mutteringhousewife

It looked simple on the plan, really. An ascent to the highest point for the rest of the journey, then a descent into Keld, with a detour because again our accommodation wasn’t actually in Keld.

But when reading about what was ahead, it was clear that we’d be needing gaiters. Because, even though you may have picked up from my earlier writings, England is a damp country, today was going to be a bit special in that regard.

So first up, the ascent. Winding its way through farmland again, it became obvious that my faithful hiking boots were not as waterproof as they once had been. I think I’ve had them for four years, and for most of that time they laughed at puddles. Now I’m finding that I can’t walk through a grassy meadow on a dewy morning without starting to get that sinking feeling through the edges of my socks. Not that this was going to be even slightly relevant today because I would have got wet socks even if I was wearing knee high gum boots. Our goal was the Nine Standards Rigg, which meant nothing to me at all except that I knew it was very high and there were some stones at the top.

As we got up to a point where we could look back over the picturesque English countryside it did seem that the going was pretty wet under foot. There were spots where the track disappeared into a morass of mud where clearly walkers were picking their way around the sides to find ways up. We did start to get glimpses of the Nine Standards, and they got more mysterious the closer we got to them.

They weren’t stone monoliths, they were constructed like a stone wall but in all different shapes. Google has nothing useful to say about them. Wainwright thought they were ancient, though some have been repaired over time. There might be an eighteenth century record of them, but no one is quite sure. I don’t know why they are called ‘standards’. I would have like to have spent more time photographing them, but there was a howling wind going on so we moved on.

A bit down the track came a decision point. There were three possible routes down the Dales to Keld, and they were season dependent. The easy route was green. Wainwright’s route was red. The route recommended for this time of year was intermediate between the two and coded blue, and we decided to do that. Something that Wainwright entirely failed to mention, and something the proper guidebook went on about at length was that the full descent was a giant peat bog. There were posts at intervals to help you navigate, but apart from that you were on your own.

So down we went, with the fierce wind at our backs. The going was squashy and at regular intervals we would need to cross some kind of mixture of moss, reeds, mud and water and use our judgement for where to put our already soaking wet boots.

It went on for a very long time, sometimes struggling through tussocky grass and heather clumps, mostly yanking our boots out of the sucking mud. We eventually came across a corner of ruined fence out of the wind to lunch on the last of the Grasmere gingerbread.

I thought I’d got the hang of it by then, never step on the bright green moss or the fine grass, stick to stepping into clumps of reeds… when I put a foot wrong. I was just at the bank of one of these crossings when my left leg sank into the bog up to my thigh. I threw myself onto the bank and managed to pull myself out, but I certainly hadn’t felt a bottom to that hole and you’re lucky you’re reading this blog instead of waiting five hundred years to read about the discovery of my mummified remains in which the final snack was determined to be a chunk of Kendal Mint Cake.

Even after we were out of the bog proper and back onto routes taking us past farms, bits of bog would still pop up into the path. I used to think it was amazing when they’d find an ancient human body in a peat bog, now I think it’s just because there’s so much bog they haven’t explored most of it because it’s quite unpleasant. I’m surprised they don’t lose more hikers in it.

Our final destination was Frith Lodge, very well signposted from our track. It’s situated high on a dale on the Pennine Way, and we could see it from such a long way away that we felt like we were walking towards it for hours and never getting nearer. Karen, our host, said that’s what everyone says. She saw us dragging ourselves up the steep driveway and had the door open to welcome us in. She saw the state of me (I’d also fallen a few times in the slippery mud) and very kindly suggested that we might like to chuck our bog saturated clothing in her washing machine.

I might have more to say about Frith Lodge, it’s a lovingly renovated 300 year old Dales longhouse, and Karen and Neil are very kind hosts. All guests had dinner, cooked by Karen, around the one table and exchanged walking tales. One woman was walking from Lands End to John O’Groats and it would take her three months. We met a couple from Oregon that we’d seen at other lodgings out of the corner of our eyes, also doing the Coast to Coast. We’ll probably catch up with them in Richmond. It’s beautiful accommodation and I must try to take some photos of it tomorrow, because it’s made it into the top three for us out of some pretty strong contenders. If only it had had an open fire.