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.
31. Misadventures on the Fells: High Street
... Mardale Green ...
Breakfast at the Haweswater Hotel was subdued. We gradually remembered why.
Somehow, during the previous evening and long night, we had
joined the Friends of Mardale Green and had become embroiled
in what passed for its Annual General Meeting.
It was fortunate that Harry had booked the rooms well
in advance because it happened that our visit coincided with
an inundation of the hotel by the Friends. They were an
exceptionally sociable crowd, the Friends having long realised
that as their official aims would never be achieved they might
as well meet and just have a good time. We could not avoid
joining in with them.
The Friends of Mardale Green had been formed in 1925
when plans were put forward to create Haweswater Reservoir
by flooding Mardale and drowning the village of Mardale
Green. A vigorous campaign ensued but it eventually failed,
with all the residents of Mardale Green being forced away
before the flooding of the valley in 1935. But the Friends
carried on, vowing, according to its constitution, “to preserve
the memory of Mardale Green and to work towards the return
of its inhabitants”. That seemed fairly harmless, and hopeless,
and so the four of us signed up.
The activities of the Friends are rather limited. Every few
years a drought lowers the level of the reservoir to reveal some
of the remains of Mardale Green and conscientious Friends duly
row out to carry out work on the derelict houses, in forlorn
anticipation of the ex-inhabitants’ return.
United Utilities once attempted to prevent this by saying
that the Friends did not have planning permission to build in
the Reservoir. However, the Friends successfully argued that
they were not building - they were only maintaining buildings
that were already there (although, they did admit, after a few
drinks (not that they had only a few), that they surreptitiously
added a foot or two to the church tower each time, in the
hope that eventually it would arise permanently above the
water’s surface).
This year, to mark its 80th anniversary, the Friends
had arranged a video link to the only known surviving ex-inhabitant of Mardale Green, a Dotty Measand, now living in
Surfers’ Paradise, Australia. She joined in with the spirit of the
occasion:
“Hi there, Mrs Measand - or may we call you Dotty? -
how are you doing?”
“G’day. Everybody calls me Dotty, so you can too, whoever
you are. I’m fine. Out before brekky to see the surf carnival
parade. Lots of fit young men with not many clothes on”.
“Well, we’re still working on getting you back to Mardale
Green, Dotty, but the people of Manchester still seem to need a
lot to drink”.
“Me too. I usually have a few tinnies in the arvo. But
you’d better get a move on, if you want me back in Mardale
Green. I’m 83, you know. Do you have lots of fit young men
with not many clothes on over there?”
“They may be fit but they’ve got plenty of clothes on”.
“Thought so. Bloody cold and wet over there, isn’t it? I
was only five when I left and that’s all I remember. Bloody
cold and wet”.
“What’s it like where you are, Dotty?”
“35 degrees. Sun, sand, sea.”
“Well, Dotty, why don’t you invite us all over there for
next year’s AGM?”
And so on, in an inconsequential way, to confirm the
futility of the Friends’ aims, to their relief.
We eventually set off from the hotel, saying goodbyes to
those few Friends who had made it to breakfast, promising
sincerely, but no doubt untruthfully, to see them all again next
year. We walked slowly and in silence. We pretended that it
was in respect for the drowned village of Mardale Green off to
our right but really we were suffering from the night before.
Our spirits did not really lift until we had trudged around
the head of the reservoir, past The Rigg and then up the long
ridge to High Raise. There a marvellous panorama suddenly
opened out for us, displaying Coniston Old Man, Bowfell, Scafell, Great Gable,
Helvellyn, and Blencathra.
... Thornthwaite Beacon ...
We strode south along High Street and in what seemed no
time we reached Thornthwaite Beacon, where I allowed the team a rest and,
as is his custom, Harry was soon on first-name terms with
all the other walkers resting there.
Personally, I see little point in wasting much-needed
breath talking to people one is most unlikely to see again. I
manage a syllable (“hi”) or two (“morning”) if it’s unavoidable
but usually a nod suffices.
The only occasion I can recall talking to a stranger on the
fells was once on Ullscarf. I had walked up the hill from the
Thirlmere side to be confronted with a most startling view
to the west. The sun and shadows highlighted the red of Red
Pike and the brooding pudding shape of Great Gable, with the
peaks of Grasmoor and Hopegill Head wonderfully arrayed to
the north and, through the gap of Bassenthwaite, a view of the
Galloway hills of Scotland. I gathered my sandwiches from the
backpack and prepared to settle down to watch the shadows
play across the remarkable view.
And then I saw a man, which is not what you expect on
Ullscarf, already settled in the exact same spot doing what I
had in mind. He saw me too. I was most reluctant to disturb
his reverie, as I am sure he understood, but it would have been
somewhat rude to have wandered off. So I sat at the optimum
point nearby (not too close to intrude, not too far away to
offend) and exchanged pleasantries about the scene in front of
us.
While I did not learn his name, as Harry would have done,
I am sure that if I saw him in a pub now I would recognise him
and happily let him buy me a drink.
... Kirkstone ...
Harry said hearty cheerios to all his new-found friends
and within five minutes had forgotten all about them. We
scrambled down to Thresthwaite Mouth, with its frogs, and
up to Caudale Moor. Here we searched for Mark Atkinson’s
Monument and John Bell’s Banner (there is too much name-dropping in Cumbria). We found the former but not the
latter. The ‘monument’ is just a pile of stones with a cross, a
memorial to a landlord of the Kirkstone Inn, skilfully placed at
the furthest point on the ridge from which he may keep an eye
on his inn. We were at least reassured that our resting place
for the night was not too far distant.
Who John Bell was and why he brought a banner up
here, I don’t know. The fine names that embellish the map
of Cumbria soon, though familiarity, become accepted as just
arbitrary nomenclature. And yet, if we pause to reflect, they
hint at some bygone history and mystery. Who, for example,
was the St Raven, after whom is named the St Raven’s Edge,
which we now walked down towards the inn? Raven’s Edge
I could understand, for there are ravens about. But who put
the St there? And why does Wainwright, so meticulous in his
work, spell it “St Ravens Edge”, with no apostrophe?
With such deep thoughts, we dropped down to the inn,
where to our concern, we found in the bar two of the Friends
of Mardale Green with whom we had over-celebrated last
night. They had struggled over from Haweswater by the
Nan Bield Pass. But we need not have worried: they were as
exhausted as we were.
Photos:
Mardale Green, as the Friends of Mardale Green wish it to be.
Thornthwaite Beacon.
Kirkstone Inn.
Ramblings
Saunterings
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2024-
Top photo: Rainbow over Kisdon in Swaledale;
Bottom photo: Ullswater