Tag: eskdale

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: 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.