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.
4. Misadventures on the Fells: Fairfield
... Kirkstone ...
The day dawned overcast, with low cloud. At least, I assume
it did, dawn being rather early for me at that time of year.
There was certainly low cloud by the time we stood on
the steps of the inn, ready to set forth. We could barely see
the bottom of Red Screes, let alone its top, which was our first
objective. As always seems to be the case when the top of a
hill is in cloud, the steep slopes seemed to rise to prodigious,
unseen, heights.
It was a considerable struggle scrambling up the slope. I
prefer to begin a long walk with a few minutes’ gentle stroll in
order to loosen the legs but here it was straight into strenuous
action. I had nobody to blame but myself. Breathless, we
paused before we went fully into the cloud to look back to the
inn, hardly visible far below.
Some walkers say that there is no point in walking in
cloud. But what do they consider to be the point of walking
when not in cloud? For the long-distance views from the peaks
and ridges? If so, yes, I concede that they are lost in cloud,
but in compensation there is a heightened awareness of what is
at close quarters. There has to be, in order to determine the
route. And the lack of perspective makes every shape take on
a new character, with, for example, huge rocks ahead turning
into sheep as they are approached.
If the point is exercise, then cloud makes no difference.
If it is for fresh air in the lungs, then it is newly cleansed by
the moist cloud. And if it is to escape momentarily from
the stresses of everyday life, then cloud is a great help, for it
hides from view anything that might serve as a reminder of
those stresses - for example, there is no sight of dilapidated
farmhouses to remind us of work needed back at home.
But I like walking in cloud because I can be cocooned
within my own profound thoughts, which are unfortunately
disturbed by external stimulations normally.
On this occasion, I was contemplating the hermeneutical
significance of the ascent drawings in Wainwright’s little books.
These are neither maps (from vertically above) nor views (from
ground level) but are sketches (from an imaginary floating
position above the mountains) distorted in perspective and
scale. They provide the walker with a god-like omniscience
and power over the Lakeland terrain, even when it cannot be
seen.
Have these drawings, familiar to all serious walkers,
stimulated our sense of mastery over these hills, so feared in
earlier centuries?
... Hart Crag ...
And so, deep in thought (if any, for the others), we clambered
carefully over Red Screes, down to the Scandale Pass, over
Bakestones Moss, on up by Dove Crag, past Hart Crag, down
the dip of Link Hause, on towards ...
“Which way now now
now ...?”
My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a faint shout that
echoed around the hills and clouds. We stopped. We listened.
Silence. “What was that?” I asked.
“Someone shouting ‘Where are you?’” said Thomas.
“I thought it was “Wait for me” said Richard.
“What did you think, Harry? ... Harry?” Where was
Harry? We looked around. We tried to remember when
we had last seen him. We had all been so engrossed in our
thoughts (if any) that we hadn’t noticed his disappearance.
Richard thought he remembered him saying something
about nipping behind a rock (as he did rather too frequently)
somewhere on Little Hart Crag. He must have lost the way
trying to catch us up.
We shouted “Up here, Harry Harry
Harry ...” We
listened. Silence. We peered into the gloom. Nothing. We
waited. We shouted again “We’re over here, Harry Harry
Harry ...” We listened. We waited.
And then, at last, we heard a faint shout “I can see the
way now now
now ...”.
We were greatly relieved. We shouted back “We’ll come
to meet you you
you ...” But which direction did the
shout come from? It seemed a little over to the right, so we
inched our way in that direction, off what path there was,
over various crags. “We’re coming coming
coming ...” we shouted.
“No, stay there ... I can manage manage
manage ...” we heard shouted back.
We stopped. We stared into the cloud, trying to discern
Harry’s shape emerging from it. And then another voice, just
below us “Nearly there, there’s a good grip higher up this gully,
you’ll make it.” We edged towards the voice.
We were just about to step off a cliff face into the void
when a figure leapt up in front of us. Our relief at finding
Harry soon evaporated. This fellow was wearing a safety
helmet and was enveloped in a harness with a multitude of
ropes with various attachments.
And then another fellow emerged from the left, slapped
him on the back, with hearty congratulations. And then
another fellow emerged from the right, saying “What’s all this
shouting? And why are you over here, on the edge of Scrubby
Crag?”. This fellow turned out to be Harry.
We apologised to the two climbers and returned to regain
the path. Harry appeared calm but was quietly seething at
being left behind. I kept quiet too, not wanting to provoke his
anger. I suppose it was my duty, as team leader, to keep the
team together at all times. But if we waited for Harry every
time he nipped behind a rock we would get nowhere.
... Fairfield ...
I led the team up to Fairfield, where we paused for some
sustenance by the largest cairn, whilst peering in stony silence
into the gloom. After carefully locating the correct ridge I
took them down the steep drop of Cofa Pike. As I strode over
Deepdale Hause towards the ridge of St Sunday Crag the
other three lagged behind and seemed to be engaged in some
private conversation.
The mist lifted a little and, as I tried hard to pick out the
shape of Helvellyn, I was astonished to see a wide river flowing
down the fellside. I stared at it for a while - and gradually
realised that it was a river of debris being eroded down
Dollywaggon Pike by walkers. How can walkers be so clumsy?
I myself have never dislodged a rock in my life.
The others were still in sight behind - I didn’t want to lose
anyone again. But I saw no need to dally to let them catch up.
I pressed on up St Sunday Crag. Is there really a St Sunday?
What about a St Monday? St Tuesday? and so on.
I dropped down over Birks and at last came below the
cloud, to be rewarded with a fine view of Ullswater, even
with the surroundings fells decapitated by cloud. I sat for a
while, waiting for the others, and then we all sat in silence,
contemplating the view and perhaps reflecting on the difficult
day behind us.
... Glenridding ...
But the end was in sight and so, in slightly raised spirits,
we strolled down to Grisedale and over by Lanty’s Tarn to
Glenridding. After signing in at our B&B we retreated to the
Travellers Rest, where we sat outside to admire the renowned
view across Ullswater to Place Fell. But the cloud came
down again and we could see nothing at all.
We retreated inside, to find the bar packed, with not
enough space to swing a cat. We didn’t have a cat anyway, so
we merged in with the throng, most of whom seemed to be
climbers. A noisy group had settled around the fire, blazing
although it was supposed to be midsummer. Two of them were
regaling the others with a story of how they had nearly been
knocked off Scrubby Crag by some foolish walkers who were
wandering about, shouting, lost in the cloud.
Photos:
Kirkstone Inn.
The view from Scrubby Crag.
Ramblings
Saunterings
© John Self, Drakkar Press, 2024-
Top photo: Rainbow over Kisdon in Swaledale;
Bottom photo: Ullswater