Well, this is going out on Boxing Day 2022, a day when UK hikers, hillwalkers, mountaineers and climbers traditionally head out for the hills and mountains to walk off that extra helping of turkey and Christmas pud, so I’ll save the next blog post for a couple of weeks.
So, what are you waiting for, get those boots out! See you back here in a couple of weeks.
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If you are a regular reader, you would probably have seen the recent post (see post #320) which announced that my Border Collie ‘Mist’ had died at the respectable age of 14. After ‘Mist’ was cremated, Chris and I distributed some of her ashes on our local dog walks near home, but I had made plans to take ‘Mist’ for one last walk in the mountains of the Carneddau.
Before moving to North Wales in 2012, I hardly knew the Carneddau, but since then these mountains have become one of my favourite areas to walk. (If you search on Carneddau in the Blog page search box, you will probably find enough posts to fritter away half a morning!) Just the place for a final dog walk, and I knew exactly where I would be going.
The Carneddau range covers quite an area, so there was a lot to go at. One of my favourite trips, and one that ‘Mist’ had always accompanied me on, is the circuit of mountains starting with Pen yr Ole Wen via its East Ridge, then continuing above Cwm Lloer to Carnedd Dafydd. From there, on to Carnedd Llewelyn, the highest peak in the Carneddau, before heading down to Pen yr Helgi Du, and returning to the valley via Y Braich.
The East Ridge of Pen yr Ole Wen has a rock band that appears from below to block further progress, but there’s a lovely little scramble that has only one defect – it’s too short! It has its moments though, especially if you have paws instead of opposing thumbs, and I always used to put a harness and rope on ‘Mist’ instead of risking an accident. On a traverse of the range from Ogwen to Conwy in 2014 (see post #160) I reported that “the last time we came this way, ‘Mist’ had struggled a bit getting up the rock obstacle – I can now report that her rock climbing standard has gone up by at least a grade, and at one point the dog overtook me, making this her first lead on a rock route!”
Once above the rock step, it’s a steady plod to the top of Pen yr Ole Wen, where I scattered some of Mist’s ashes on the summit. I had planned to do the same by the summit cairn of Carnedd Dafydd, where she would usually try to mug me for one of my sandwiches, but a group of young Mountain Leader trainees had taken over the top, so rather than have a bit of dog grit land in their sarnies, I did the decent thing and moved about 25 metres downwind.
From Carnedd Dafydd, the route passes above the cliffs of Ysgolion Duon. Irregular patches of cloud were blowing in and out, but it’s a route I know well, and I only stopped once to check the direction of travel, in the middle of a particularly dense bank of fog. Before long the hill cloud began to clear as I headed upwards to Carnedd Llewelyn.
Carnedd Llewelyn was my third location to leave some of ‘Mist’ behind – that being done, I started heading down the gradually narrowing ridge that crosses above the climbers’ crag of Craig yr Ysfa. Another rock band provides a bit more amusement requiring some ‘hands on’ scrambling – ‘Mist’ always found a quicker way down this than I did, probably by following the scent of others, but this time I had to find my own route.
From the rock band, the route heads in a southerly direction, crossing the ridge of Bwlch Eryl Farchog before heading up to the final summit of Pen yr Helgi Du, where I left my last bit of ‘Mist’ behind, sharing the summit with two sheep. From there, it’s an easy return to the valley down the broad ridge of Y Braich, a route I’ve followed several times before with ‘Mist’, but this time I was heading down alone – it was time to head for home.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock with the exception of the image tagged © Philip Halling which is taken from the Geograph Project and reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence.
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If you wait for good weather in the Scottish Highlands, you can spend a lot of time doing just that – waiting! Some of our best fine-weather experiences in the Highlands have been in May, but the 2022 version of May wasn’t playing the game, and ambitious hiking plans were postponed for better days. It wasn’t just the weather that dictated the trips out though – we also had to find routes that were not too taxing for Border Collie ‘Mist’, now over 14 years old.
Despite her age, the old dog still became excited when the walking boots came out, and we made sure we got out every day, whatever the weather. On the occasions when better weather came along, we looked for outings suitable for ‘Mist’ but also interesting for the humans, and we always managed to find something. The ‘something’ in this trip was a little known bothy known as Carlotta’s Eyrie, near Arisaig.
