Ramblings
Saunterings
Ramblings: about North-West England
Ramblings is a set of articles about North-West England, of unknown authorship and
indeterminate date, believed to have been written for amusement on rainy days,
which are not unknown in North-West England.
13. Misadventures on the Fells: Grasmoor
... Keswick ...
We awoke to find a gale blowing. We were
buffeted about as we walked through the streets of Keswick
and could hardly imagine what it would be like on the fell
tops. We passed the world famous Cumberland Pencil Museum,
struggling hard to resist the attractions of the World’s Longest
Pencil, 7.91 metres, to be exact.
Across the bridge we took a
footpath through Portinscale and Ullock and on to Braithwaite,
where we found the rather fine-looking Coledale Inn. Harry
had done well arranging our accommodation for the nights
and here we seemed to have something a bit special.
I looked forward to returning for a good night’s rest,
after our walk around the Coledale horseshoe. We jettisoned
everything we didn’t need, which did not include our wind-proof walking gear, and set off brightly.
The gale had brought a crystal clarity to the
air. Looking back, we could see every detail of Skiddaw. However, we didn’t look
back much because we were inspired by the view ahead. Our
route seemed laid out before us, no distance at all.
... Grisedale Pike ...
As we battled our way up to Grisedale Pike, Harry began
waxing lyrical, as all waxing is, about the wonders of the
natural world. He seemed on the verge of becoming overcome
with emotion. Now I have as much appreciation of the natural
world as the next person but it seems unmanly to me to get
over-emotional about it. So, in
order to restore a proper perspective, I began to focus on the
unnatural elements of the scene.
I pointed out the miles and miles of the Whinlatter
Forest conifer plantations visible off to the right and also the
ruins of Force Crag Mine, far below us to the left. This led
to a protracted discussion about the origins and purpose of
the forest and mine, the conclusion of which was that they
must have been involved in the manufacture of the esteemed
Cumberland Pencils, the lead or graphite from the mine being
enclosed in wood from the forest.
This isn’t true but the others were so satisfied with their
explanation that I was content to leave them with it. In fact,
although lead was mined from Force Crag Mine in the 1800s
the pencil-makers used graphite from Borrowdale. The mine
functioned, on and off, until the 1990s. Today, the mine is
owned by the National Trust, who are not enamoured of mines
in the Lake District and will no doubt ensure that the mine
stays off.
... Hopegill Head ...
We walked on past Grisedale Pike to Hopegill Head, keeping
well clear of the edge to avoid being blown over Hobcarton
Crags. Most of what we said was lost in the wind, which
whipped the words and much else besides over the mountain
edge. “How the wind doth ramm!” floated into my mind,
which, I remembered, is part of ‘Winter is Icumen In’:
Winter is icumen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm,
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.
This is a parody of the 13th century English round ‘Sumer is
Icumen In’ by the American poet Ezra Pound. Americans are
proud of their liberty, and it is a liberty to mock our ancient
songs just because they don’t have any, and to adopt our
currency as a surname, too.
I began to sing the song, to the tune of the mice in
Bagpuss, confident that nobody would hear me in the gale.
Richard, however, noticed my lips moving and thought that
I was speaking to him. I explained that I was singing a song
appropriate to the conditions and, after persuasion, I sang it
aloud to them all.
Given their interest, I tried to get them to join in the
round, but they couldn’t get the hang of it at all. They seemed
incapable of entering at the correct point, on the “Lhude”, and
if I ever did get them all going together they tended to treat it
as a race to the “Sing: Goddamm”.
After a while, I suspected that they were failing on
purpose but, as they seemed to enjoy the ending so much, we
settled on me singing the song and them all joining in loudly on
the “Sing: Goddamm”. It was almost as if the Goddamm were
directed at me. And so singing, we strode from Hopegill Head
down past Eel Crag, the “Goddamm”s alarming a few nervous
walkers.
... Grasmoor ...
With the team in good spirits, I mentioned the detour that I
had planned to Grasmoor and, with no-one daring to decline,
we struggled up the long grassy slopes against the ferocious
gale. At the top, we stood, braced against the wind, to survey
the scene, with Pillar, Scafell and
Bowfell arrayed to the south.
We turned, prepared to be blown back down Grasmoor,
only to find that the backpacks of Tom and Richard were no
longer with us. They had put them down at the summit cairn
and, being much lighter than on previous days, they had been
whisked by the wind over Dove Crags.
I condescended to wait while they scrambled down the
precipitous cliffs to retrieve them. After all, it was not my
fault that they were foolish enough to lose them. Harry, ever
the helpful colleague, opted to scramble down with them.
I sat day-dreaming at the panorama for quite a while. I
forgot all about them but after about forty-five minutes I
began to be a little concerned that they hadn’t re-appeared.
I tentatively peered over the edge of the crags, fearing being
blown over myself, but they were nowhere to be seen.
I became quite worried and began to think about calling
out the Mountain Rescue Service, for the three of them were
not really equipped for rock-climbing. And then I saw them,
far off to the right, on the slopes of Grasmoor, having emerged
from the crags much further east than where they went down.
I walked fast to catch them up. They blithely explained
that they had taken a short-cut on the crags in order to catch
me up on Crag Hill. I had distinctly said that I would wait
for them at the Grasmoor cairn and I am not used to my
instructions being misunderstood. I was quite miffed but the
other three seemed in even better spirits than they were as we
strolled along the long ridge to and over Causey Pike.
... Braithwaite ...
On our return to the inn, there was an embarrassing incident
with the receptionist. There had, it appears, been some
misunderstanding as a result of Harry having asked for two
doubles. She had thought he was referring to beds rather than
rooms, a perhaps reasonable inference in this day and age. I,
however, would not countenance the former.
After a long wrangle with the manager, it was eventually
agreed that I would have a room with a double bed and the
other three would share the other room, into which an extra
bed would be moved. So that was satisfactorily resolved and,
after a fulsome meal, I departed from the others to enjoy the
restful night that I had looked forward to all day.
Photos:
The Cumberland Pencil Museum.
The view as I waited on Grasmoor.
Comments:
• The Cumberland Pencil Museum is nothing to write home about.
Ramblings
Saunterings
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2024-
Top photo: Rainbow over Kisdon in Swaledale;
Bottom photo: Ullswater