Lake District - September 1999 - Haystacks
For many, many years, my brother Martin and I have taken a two week holiday somewhere in September. We started by using my son's orange nylon play tent (yes really) and with usually little more than sleeping bags, a calor gas burner, a saucepan, a couple of mugs, plates and a bit of cutlery, we'd drive to some remote part of the UK, often Wales or the Lake District and stick the tent wherever we happened to end up. Over the years we graduated to better tents, though not much better camping equipment and then to renting holiday accommodation. We stayed in some really lovely cottages in some really amazing places and once in a not quite so wonderful cottage in the Lake District, close to Buttermere (one of Martin's favourite places).
This Blog is about a walk we did in 1999 and is taken from the original notes in my journal of that year.
"TRAVELS IN THE LAKE DISTRICT". BUTTERMERE. The very name conjures up images of lake reflections, protective fells, pretty shoreline walks, swallows dipping for flies. It is all this and so much more.
When we set out at just before nine this particular morning, I had no idea the day would become such a test of stamina and character. I had said all holiday (and before) that I wanted to climb a mountain. I really had in mind Helvellyn!
However, we had begun previously with a few leisurely strolls around the lake - they can be regarded as strolls now - and then, one fine morning we drove up from Buttermere, through Newlands Hause and stopped half way up. Full of determination and cameras at the ready, we ascended Knott Rigg. Even so comparatively small a hill, there was a sense of achievement as we sat there in the blustery wind, snapping away furiously. (see photo in gallery) We could have gone on, but instead trudged back down and then went part-way up the other side to the waterfall, Moss Force. From there we stood above the car park, gazing back down the pass at the evening sun glittering on the southern end of Crummock Water. Great shafts of light - golden beams - splayed out over the fells and it was a wonderful sight.
But still we hadn't climbed a mountain. We struck out a day or two later, Sunday, once again from Buttermere village, where all paths lead from, taking the route around Crummock, through the woods and up to Scale Force. The trees were old and gnarled. Weather-beaten. The stone-strewn track likewise. There was a different feel here. No hidden vistas. No sudden opening of windows onto the meandering shoreline of Buttermere. Crummock was always in view; large, sedate, comfortable beneath its fells.
We struck upwards again beyond the falls to a place where the land was wet and boggy. It was like walking on sponges and before us spread a wilderness valley - wild and uninviting. We trekked back, followed the ghyll down the fellside through clusters of yellow gorse and stiff bracken. Another path forked away north and we took it, away around the shoreline to the spit of land that juts out on its narrow causeway below Ling Crags. We sat for a while, took one or two more photos, then trudged back over boggy ground, across swathes of marsh and along shallow rivulets of tinkling water. We were tired when we got back.
Still the thought of conquering mountains was in my mind. I wanted to do "The Buttermere Trio" - High Crag, High Stile and Red Pike. 'The Book' said the ascent could be made in four and a half hours. It didn't sound too bad. A bit steep and tricky in places perhaps - especially for us relative novices.
I sat (last night) and wrote down the directions. It all depended on the weather. We made a packed lunch. This morning looked fine. We were awake early. We filled bottles with water. We rolled up extra clothes and waterproofs. We were going.
As already mentioned, a walk around Buttermere's shoreline is an absolute delight. But when your climb doesn't begin until you've reached the far end of the lake - and you've already spent twenty minutes getting from the cottage to the lakeside, it seems to take twice as long as usual. But then we were there and the long haul up began.
The path is steep, over loose shale and boulders. We made several water stops before we were even half way up. I was hot. When I get hot I go red in the face. I felt like a sweating beetroot. But we made it to the point where, according to our instructions, we should take the path that ran to the right, up and alongside the wall. It looked daunting. Steep. Almost vertical. We dithered. Some more people came up behind us. 'Our first real climb' we said. 'Maybe you ought to think of doing Haystacks' they suggested. We watched them go and decided to take their advice. Others were already making the ascent - the majority of them much older than us. Determination kicks in then. We've come this far. If they can do it, so can we. It's that that sustains you then. You have to make it to the top.
And make it we did.
We stood on the top of Haystacks and knew we'd conquered our first 'mountain'.
It was wonderful. The views were spectacular. This time there really was a sense of achievement and we took photo after photo - of Buttermere, of Crummock , of Ennerdale, of High Stile and Fleetwith Pike. Of Blackbeck Tarn and the distant sea. Yes, we even saw Scotland way across the Solway Firth and all the mountains to the south, Green and Great Gable.
We took photos of each other by the cairn and ate lunch.
It was then we asked the question everyone else had - 'which is the way down?' Once again we followed another pair of 'climbers' (for that was what we felt like now. Virgins no longer!) We started the downward trek.
The going was quite good. The path was obvious and decisive. We passed two more tarns, dark and silent. We descended a trickier, more boulder-strewn stretch. My knees began to protest. We turned a bend and found ourselves peering out between lofty crags. Perched we were, like eagles. It would have been so easy to swoop down on gliding wings, to sail over Buttermere and Crummock, beyond and up again, veering eastwards towards Keswick and Skiddaw and the beckoning of Helvellyn. Imagination would have to suffice.
We went down and then up again. Another tarn. It was warm. It was tiring. We came to a parting of the ways. Up and over onto Fleetwith Pike, or across and down? We threw out Martin's idea of following the course of the waterfall - a good call as it turned out. I hadn't relished the thought of vertical drops over rock faces.
It was the last lap. Methinks me knees doth protest too much. Walking down over loose scree is hard work. I was hot again. I had a headache. The view temporarily banished both. It was as breathtaking as when we had stood on the summit. Warnscale Bottom fanned out before us with Peggy's Bridge beckoning. Once there, it would be a simple jaunt back to the cottage. No it wouldn't. The last part of the downward path was hard. I collapsed on the grass - Martin some fifty or so metres ahead of me. I was hurting. I wanted to rest. I wanted to get to Gatesgarth and catch the bus! We didn't have any money. So I struggled on.
We hit the road and I began to feel sick. Lack of water? Low sugar levels? Just plain fatigue? Once more I summoned up the last ounce of determination and walked back to Craggfoot Cottage.
We're rested now. A cup of tea and a bit of chocolate soon restores the spirits.
In the little enclosed garden I look out towards the fells. Golden sunlight illuminates the trees. There isn't a cloud in the blue sky. A new moon touches the mountain top and slides unobtrusively from view.
We climbed a mountain today and it feels good. But Helvellyn will have to wait. "
~ oOo ~
We never did climb Helvellyn.
~ oOo ~
I really wanted to post a write-up I did of a walk when we were in Yorkshire in 2011, from Gordale Scar to Malham Cove. I cannot find it anywhere, which is a shame, as it was such a brilliant walk. Oh well .....
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