbledash walls and simple rectangular shape, and the inside is wooden beamed, whitewashed and extremely cosy, with rustic décor, rows of wooden pews, a little stained glass window and a small altar backed by deep red, velvety curtains. Mum in particular was very taken, and as we waited for her outside we read stone memorials to the mountaineers lost in the hills.

We left the church and walked a short distance between more little fields to Wasdale Head, the hamlet that seems to revolve around the iconic Wasdale Head Inn, a long, three-storied building painted cream with thick black windowframes set beneath the hulking backdrop of Yewbarrow fell. Ryan and I had been there a couple of years before to use the landline to inform Ryan’s dad of our safe return from a six-mountain hike (the valley has zero phone signal), and the place had a pleasant, familiar feel. We pottered around the little shop adjacent to the pub before going back to the van and driving back to the banks of Wast Water.

Paddleboarding on Wast Water

As is convention I was desperate to squeeze as many adventurous activities out of the trip as possible, so I inflated the paddleboard borrowed from Ryan’s brother Tom (on a seemingly long-term basis), portentously informed everyone that there was no need for me to change as I had no intention of getting wet, and – avoiding the dog at all costs – made my way out onto the water. Being alone on the lake was isolating and wonderfully liberating, and I felt like I may as well have been the only person on Earth. My world was reduced to a 7x3ft plastic board, a tiny speck set deep between the steep sides of rolling, rugged mountains, and looking over to the opposite bank I faced an insurmountable wall that formed the northern face of Ilgill Head, whose 609m summit was shrouded in thick white cloud. Grey scree seemed to flow down from the cloud, forming channels like rivers which widened to deltas and estuaries before depositing into the lake. Rough scrub, grass and heather peppered the hillside wherever it could take hold, and there were no signs of human interference – it was too steep for a path.

Fighting the wind as it tried to push me towards the southern end of the lake, I crossed half a kilometre of cold, dark water to this intimidatingly lofty wall of scree, clambered awkwardly onto slippery rocks, cut my toe and waved excitedly across the lake at the others – who weren’t even watching – as if I’d discovered uncharted land. I retrieved a stick for the dog, returned to my tethered board and just paddled around for a while, ignoring the rain, countering the wind and relishing every moment in the immense, lonely wilderness. My hiking trousers were wet from kneeling on the board and being rained on, but I didn’t mind – thighs dry. Eventually I was waved in for lunch, so I returned to the western bank, beached the board slightly more gracefully on the pebbled beach, packed up and joined the others in the van for mum’s delicious bacon sandwiches.

Egremont and St Bees

The rain didn’t subside so after lunch we left Wasdale, stopped at the nearby Sawmill farm shop (nice but pricey) and drove west out of the Lakes to the town of Egremont. I’m sure it’s a nice place but the weather didn’t do it any favours – to me it seemed decidedly grey. We bought supplies from co-op, dashed back to the van and moved on to St Bees, a nearby village on the coast. We stopped in a large car park overlooking the foggy sea and I tentatively suggested a walk on the beach, which motion was unanimously rejected. We sat in the van for a while pondering what to do; it was claggy, grey and wet, so we agreed that rather than get soggy and miserable, we’d return to the campsite and relax like normal people do on holiday – a notion that was totally alien to me.

Back in Eskdale

Dad drove us back and to my surprise the relaxing was actually quite nice. Ryan and I watched Ammonite on my phone, a lovely film about the life of Dorset fossil hunter Mary Anning, as rain drove down on the tent, mum cooked dinner and we all ate in the awning. The weather started to clear in the evening and at 9.30pm Angus, Ryan and I decided to walk the dog up the hill behind the campsite.

We went past the waterfall we’d found a couple of days before, climbed up a track and emerged onto an open, rolling moorland plateau looking out toward the high fells around Scafell Pike. The sun set over the mountains, casting a stunning red glow across a mackerel sky, and with some minor resistance we managed to prevent Bosun – who was otherwise very well-behaved – launching himself into the smooth water of Eel Tarn. We navigated around some rugged, rocky outcrop and returned back the way we came, extremely pleased to have squeezed an very pleasant, scenic sunset walk into an otherwise wet, poor visibility day.