You can find the answer to many things by using Google, but don’t bother trying to find out more about Carlotta’s bothy, because there’s little info out there. During the Second World War, the Special Operations Executive used this part of the Highlands to train agents, who were then infiltrated into occupied Europe, and ‘Carlotta’ is thought to have been a trainee saboteur. Other than that, nothing is known about the mysterious bothy constructor.
Our route for the day wasn’t in any way mysterious as we set out from Arisaig village by the sea loch, Loch nan Caell. On this occasion, Google did tell us why the stream running alongside our route was called ‘The Canal’ – it had been widened to float timber from a steam-driven sawmill to the sea. That must have been some time ago as the stream is now slowly reverting to being just a stream. Beyond there, the track steadily deteriorated, eventually becoming a muddy path that even ‘Mist’ tried to avoid.
As we gained height, we left the worst of the mud behind. We were looking out for a ‘cup and ring’ stone dating to the Neolithic to Late Bronze Age (4000-500 BC) but failed in our task – we did, however, find an amazing tumbledown tree which had been blown over but was still growing vertically from the horizontal trunk. Local legends about the stone say that an apprentice blacksmith could gain additional skill and strength by washing his hand in the largest cup mark on the stone – I hope they had more luck in finding it than we did.
Beyond the tree, the ground dried out a bit, and a gradual slope took us down to the stony beach at the bay of Camus Ghaoideil. The bothy is on a rocky outcrop above the beach, which became more obvious as we approached, but I ended up on a false start, looking down to the short climb onto the outcrop. It is said that time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted – the outcome of this recce was that Chris and ‘Mist’ would not be visiting Carlotta’s little hideaway.
Chris isn’t much into climbing things that you might fall off, and ‘Mist’ was too old to be mucking about on steep rock, so I left the two of them on a grassy bank, while I skirted round the outcrop to the start point of a scrappy little scramble up a shallow groove – good holds were provided by the tree roots and cracks in the rock, but a handy-looking rope dangling down the groove was also put to good use. Once up, a scrabble about over a rock slab led to the door of the bothy.
This isn’t one of those bothies big enough for a happy bunch of hikers to hold an impromptu ceilidh, but it’s cosy enough for 2-3 if they are good friends, more if the floor was used for sleeping. I didn’t stay too long as Chris and ‘Mist’ were still on their grassy bank, so after grabbing a few photos, I reversed the Indian rope trick to descend the groove. After a coffee and a sandwich, we set off to return by the way we had come – it was time to head for home.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock except the image tagged as © Luke Oldale, which is taken from the Geograph Project and reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence
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May 2022 was our second visit to Stoer in Assynt, featuring the famous sea stack known as the ‘Old Man of Stoer’. The first visit had been in September 2020, after the first Covid-19 lockdown had been lifted. Very soon afterwards, a new lockdown was introduced back home in North Wales, with movement being confined to the county of residence. In Scotland, however, there were no restrictions, so we stayed up there for over five weeks before worsening October weather finally drove us back south.
The weather at Stoer on the couple of days of our first visit in 2020 had been a bit ‘gnarly’ – the photo of the Old Man of Stoer at the top of this post gives an idea of the conditions, and it was one of our few bad weather days on the trip – the location where that photo was taken was as far as we got before baling out and giving it up as a bad job.
A return visit had always been on the cards, and May 2022 saw us back at the car park for the Stoer Head lighthouse, which was also the start point for the walk. The route was modest enough at 6.4 kms (4 miles) with no lofty heights to climb, so it would also be easy on Border Collie ‘Mist’ who was still enjoying her walks at the grand old age of 14. The problem was, somebody had turned the wind machine on full!
It had been lashing down with rain all night, and it was still blowing a hoolie the next morning. In fact, it was so windy that I nearly wimped out, but my missus wanted to stretch her legs, as did ‘Mist’, so I was out-voted. Sure enough, the rain had already ceased and the wind was starting to drop, so I couldn’t really justify my lack of enthusiasm.
The walk along the cliff top towards Stoer Point and the Old Man is interesting enough, especially if you like sea views – there’s lots of sea hereabouts! The main feature of note on the landward side was a steep little gully that lay directly across our path, diverting us inland for a short distance to a set of steps. Once beyond the gully it wasn’t long before the Old Man came into view – this time the weather was encouraging enough to continue towards the sea stack.
