Thank you for all your sensible and kind messages of support they really cheered me up.
I'm sorry this post has taken so long, it's been a bit of a trial trying to find enough time to do justice to it.
As I had already posted, I was pretty fed up in the run-up to this break and wishing I felt in more of a holiday mood. I usually really enjoy work but knew I needed to get away for a while.
I was surprised to realise that as a frequent Lakes visitor, I had never been in February before. It was with a sense of wonder that I noted the sugar dusted tops of the Lakeland mountains from my vantage point of the M6. I can’t explain why but snow & ice are becoming more and more magnetic for me. I felt the same way when I arrived at the Franz Joseph glacier in NZ, totally choked and very at home. I’m becoming a winter person.
I love those last few miles from between Junction 36 & Junction 40, where the land takes a very definite turn in character. The easy curves of the Pennines give way to the sharp geometry of the Lakes. By the time I reach the A66, everything feels better.
As we drove into the village, it only improved. Someone, knowing my prediliction for snowdrops, had arranged swathes of them on every bank.
Home ... if only for a week.
After arriving at an immaculate cottage, offering freshly baked cake and flowers, we unpacked & went exploring in Whinlatter. There was only time for an hour's walk to stretch our legs before dusk but with plans to do several testing walks during the week, taking it easy seemed a sensible option.
After a wonderful night of perfectly silent sleep, in the pitch black, our first serious challenge was to be Helvellyn. I texted Mummeh and told her of our plans to climb it in homage to her (she climbed it several years ago, via the infamously hairy 'Striding Edge' approach.) Her reply was unequivocal 'Do not attempt Striding Edge in icy conditions'. As someone not prone to overstatement, we took her advice seriously and decided to approach by the less dangerous Western ascent from Swirls car park.
During the journey to Helvellyn, we had been listening to an excellent audio book (thank you Mummeh) of Scott's attempt to reach the South Pole, narrated by Ranulph Fiennes. With slightly unnerving timing, our arrival at the foot of Helvellyn, coincided with the selfless death of Oates. Regarding our inhospitable surroundings, it was not difficult to imagine how he felt as he left the tent.
Of course there was a trade off to not ascending via Striding Edge & studying the map we soon discovered what it was. A 949 metre climb in 3 kms. The directions said 'Don't set off too quickly, it's a steady pull all the way to the summit'. A steady pull would seem to be Cumbrian for 'lung-burstingly tough climb' and my thighs were protesting in short order.
To relieve the agony I suggested some photos. Milky's look of dismay revealed that he had left the camera in the boot of the car. By this time we had been climbing for 30 minutes. Without hesitation he turned around & quickly re-traced his steps to the car, then back again to my lofty vantage point. Once he had recovered his breath he cheerily informed me that camera had been in the rucksack all along. How we laughed.
I did anyway.
'Says here not to leave valuables in the car.'
When I do one of these kind of walks, I do something I read that Joe Simpson does. He repeats the same climbing patterns again & again when he's crossing dangerous ice faces. I count in my head. Only up to four. 'One, two, three, four.' Somehow I know that I can count to four again and again, whereas if I look up to the top of the climb I have to do, it overwhelms me. I find the rhythm comforting and reassuring.
It does of course mean I'm a very boring person to walk with (when the going is strenuous anyway) Milky gaily chattered away, receiving only a snotty intermittent grunt in reply from me. I've had a runny nose since last November and can't seem to shift it. I had stupidly set off without a large handkerchief and so my conversation consisted of the odd plaintive lament ...
'Are you sure you don't have a hanky ?'
On the descent many hours later Milky got his revenge for the camera incident & produced wads of kitchen roll wrapped around lunch.
'Oh these ?' he said casually 'yes - I suppose you could blow your nose on these.'
On the last stretch of the climb, I began to understand how terrifying Striding Edge would have been in those conditions. From the summit we could see the narrow ridge and as the wind was preventing us putting one foot in a straight line ahead of the other I couldn't begin to imagine how it would have been possible.
I kept checking Barley to see if she was suffering in the cold but apart from frozen whiskers and ice crystals all the way through her coat, she seemed fine. What a little trooper. We had to keep moving though, even stopping for the summit photos was excruciating.
Summit. The ears show the wind more accurately. Barley's not Milky's.
The descent was more difficult with the distinct possibility of falling headfirst off the path. We elected to sit down & slide the difficult bits which seemed a really good idea. It was at the point that I was sliding uncontrolled, encased head to foot in shiny nylon, over rocks and boulders, with no prospect of being able to stop, that I began to doubt the wisdom of the idea.
When I finally did stop, by turning onto my belly & digging my walking pole (see MTM) into the ice, the only damage done was to my right thumb which resembled a squished sausage. I told Milky to go on without me & that I would simply compromise the expedition at which he accused me of melodrama, somewhat harsh I thought.
The luxury of getting into the car and turning on the heater was only emphasised by listening to the rest of the audiobook.
Things I learned on this walk.
Not everyone feels the same when you shout above the gale, 'Come on, that's the summit there, it would be pointless to make all this effort and then not stand on the actual summit.'
Spaniels are hard.
Braking distances are greatly increased with the introduction of nylon upon snow.
The following day we rewarded ourselves with an easy flat 10 miles around Derwentwater.