Lake District, June 2022: 6 – Climbing Napes Needle

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Thursday 16 June

Our appetite for climbing had been whetted by the previous day’s excursion in the Eskdale Valley and the weather looked dry, so after breakfast and red squirrel watching at the campsite Ryan and I left the others for an attempt at a particularly special rock climbing route. Mum, dad and Angus would spend the day catching the train from Dalegarth, the cute station we’d walked to a couple of evenings before, to explore Ravenglass on the coast. Angus thought about coming with us but decided that he was happy to have hiked up Helvellyn and climbed already at Hare Crags, so he decided to commit some time to steam trains, historical places and other Angus-like stuff.

Napes Needle

Napes Needle is one of the UK’s most iconic climbing destinations. Set halfway up the south face of Great Gable at the end of dramatic Wasdale valley, the popular starting point for Scafell Pike, it is a distinctive, upright pinnacle of igneous rock about 18m high at an elevation of 680m. Ryan’s dad had been to see it in his mountaineering days and it was detailed in all of his old climbing books, so we felt obliged to go and stand on top of it – for me, classic routes of such rich historical calibre have a special kind of allure.

We bought lunch from a tiny shop in Eskdale village and drove along little roads to Wasdale. As we reached the banks of the wild, black Wast Water, the deepest of England’s lakes, we seemed to shrink into a landscape that grew upwards all around us all the way to Wasdale Head, the dead-end hamlet nestled in the heart of the long, three-sided valley. Each mountain merged into the next in a vast mass of green and grey, and I felt that spine-tingling anticipation that I only ever seem to encounter in wild, whispering places that seem as old as time.

Approach

The weather was cloudy but clear, and Great Gable – along with its nearly-as-gargantuan sister Kirk Fell – blocked the head of the valley like a sleeping guard dog. Named for its recognisable pyramidal outline when seen from Wasdale, its southern aspect has a distinctly serious look about it: loose, grey scree sweeps down into the valley, dominating over scrubby grass that grows patchily wherever it can take hold, for about three quarters of the way up its steep face until turning to huge, vertical blocks of grey rock that form cracked, triangular ridges all the way to the 899m summit. Although the walk-in is barely two miles as the crow flies, it involves hiking up about 650m of steep elevation gain on awkward terrain, as we would soon discover.

The first mile took us through a farm and along Lingmell Beck, a suspiciously flat, pleasant walk between the hulking sides of Lingmell and Wasdale Fell. Ryan decided that he felt unwell after crossing a little bridge just before the ascent began, so we sat down and he ate a pasty while I masked my concern that he might get ill on the mountain. He perked up a little and we began the climb up to the climb. It was an unforgivingly steep and direct route up a rocky, grassy path, and I kept an eye on Ryan while making a concerted effort not to go too far ahead. Luckily he seemed to recover just as the going got really tough, when we calculated (using an OS map) that it was time to turn off the path and seek the Needle high up on a steep scree slope spanning the face of the mountain.

There was no obvious path that branched off, so we found ourselves scrabbling sideways across tight clumps of grass and loose, slippery scree on the most-path like course, which wasn’t path-like at all. This continued for what felt like an age, and was really quite treacherous – most of the scree chunks qualified as small boulders, which we desperately didn’t want to send toppling down the side of the mountain, and neither did we want to go that way. As well as unstable the ground was very uneven, with boulders of all shapes, sizes and jaunty angles jabbing into legs and doing their best to roll ankles. We also had to keep our eyes peeled to the left, as Napes Needle was marked on the map (such is its significance) along the ridge of sheer grey, samey-looking cliffs and ridges that we’d seen from the car park.

The Needle

After a couple of false identifications, a lot of staring at seemingly identical pinnacles of grey rock and even more frustration at the ongoing struggle over tricky ground, we suddenly looked straight up at the unmistakeable Napes Needle. We approached up a deep, rocky, grassy gulley and, on seeing a couple of climbers already on it, scrambled up the rocks opposite and perched on a grassy ledge overlooking the Needle and its mind-blowing backdrop.

Seeing Napes Needle in person made me appreciate why it has its own name, position on the map and place in mountaineering history. Its undeniably phallic form stands independent from the rocky ridge behind it, a proud pinnacle watching over the valley beneath Great Gable. A skyward-pointing arrowhead forms its right hand side, split neatly into large triangles and diamonds by large, geometric cracks. The wildly undulating slopes of Lingmell rose up across the other side of the valley, looming over grassy Wasdale to the right, and just behind the Needle the immense form of Scafell Pike sat neatly between the rugged shoulders of Lingmell and Great End. To our left hulked the intimidating southern face of the top of Great Gable, a vertical maze of sheer ridges, slabs and gulleys, the blocky, brown-grey rock punctuated by grass wherever it could set root. There aren’t many climbs I’d queue for, but this is one of them.