Sea stacks are formed by erosion, when a cliff forms a rock natural arch which eventually collapses, leaving a column of rock. The Old Man is made of Torridon Sandstone and has been eroded by weather over a long period of time. It may be that one day it will collapse into the sea, but in the meantime, it makes a good focal point for hikers to visit, together with six rock climbs (ranging from VS 5a to E4 6a for those who like to know these things). Getting on and off the climbs is far from simple, and involves either a swim or a rope manoeuvre known as a Tyrolean Traverse.
Neither dog nor humans showed any inclination to climb to the top of the stack, so we turned inland for the highest bit of ground for miles – Sithean Mor (pronounced ‘sheen more’) which tops out at 161 metres (528 ft). Sithean Mor translates as ‘The Big Fairy Hill’ but there were no fairies in evidence on this trip – perhaps fairies don’t like bad weather either. In the distance, we could see the mountains of Assynt under cloud cover, but we had a few miles to travel that day so we made our soggy way back to the van – it was time to head for home.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock, except the images where indicated otherwise, which are taken from the Geograph Project and reproduced under a Creative Commons Licence
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First things first, apologies for the lack of posts over the last few weeks – a long trip to Scotland gave me loads of new ideas for blog posts, but those photos ain’t going to sort and edit themselves!
The last post I published (see post #320) was a goodbye to my long-time mountain buddy, Border Collie ‘Mist’, but as well as still being with me in spirit on my mountain trips, she’s also still there in cyberspace – I have a couple of posts in the pipeline featuring ‘Mist’, so be prepared to bump into her a few more times.
We often manage a couple of campervan trips to Scotland in a year, and 2022 was one of those years. We were up on Skye by late April, with the weather OK and no midges (they were not due to appear for another six weeks or so). The new van had been out on a few ‘shake down’ trips during March and early April, but if the van was new, ‘Mist’ was starting to show her age (14).
In May 2017 we had hiked up into Upper Coire Lagan on a fine and sunny day (see post #225). The upper corrie gives a taste of the grandeur of the Cuillin Ridge without having to risk serious injury or worse, so it suited me missus just fine – the photos above give an indication of just how magnificent the mountain scenery is.
The new campervan made a comfortable base for the trip, and the old dog was up for a mountain day, despite her age and a touch of rheumatism. The problem with Border Collies is that they will try to do whatever you ask of them, and I wasn’t about to ask ‘Mist’ to do a return trip to the high corrie. Instead, we headed out towards the massive, complex cliffs of Sron na Ciche, to a place I knew from my early climbing and mountaineering days.
Back in the 1970’s, I climbed there several times with a bunch of mates, one of the best outings being ‘Cioch Direct’ followed by one of the routes up the Cioch Slab to the impressive rock feature of the Cioch itself. Our ambitions on today’s trip were much more modest – there is a stream crossing below the cliff that would make a great spot for a picnic, where I could view the climbs, and ‘Mist’ and me missus could have a nice, undemanding day out in the mountains.
I sometimes take the picnic bit seriously, and on this occasion carried stove and brew kit. Lunch being over, ‘Mist’ was still looking good, so rather than return by the outward route, we cut across around the small lake of Loch an Fhir-bhallaich for a change of scene. I had never been that way before, nor had I ventured up into Coire na Banachdich, the corrie to the north of Coire Lagan. We decided that Banachdich would have to wait for another time, as I didn’t want to give ‘Mist’ too strenuous a day, so we continued heading down, with the impressive waterfall of Eas Mor (the ‘Big Waterfall’) as a backdrop. It was time to head for home.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock, with the exception of the image of the Cioch © John Wray, which is taken from the Geograph Project and is reproduced under a creative Commons Licence.
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After the previous blog post was published (see post #319), I received a comment from an old friend asking after our Border Collie, ‘Mist’. I had to give him the sad news that Mist had died a month earlier on 22 June 2022. It wasn’t something that Chris and I had been keeping quiet about, we just didn’t want to make a song and dance about it. Mist was 14+ when she died, a good age for many dog breeds, though fairly average for a Border Collie.
