Tag: thirlmere

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

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Monday 13 June

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

Langdale

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

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

Cathedral Cave

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

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

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

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

Grasmere

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

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

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

Helvellyn, Nethermost Pike, High Crag, Dollywaggon Pike

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Sunday 12 June

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

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

Ullswater boat trip, Glenridding village

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castlerigg Stone Circle

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

Keswick

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

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

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

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

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

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Saturday 11 June

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

Lancaster

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

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

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

Windermere

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

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

Thirlmere

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

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

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

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

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