One pair of climbers was on the second of the two pitches and another pair was gearing up ready to climb, so we sat across the gulley and watched. It was mild, sunny, still and clear, perfect conditions, and we happily ate snacks and photographed the other groups. Another pair scrambled up and onto Needle Ridge, the long route we’d complete in a few days time (and a later blog post) that began in the V between the Needle and the exciting-looking ridge behind it, so they were added to my “give me your email address and I’ll send you the photos” list, which I made by calling across the gulley.

The first pair abseiled off, which was helpful to see as we’d read mixed reviews of the abseil online, and later confirmed that the in-situ gear is good. We had to wait a while for the second pair to climb but we didn’t mind – we took photos and encouraged them from across the gulley. When they started abseiling down we crossed to the base of the Needle, geared up and discussed who would lead each of the two pitches of the classic 18m HS climb “Wasdale Crack”.

The first pitch was a 13m diagonal climb up the large crack between the arrowhead and the needle to the “shoulder”, a ledge just below the bulbous tip of the needle. The second was a short 5m up the back of the tip, but is famously polished and supposedly the crux move. We decided that I should lead the longer, crackier pitch due to Ryan’s injured toe (see previous post for an explanation) and he would do the short move to the top, so I chose some nuts and cams and started up the crack.

It was a straightforward, easy crack climb and the gear was solid, but its polished surfaces worn shiny by thousands of climbing shoes added a layer of uncertainty and excitement. I reached the belay without much difficulty, clipped into the five in-situ slings thrown around an overhang under the back of the rock, added a couple of nuts for extra protection and brought Ryan up from a very comfortable anchor. He tiptoed around the bulbous, exposed end of the “needle” and after some minor reluctance, pulled himself up and over the summit. He made an anchor by draping the rope under the overhanging rock and brought me up, at which point I understood his hesitation – the holds were polished, the moves were awkward and the position was extremely exposed.

Standing on top of that pinnacle was a surreal experience. We were on a tiny island just big enough for two people to squeeze onto, surrounded by a sheer 15-20m drop on all sides. The dramatic panorama I’ve already described stretched around us, the valleys seemingly even deeper, the mountains even wilder and the horizons even further than they had been before. It was isolated, extremely exposed and somehow serene.

After a long, quiet moment of appreciation, I downclimbed to my belay point and Ryan followed my instructions, boldly downclimbing while removing the gear he’d placed. He nearly failed to dislodge a nut, later joking that he could have been “that guy that placed the big silver nut in Napes Needle”, but managed to get it back and return safely to the ledge. We clipped into the five slings, noting that at least two looked new, and took it in turns to abseil down the first pitch. Back on the ground, we packed up our stuff, vowed to come back to do Needle Ridge, and scrabbled out of the gulley and away from the Needle.

Descent

We headed east along more treacherous scree for about a kilometre, following an extremely vague path through the rocky rubble. At one point I kicked a rock (thankfully I had my stiff approach shoes on so no further toes were injured), stumbled and nearly toppled sideways down the steep slope – I caught myself just in time and when I turned around, saw that Ryan had also grabbed my rucksack. By the time we reached the main path through Lingmell we were quite bored of the awkward ground, where every step necessitated precise planning and execution, and it was nice to be back in amongst the ferns.

We walked back to the car along the base of Great Gable’s intimidating southern face, surrounded by high, unforgiving fells and pleased with the day’s adventure. Back in the idyllic agriculture sliver that is Wasdale Head, a tiny green paradise wedged between the monstrous hills, we nosed around the miniscule St Olaf’s Church, but later returned with mum, dad and Angus so I’ll save writing about it until then. It had just gone 6pm and we were due to meet the others at the Woolpack Inn in Eskdale for dinner, so we shot back to the campsite, changed and walked the short distance along the road to the pub.

The Woolpack Inn

The Woolpack is a historic inn nestled deep in the Eskdale Valley, miles from any major town, let alone phone signal, yet somehow it always seems to have a nice, quiet buzz – I’d visited years before and we’d been in for a drink the previous day. Painted white with black-framed windows, high-ceilinged and timeless, it feels very welcoming after a day in the mountains. We sat out the front in the large, grassy garden and Angus and I argued for a while about something or other until it turned too political and dad issued a telling off – at least it had taken us until Thursday. I had a lovely stonebaked veggie pizza from the simple but varied menu and the others had various forms of pizza, pie and salad, then we walked back along the quiet, bucolic road and had Ovaltine in the awning. A relaxing end to an eventful day.

