mutteringhousewife

So something you learn when you’ve done a bit of trekking is that the kilometrage does not necessarily indicate the amount of work done on a walking day. And today was one of those days.

The whole point of walking in the Lakes District is to get up on the fells and crags and take a gander at the breathtaking views of valleys and ravines and cascades and becks while being judged by the local sheep.

So today began with a short walk out of our accommodation which was in the vicinity of Rosthwaite, but not quite in it, that was almost immediately halted by a giant barbed wire gate. So, of course, we climbed over the nearest stone fence onto the track, tearing a neat little right angle into the leggings I traditionally walk in in the process.

A lovely gentle climb led us beside the Stonythwaite Beck up to a saddle under Eagle Crag.

So that was nice, and one of the possibilities after that was to descend into the valley beyond and wander along until you got to Grasmere. But, you would already have guessed, that’s not what Alfred Wainwright would have done. Not when there was a lovely ridge line that skirted the valley and dropped you down into Grasmere much later. Oh no.

So we kept our height and discovered that this particular track was an odd mixture of rocky path and peat bog. Sometimes the rocky path was a delightful series of giant flat stones laid regularly for tens of metres at a time. Other times it more resembled a rock waterfall for you to pick your way up or down trying hard not to think of the lady who broke her arm doing exactly this just yesterday. And then at the top of the ridge we entered into a spot of cloud.

So basically the entire ridge line, that Wainwright lightly described as a track between three crags but left out the numerous mini crags in between, took an enormous amount of concentration to navigate. And that’s what I mean by hard work – yes the climbing was a thing but the hardest thing was picking your way through the cascades of stone without twisting your ankle and ruining the expedition or sinking up to your knees in the bog. And just when you were concentrating hardest, you’d be overtaken by a fell runner who didn’t seem to have this problem.

Then it began to rain, so proper English weather at last. We’d prepared for this, so got out the raincoats and put the little raincoats over our daypacks and no problem. Except that it made the rock cascades very slippery indeed, so that slowed me down a lot, and I was in a bit of a mood by the time the Commander cheerily announced the last little crag. And this is what it looked like.

Actually the climb up wasn’t too bad, but picking our way down into the valley took a picturesque age. And it just got more and more picturesque and covered in moss until we got into the town of Grasmere itself to find we’d been booked into a spectacular room behind a cafe, requiring some detective work to locate our key. Again, the joy of wandering into your accommodation after a long day’s concentrating to find your bag with its supply of Voltaren waiting for you is just magic. We nipped across the road to the 1796 pub for some pints and burgers and are feeling much refreshed, thank you very much.