If you have been following recent blog posts, you will have picked up that Mist was becoming an old dog. She was still getting out in the hills and mountains, but we were making the trips shorter and without too much height gain. Just ten months earlier she had made the arduous ascent of Coire Raibeirt from Loch A’an to the cairngorm plateau (see post #308) with no more assistance than a push up the bum on the bigger rock steps, but once past the obstacles, she was away to her usual position in front.
On our May 2022 trip to Scotland, the dog walks had become much less energetic, though there was always a big show of excitement when the walking boots appeared. Then in June, Mist went to the vet for a routine check. Two internal tumours were detected, and I didn’t bother asking the vet if she could operate, due to Mist’s age, though I doubt if the vet would have agreed anyway. We decided to let her go peacefully (the vet had advised “Better a week early than a week too late”). So, two days later, Mist slipped away peacefully in a sunny garden at the vet’s surgery.
Now, this blog is about mountains (and hillocks) not dogs, and there may be some readers who don’t much care for dogs, which is fine – not all humans enjoy canine company. So, the remainder of this post is going to be a collection of photos of British hills and mountains – it just so happens that there is an image of a black and white Border Collie in each frame.
It’s sad to lose any true companion, be that a human, dog or cat, but it’s all part of nature and time rolls on. Things I will miss with Mist’s passing include the grace and beauty of a black and white collie moving effortlessly up a steep mountainside, those big brown eyes staring at me when the lunch pack came out of the rucksack and even the big sloppy kiss she would give (even though I could guess where that tongue might have been minutes earlier!). Truly a dog in a million (well for me anyway). Goodbye Mist, gone but not forgotten.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock with additional images from Babs Boardwell (Babs Boardwell Photography), John Bamber and Tom Strawn.
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It’s rare that we visit the Scottish Borders area, other than driving through on the way to the Highlands and real mountains, though occasionally we take a diversion as we did to the Grey Mare’s Tail in April 2021 (see blog post #304). We weren’t going as far as the Highlands on this trip though, as it was just a continuation of the short shake-down cruise for the new campervan. I’d previously read about the Eildon Hills but never been there – time for a visit then.
One of the best views of the Eildons is heading north on the A68, where three shapely hills come into view. The scientists will explain that the three hills are the eroded and weathered remains of volcanic lava flows, but there is another explanation – it is said in legend that Michael Scot, a local 13th Century ‘wizard’, split one existing Eildon hill into the three hills you see today. Scot was big on civil engineering projects, as he also altered the course of the River Tweed. Or so it is said.
Our plan was much less ambitious and didn’t involve any hill splitting, river diversions or other wizardry. We set off from the old Borders town of Melrose by a steadily rising path that leads to a col at an altitude of about 320 metres, and which forms a natural hub for the routes up to the three Eildon summits. From there we followed the paths to the summits in turn, returning to the col each time.
Eildon #1 was Eildon Hill North, standing tall(ish) at an altitude of 404 metres (1325 ft). In many ways it is the most interesting of the three – it was occupied as a hill fort in the late Bronze Age (about 1000 BC) by the Segovia tribe, who ruled and lived in upper Tweeddale until the arrival of the Romans. By 100 AD the Romans had started doing what the Romans did best, building stuff (see post #318), and a signal station took over the site of the ancient hill fort.
The summit of Eildon Hill North gave good views of the other two Eildons as well as our starting point at Melrose. Also below us, but not in view, was the portal to Elfland, or so ‘tis said – a 13th Century tale describes how Thomas the Rhymer was enticed by the Elf Queen to enter her domain; when he returned seven years later, it is said that he was incapable of telling a lie, which obviously ruled out any chance of a career in politics. It must be getting a bit crowded in there by now because the Eildon Hills are hollow, and King Arthur and his knights lie there sleeping, ready to emerge at times of peril.
Meanwhile, back at the col, it was time for hill #2, Eildon Wester Hill. We abandoned a wide track to follow a narrow path contouring around what would be our hill #3. The path scarcely gained or lost a metre in height, pointing us straight at Eildon Wester Hill, which was the lowest of the three at 371 metres (1217 ft) and probably the least interesting. We didn’t hang around long before heading back to the col, ready to take on Eildon Mid Hill (#3)
We had saved #3, the highest hill, until last, though at 422 metres altitude it wasn’t likely to cause any difficulty, and nor did it – a survey trig point and a view indicator marked the summit, but as with the other two hills, the most interesting views were of the neighbouring Eildons. The weather started mucking about a bit at this point, and our Gore-Tex jackets probably looked like overkill to the family group dressed in T-shirts who were heading up as we went down to the col for the last time.
