mutteringhousewife

Again, one of those not physically demanding days, but…

So we really loved Grasmere, the beautiful stone buildings, the way the locals called you pet, love, darling, my sweetheart in a really genuine way despite probably seeing thousands of visitors every year. It was raining in the morning, so we decided on a slightly later start and lingered over our breakfast and an actual espresso coffee.

Despite Alfred Wainwright’s disdain for the grassy walk up to Grisedale Tarn, we thought it was lovely with amazing views back over Grasmere, whose name is the town but also the lake. Our guide from a few days back, Paul, told us that in the whole of the Lakes District there was only one lake with Lake in its name, and ‘mere’ is another Viking word for lake. So it was another climb, but I’m getting better at them. We paused just below the saddle before Grisedale Tarn because the wind was getting up and we wanted somewhere sheltered to eat our lunch of Grasmere gingerbread. They carry on about the recipe, but I think what I’d really like to know is the method – this stuff has a very firm bite through the middle with a crumbly crust around it that manages to stay on – making it ideal trekking food.

After Grisedale Tarn there was a choice of three ways to Patterdale – a lovely contour walk down to the valley that was obviously never going to be an option, a climb of Helvellyn which involved a walk along a ridge that Wainwright described as an exhilarating traverse, and the Commanders more comprehensive guidebook described as a death wish except in the finest of weather. We had already decided to take a third route – up to the crag of St Sunday. We did not have the finest of weather. As we walked around the edge of the tarn the wind was whipping it up almost into surf. We met an Australian couple who had started up to St Sunday and turned back because of the wind, but we pressed on. Almost up at the ridge line we met another couple turning back because of the wind. We pressed on. In short, the Commander found it exhilarating, I thought we were definitely going to get blown off into a picturesque valley to be nibbled by uncaring Herdwick sheep. The views were incredible though, and soon we were heading back down on the long descent to Patterdale.

The wind was still howling on the descent, but as we were no longer on a ridge line it wasn’t as disturbing. Squalls of rain kept passing us by, but we had on raincoats and so did our backpacks. For some reason, most of the path was actually little creeks, you can see them gleaming in the brief sunshine in the next photo.

And if you went off the creek/path you’d sink into the bog. Which meant that with one thing and another, by the time we arrived at the Old Water View hotel we were quite damp and in need of physical and spiritual sustenance. Which we got in spades. The place had an ample drying room for our boots and raincoats. It had two sitting rooms with fires (yes, it is still technically summer here but today’s maximum temperature was twelve degrees). It had a serve yourself bar. They brought you a jacket potato with toppings for dinner. And apparently Wainright himself used to stay here all the time when it was the Ullswater View Boarding House.

Some American guests arrived while we were thawing out in front of the fire with some local beer. They pooh-poohed the jacket potatoes. They wanted to know why the serve yourself bar didn’t have any ice. And they said that tomorrow they would not be doing the next stage – Patterdale to Shap – because they didn’t like the look of the weather. What they would be doing was getting a taxi to Shap, doing the Shap to Orton stage which was quite short. Then the next day getting a taxi back to Patterdale to do Patterdale to Shap when the weather was better. Americans, hey. Made us feel pretty sanctimonious.