Lake District, June 2022: 5 – Climbing at Hare Crags

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Wednesday 15 June

Hare Crags

The weather looked dry so Ryan, Angus and I decided to go off and do some climbing while mum and dad explored Eskdale on foot. We’d looked at the climbing guide the previous evening and set our sights on Hare Crags, a southwest facing area set high in the valley just a short drive up the road with a mix of low grade routes. Our first choice was Brantrake Crag as it has a greater variety of routes, but we’d read that climbing is prohibited in June due to nesting peregrine falcons.

We had breakfast, watched delightedly as a red squirrel ran along the drystone wall behind the tents, packed our bags and set off in Scabbers. We drove east for 5 minutes along the narrow road through the scenic Eskdale valley, parked in a little roadside car park and hiked towards the crag through waist-high ferns, following the vaguest of paths. It took us about 20 minutes to find the first area, a huge slab of low-angled granite set high up in the valley in a wild area dominated by bracken, boulders and hardy grass.

The Slab

The low-angled rock was fittingly called “The Slab” and contained four routes from Diff to VS 4B. Ryan and I soloed the Diff, an easy but occasionally exposed scramble up and down the top side of “The Rib”, then Ryan led a combination of the adjacent, poorly protected “Celebration” (VS 4b) and “Easy Slab” (VDiff). While seconding the route Angus somehow dropped his belay device, so while waiting at the bottom I went to look for it among the thick ferns without much hope. Thankfully I caught a glimpse of blue and picked it up. Angus abseiled down and went off to search the thicket while I toproped the climb. At the top I took pity on him and revealed the device, then abseiled down, which took just long enough for him to see the funny side. He’ll never be too old to be taught a lesson by his big sister.

We hadn’t trad climbed for a while and were happy to take the day slowly, so after warming up on the Slab we sat at the bottom and had some lunch – some of those cheap, slightly dubious hot dogs, heated in the tin and stuffed into buns. The weather was warm and sunny and the view was stunning – we were halfway up the northern side of the wide, green Eskdale valley, which was filled with broadleaf woodlands and fields divided up by drystone walls. As we sat there some fighter jets soared overhead, their deafening roar resonating between the rugged ridges of the lumpy southwestern fells on either side of the valley. We hadn’t seen another person since leaving the car, not even from a distance, and it was one of those moments in which time stood still and everything was perfect.

Lower Buttress

Lunch over, we traipsed our gear up to the next section of the crag, Lower Buttress, which involved more bushwhacking and some careful bog avoidance. I geared up and started leading “Fireball XL5”, an interesting-looking VS 4b that started up a crack and was given two stars (meaning it’s a worthwhile climb) and a pumpy symbol by our Rockfax book.

I led the first section without difficulty, but halfway up I came to an awkward bit which involved a committing move away from a pinnacle on tiny holds and little to nothing in the way of good gear. I chickened out of the move once, returning to the relative safety of the solid pinnacle, hovered there for a bit, then gave myself a strict talking to and tried again, this time pulling myself up via a different (but still very small) hold, executing a rockover and finding a good nut placement with relative ease. Relieved but annoyed that I’d fannied around with it, I continued up a high-angled slab, probably not placing quite enough gear, to the top, a grassy ledge 20m up and out of view of Ryan and Angus at the bottom. Ryan seconded, then scrambled down the walk-off and Angus toproped up. Thankfully the others (and later the UKC forum logbook) agreed that it was bold for the grade and “a good lead”.

Our climbing was limited that day – and indeed the whole trip – by the Toegate Scandal, an incident that happened a couple of weeks before the trip whereby Ryan injured his big toe. How? By kicking the toilet while flicking his boxers off his foot while attempting to undress for a shower. Life is chaotic sometimes. The result was a persistent sore toe and accompanying whinge, not ideal for climbing shoes or relatively unsympathetic belayers.

I was keen to carry on climbing but on top of Toegate, the other two were satisfied and ready for a drink at the pub, so I conceded without much persuasion and we packed up. We scrambled back down to the car through the ferns, boulders and undulations, and headed to the well-known Woolpack Inn, only two minutes back down the road towards the campsite.