From the col, the weather still looked as if it could change at any minute, with showers moving in over Melrose, but as we took the final turn downhill, it looked as though we would get away without a soaking. The whole route, with its three branches came out at 8 kms (5 miles) with a total height gain of 470 metres (1542 ft). Hardly earth shattering in its ambition but ideal for our aging Border Collie ‘Mist’ – although 14+ years old, a walk up a hill or two was still the highlight of her day.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock
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It was April 2022, and we were heading for Northumbria and the Scottish Border on our ‘shake-down’ trip with the new camper van. If the van was new, Border Collie ‘Mist’ was starting to show her age at last (14+ years) but she was still capable of walking around 10kms, as long as there wasn’t too much steep up-and-down. Our last walk out a couple of days earlier had been over Gowbarrow in the Lake District (see post #317) and had been just right for the old dog.
The plan was to increase the distance slightly but reduce the height gain, to work out what ‘Mist’ was capable of. Neither Chris nor I, or the dog for that matter, had walked any of Hadrian’s Wall, but it was on the way to the Northumbrian coast where we were heading, so that became the plan. Although the line of the wall does go up and down quite a lot, it’s easy to avoid much of the height gain and loss by following a parallel route. So, that’s what we did.
If you’re British, you probably know a bit about the history of the wall, but for those who come from a different part of the world, or skipped school on the day that Hadrian’s Wall was taught, here’s a quick rundown. In 500 BC, Rome was a mere city-state, but over the next 500 years, that city-state expanded to conquer the lands surrounding the Mediterranean before continuing to take modern-day France, Belgium and Holland. In 55 BC, Julius Caesar (yes, that one!) set his sights on the island just off the French coast, known to the Romans as Britannia.
Things didn’t go well for Caesar, as the British tribes who inhabited that offshore island were not too keen on becoming part of the Roman Empire. Caesar gave the project up as a bad job, and the Brits were left alone until 43 AD when the Emperor Claudius decided to have a go. The British were still an uppity lot and around 122 AD Emperor Hadrian decided on a substantial wall to mark the northern extent of Roman Britain.
The wall that bears Hadrian’s name was built from Wallsend on the River Tyne in the east, to Bowness-on-Solway near Carlisle in the west – we know this because (1) the winners write the history books and (2) an amazing amount of the 73 mile wall and its forts are still clearly visible, almost 2000 years later.
Construction of the fort known as Vercovicium by the Romans, but later named Housteads after the nearby 19th Century farmhouse, started around the same time that work started on the wall. It is the best-preserved Roman fort in the UK, and was part of a network of forts, mile castles and turrets along the length of the wall. The wall and forts were more than defensive locations though, they were also a statement – “We’re here and we’re staying here”! And stay they did, for the next 300 years or so.
At this point in this blog post, some readers will already be viewing with glazed eyes, so time to start walking! The scenery around the wall is pleasant rather than dramatic, and if it wasn’t for the Roman ruins there probably wouldn’t be as many visitors to the area. Looking north into what were once barbarian lands, the views are of rolling countryside with forests in the distance – the main interest remains the wall.
Fifteen minutes of easy walking brought us to Milecastle 37, one of 80 or so milecastles along the wall. 16-32 soldiers would have been lodged here, probably changing watches on a rota system with the 800 men based at Vercovicium. The milecastles controlled movement from the badlands in the north to the civilised Roman-controlled lands south of the wall, and the milecastle is in pretty good nick for a building almost 2000 years old, as is Vercovicium.
Beyond Milecastle 37, the wall follows the line of high ground, using that high ground as a natural line of defence. The wall and ridge line would probably have given us better views, but in deference to the old collie, we followed a good green path running below and parallel to the wall, passing Hotbank Farm and Milecastle 38 before arriving at one of the best known sites for photographs, the famous Sycamore Gap – I’ll let you work out how it got its name!