The day was drizzly & grey but as that’s what you expect in the Lakes, it interfered with our enjoyment not a whit.
We checked out the ferry times before leaving and rewarded our industry by catching the ferry back to our start point after a rapidly consumed lunch of hot soup & rolls.
Things I learned on this walk.
Someone will always appear out of nowhere at the point you most need a pee, regardless of the fact that you haven’t seen a soul all day.
They will then decide to sit on a bench to admire the lake, unheeding of the fact that you are squatting, less than 5 feet away behind a wall.
Wet wipes are indispensable.
It's very difficult to fasten gaiters with a mangled thumb.
It's important to be nice to the person who will fasten your gaiters (see above)
That evening I presented Milky with a book of walks and told him to pick one relatively nearby for us to complete the following day.
He chose a corker.
‘Buttermere crags’. 5 ascents with accompanying descents around Buttermere. The guide said it would take 6.5 hours and that most of the going would be ‘strenuous’.
As we parked the following morning in the car park adjacent to the Bridge Hotel the car park guide drew our attention to this sign
and asked if we were intent on venturing up the fells.
We admitted we were and she continued ‘…it’s just that you don’t have any gear with you and we’ve had to call out Mountain Rescue for people in the last couple of days.’
By ‘lack of gear’ she meant no tents or camping stoves or anything that would allow us to camp out overnight in -15.
We assured her that we were ‘on a recce’ and that if it looked too bad, we’d head back down again. Satisfied that she had warned the muppets, she retired to her hut.
The friendly warning reminded me of the way things are done in New Zealand ‘ What you’re about to do is dangerous, but as long as you know that, fill your boots’
I wonder if there will ever come a time in our increasingly nanny-state when people will be able to stop you climbing with the words – ‘Sorry it’s too dangerous up there’. I hope not.
The walk started easily enough, alongside a lake. It was at that point the fun ended. As we struck out on the ‘distinctive red path’ things got hard and stayed that way for the next 5 hours. I won’t bore you with every ascent, suffice it to say that the cold ensured we only stopped for a 10 minute lunch break.
A hastily shouted conversation on one of the summits revealed we were thinking along the same lines when we both said to the other ‘Don’t whatever you do, fall & break an ankle.’
Only a helicopter would have been able to retrieve the injured party, as it took all one’s nerve and concentration to walk alone. The thought of having someone leaning on you in the icy, treacherous footholds we were taking was inconceivable. I envied Barley her 4 wheel traction so much and was grateful I’d brought my pole.
At one point we watched a helicopter quartering the fells and it was a sobering though to realise it was below us.
The time came when we had to make a 'c' word and cut one summit off our walk. We knew the sun set at 1738 and that we had an hour to make it to the valley floor. The extra hour could be spent tackling the last climb or reaching safety in daylight. We both agreed that Mountain Rescue wouldn’t praise us for having to be rescued just to say that we had finished the walk as described in the book. It was a wrench nonetheless, for those of you who don’t know I can be incredibly pig-headed about this kind of thing.
As it turned out, we strolled in to the car park at 1745 as the gloom was gathering and treated ourselves to a well-planned finish by eating Dairylea cheese triangles in the car. Barley approved.
Things I learned on this walk.
You have to be very good friends with someone if you’re going to climb things in Winter.
The wind, which howls ceaselessly over 600 metres, can suddenly drop away, ensuring that your shouted oaths at and about your climbing partner can be heard very clearly, at an appreciable distance.
Never, ever, try to make your way off an icy summit on an unrecognised route to ‘save time’.
If I planned on climbing in the Lakes again in Winter, I would take an extra rucksack, tent, sleeping bags and extra clothing, for when you do break an ankle & have to camp, rather than trusting to good fortune. Things go wrong very quickly when you're cold & have lost your bearings, don't they MTM ?
All too soon, our week at Loweswater was up and it was time to head home. We decided upon a last walk on the Sunday morning so that we could all stretch our legs prior to the long journey, so headed for Whinlatter once again. After a couple of hours walking we enjoyed a hot chocolate at the visitor centre and were entertained by the brassy little visitors to our plates, the robins, chaffinches & siskins. These birds are catered for very well in the form of numerous feeders hanging from 2 huge pines, directly outside the cafe.
Although it's angled and demonic and not the organic style I go for, I love this sculpture of the Cumbrian raven at Whinlatter. It captures the dark and foreboding spirit of the Lakes. I wondered why Cumbria is often represented by a raven & did a little digging.
Rheged was the name of the Ancient Kingdom of Cumbria in the Dark Ages. At its peak around 590AD, the Kingdom of Rheged stretched from Southern Scotland to the Midlands and from coast to coast. Rheged’s most famous King was Urien meaning “city born”. Urien was known as the “Raven King” because of the talisman or good luck charm, which he wore around his neck and bore the symbol of a Raven. It was this symbol which provided the inspiration for our logo. The stone on which the Rheged Raven is often shown reflects the shape of the County of Cumbria today. (courtesy Rheged website)
As we left our retreat I realised I felt so much better about everything. Several days of hard walking and fresh air had cleared my mind. I felt happy and re-energised. I enjoyed it so much I'm taking Mummeh there for her birthday in October.
I feel about the lakes the way I do about NZ, I want people to go there to experience it for themselves almost as much as I want them to stay away and leave it for me.
Cx