Lazy evenings in Eskdale

We had a cider in the garden and headed back to the campsite about 5pm. Mum and dad cooked a nice barbecue and we all went for a lovely evening walk, this time heading up the hill behind the campsite, past a little waterfall, and through some rugged moor-like farmland along a drystone wall. We came to an orchard, walked through a farm, watched lots of lambs chase each other round a field then returned to the campsite along the little road that splits the valley in two. As usual we finished the day talking and planning over some drinks in the awning.

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: 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: 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.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Mountain biking at Nevis Range, Fort William

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Friday 11 February

Following the previous day’s disappointment at ruling out climbing due to the avalanche forecast, and subsequent later night than planned, we didn’t rush to get up. Our plan was to leave the van in Ben Nevis’s North Face car park and ride through Leanachan forest to the Nevis Range centre to ride its renowned mountain bike trails. We hoicked the bikes off the back and set off east along a wide gravel trail through the forest.

Nevis Range ski and bike centre was more substantial than we imagined, with a large car park, café, several bike trails and a big Gondola lift up to Aonach Mor. We started in the little skills area with a few laps of the mini runs, then rode up the hill to the start of the trails. The way up started on a wide gravel track, then branched into a twisty dirt singletrack that took us on a sustained climb through the forest to reach the top of the blue (intermediate) Voodoo and Blue Adder trails and the red (difficult) Top Chief’s Wild Goat trails.

Morning – Voodoo, Blue Adder, Blue Uphill, Wild Goat

We did the Voodoo first, a really fun, flowy, open trail with sweeping berms and some quick sections. At the bottom we headed back up via the Blue Uphill Access trail, another slightly technical blue route just off the gravel track that made the way up a bit more fun. We passed the Voodoo and started down the Blue Adder, just a little way on. This was a fast, technical, twisty trail with boarded berms and tight little turns between tall pines. The bottom bit was flowy and particularly fun, and we shot out of the woods back at the Nevis Range centre.

We slogged up the hill once again (and, as Ryan insisted, for the last time) and headed down the red Wild Goat trail. This was really, really fun, with technical rocky and rooty sections, fast, sweeping berms and a BMX-type 4X jump track. Despite its relatively short length, this was my favourite trail of the day.

Wild Goat ended back at the café, so we nipped in for lunch. It was a modern, cosy, cabin-like, MTB/ski-themed place, with stunning mountain art, a wall full of mounted skis and an expensive-looking full sus bike hanging from the high ceiling. As we sat, thawed and snacked, we decided to book a cheap room for the night in Fort William so we could have a shower and a holiday treat – dinner out, albeit in Wetherspoons.

Afternoon – World Champs, Broomstick Blue

Warmed, fed and looking forward to an evening out, we left the café slightly reluctantly and headed up the hill the other way to the World Champs red trail, a long route that starts quite high up. We pedalled through the forest, only going the wrong way once, and emerged onto a track above the trees which afforded stunning views over the vast, rolling, snow-capped mountains around Ben Nevis. We reached the trail after a substantial climb, which was worth it for the views alone.

It was a long, fast, varied singletrack route created for the 2007 XC mountain bike world championships with avoidable drop offs, quick corners and technical rocky sections, which my poor old hardtail clunked and bucked over. I actually found the rocks and roots quite annoying as it would otherwise have been a nice flowy trail, but that’ll teach me (it won’t) for refusing to buy a full sus. The first half of the trail was above the forest and it felt more exciting than the second half through the trees, but it was all great fun and we popped out on the track that heads back to the North Face car park.

We branched off onto the Broomstick Blue trail, a singletrack blue that runs parallel to the gravel track back to the car park. It was fairly flat but flowy and quite fun, with a few long boardwalk sections, some little climbs and the occasional technical rocky/rooty bit. I was keen to keep riding and try some more trails but Ryan vetoed, citing the pull of Fort William and the pub, so back at the van we loaded the bikes and headed into town.

Fort William

We parked in the central car park and walked the short distance to Bank Street Lodge, the cheap and cheerful hotel we’d booked on a whim. It turned out I’d actually stayed there previously when I did the Three Peaks Challenge, but it’s since been converted from a hostel into a small, basic hotel. We showered, I washed my hair (a strenuous task) and we headed out along the surprisingly quiet for a Friday, cobbled high street for a cheap meal at the familiar Wetherspoons and a drink in the cosy Tavern bar. We disagreed about whether we should stay out (I was team “out out”, Ryan was not) but decided not to, so we went back to the hotel for a strange night’s sleep in an actual bed.