So popular is Sycamore Gap, that I must have spent about fifteen minutes waiting to get people just where I wanted them for a photograph of the famous tree – I bet they didn’t have that problem when they used the tree as a location in ‘Robin Hood Prince of Thieves’ starring Kevin Costner. Once I had the shot I wanted, it was more ups and downs before we arrived at the dramatic drop down to Peel Farm.
We carried on for a short distance to get the classic view along the wall featuring Peel Crags, Highshield Crags and Crag Lough – a bit of a photographic cliché, but still a good view. Then it was time to turn round and retrace our steps – as you might have guessed, a walk along a wall is always going to be, err …linear?! It had been a gentle trip out for ‘Mist’ and after 10 kms she was still looking good. That’s the thing with dogs though, they’re just glad to be having a wander out with new strange smells to check out.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock
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It was mid-February 2022, and we were looking at changing our campervan for something more up-to-date. Soon, the deed was done and we needed a couple of ‘shake-down’ trips before launching off on our annual May trip to the Scottish Highlands. Where better to start than the Lake District.
A couple of days in Langdale at the beginning of March was a good start to the shake-down process, followed a week later by four days at Threlkeld near Keswick. The next trip was to be a fortnight in Northumbria and the Scottish Borders, but we just couldn’t keep away from Lakeland – Ullswater and Aira Force are just a short hop from the M6 Motorway, so a couple more days there seemed like a good move.
I lived at Patterdale at the south end of Ullswater in the 1980s, and I know the area well. In fact, I got to know the mountains surrounding the lake very well but spent little time exploring some of the lower hills in the area. So, the plan for this trip was to put that to rights by taking a circular route from Aira Force around and over Gowbarrow.
When it comes to ‘lower hills’, Gowbarrow is definitely on the shortlist at a mere 481 metres (1578 ft) height. It’s thought that the name comes from Old Norse and probably means ‘Windy Hill’ – the area has other Old Norse names dating back to the 9th Century onwards, when the Vikings first started to settle, so you will come across beck (bekr) for stream, Force (foss) for waterfall, Tarn (tjorn) for a small lake and Fell (fjall) for mountain.
Our route took us east from Aira Force (more of which later) on a gradually rising narrow path. Gowbarrow isn’t going to get you into a sweat, either through exertion or excitement, but like many lowly hills, it’s a great place to view the surrounding country, and the views of Ullswater and the surrounding fells compare well with the views from Hallin Fell, just a couple of kilometres away on the opposite side of the lake.
The narrow path continues for a while before taking a turn to the north, followed by a second turn, this time to the west, to the small summit of Gowbarrow with its stone cairn – the views of the Ullswater area included much of the lake, and further away to the northwest, the northern hills of Blencathra and Carrock Fell were also visible. I had taken two cameras (Olympus) on this hike, one with an equivalent 35mm lens and the other with an equivalent 200-600mm lens – the longer lens was included in the hope of getting some red squirrel images but ended up being used for long landscape shots due to a ‘no show’ by the squirrels.
Our next port of call was a short diversion to the hamlet of Dockray, but before that, we had to negotiate a badly eroded section of path. Our route had been deserted, but this was March and I guess that hundreds of boots must pound along here in summer – a bit lower down we found helicopter drop bags full of stones to repair the path. Once past the worn section, we were soon at ‘The Royal’ at Dockray for a cool cider – well, it would have been rude not to!
Our route back to the van went via the 20 metre (65 ft) waterfall of Aira Force, one of the best-known waterfalls in the Lake District, if only for its connection with Romantic poet William Wordsworth. It’s a favourite on the tourist circuit, but the best views are out of reach at the moment, due to damage caused by fallen trees – I did the best I could to get a decent photograph from the accessible viewpoints before heading back to the van to top up my cider levels.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock
p.s. It was T-shirt weather for the Gowbarrow hike, but three days later we nearly found ourselves marooned up near Simonside in Northumbria – it snowed overnight, then froze in the early hours, making the steep road out like a skating rink. I’d decided that there was no way I was launching a 3-tonne camper van down a steep icy slope, but by the time we had taken Border Collie ‘Mist’ for her morning walk, the road was thawing out – one consolation would have been that getting cold cider would not have been a problem!
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“The journey of a thousand miles, starts with a single step” – Lao Tzu
“I would walk five hundred miles, and I would walk five hundred more…..” – The Proclaimers
Writing a blog is sometimes like taking that first step in a journey of a thousand miles. All sorts of things can get in the way of that first step, but the reason I haven’t posted anything for almost three months is quite simple – we’ve been away from home for over half of that time, visiting places new and old, and more importantly getting more material for the blog. In fact, I’m still sorting and editing photos from the trips! Oh, and we covered quite a bit more than a thousand miles.
Three months is a long time to disappear though, so while I’m getting on with the admin and edits, here’s a story from 2007. I’ve written 72 walking routes for the Walking World website, mostly between 2007-10 (see – http://www.walkingworld.com/) but this one was the first – a classic Lake District walk including a busy, iconic peak and a lonely, deserted valley away from the crowds. This is ‘Helm Crag and Far Easedale’.
We set out at the beginning of February 2007, on a clear and almost cloudless day. I say ‘we’ but I mean just Chris and myself – Border Collie ‘Mist’ didn’t become part of our lives until December 2010 (see post #5). I must have been a pain in the arse to walk with back then because I took loads of photos to act as a prompt when I came to write up the route, instead of writing notes (I later used a digital voice recorder, which speeded things up a bit!). The initial; part of the walk is along a quiet tarmac road, but tarmac is tarmac and it was good to get out onto the hillside at last.
Helm Crag sits at the southeast end of a ridge running northwest to Calf Crag. Helm Crag is certainly no giant at 405 metres height (1329 ft), with Calf Crag not much higher at 537 metres (1762 ft) and most of the ridge joining them being around 400 metres. Despite the lack of height, the views of the surrounding country are impressive, with the main attraction being the first objective, Helm Crag.
It was the Victorians who started giving daft names to hill and mountain summits. Helm Crag is itself a short ridge with two summits, the south summit being known as ‘The Lion and the Lamb’, presumably because it looks like a lion and lamb from the valley at Grasmere (hmm, sorry but I don’t get that one!). The north summit is also known as ‘The Lion and the Lamb’ (yes, confusing isn’t it) or ‘The Old Woman Playing the Organ’ (really?) or ‘The Howitzer’ (a bit more plausible) depending on where they are viewed from. If a daft name is needed, ‘The Howitzer’ is the most appropriate, but ‘North Summit’ does it for me!
The author mucking about, going up to the summit, posing like a good ‘un before retreating – safely!
In fact, the North Summit is by far the most interesting feature of the hill (well, to me anyway) because it has the distinction of being one of the few summits in the Lakes where you have to rock-climb to get to the summit. It’s a short climb and not particularly difficult by rock-climbing standards, but it would hurt if you fell off (a lot!) or would be downright embarrassing if you had to be rescued from the top. The famous English guidebook writer Alfred Wainwright chickened out on the summit bid, but he lived to be 84 – watch and learn.
For those who survive the scramble to the summit (or sensibly do a Wainwright), the view to Gibson Knott indicates the way forward. The Gibson Knott-Calf Crag ridge is one big grassy frolic, giving easy, pleasant walking – in my hill running days, I ran the ridge several times, and it’s one of those gently undulating ridges that doesn’t ask much from the runner but which gives loads back. On this trip Chris and I walked, gradually gaining height to Calf Crag before starting the descent to Far Easedale.
Far Easedale is a delight, being deserted and quiet, though the fact that the nearest car park or bus stop is over 5 kms away contributes to that. If you seek solitude, this is where you will find it. We found it as the February sun was starting to dip behind the hills – as the valley is narrow, it doesn’t take long before the shadows start to take over from the sunshine, leaving only the high ridge and Helm Crag in the sun. Possibly the best way to finish a short but rewarding day out on the fells of the Lake District.
Text and images © Paul Shorrock
p.s. Apologies to those of you who have been hanging around waiting for a new post – I’ll try to keep up!
p.p.s. Apologies also for some of the colours in the images – digital photography has come on leaps and bounds since the photos were taken (15 years) but there’s only so much that can be done in editing.
Paul offers guided hillwalking in the UK through Hillcraft Guided Walking. He is also a freelance outdoor writer.
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Paul Shorrock - One Man's Mountains AKA One Pillock's Hillocks 