July 29, 1984: Ennerale Bridge to Seatoller
Ennerdale Water
Naturally, when I got out of bed, I had to have a peek out the window. Our room faced the river; a horse was grazing in a field on the opposite bank, but, more importantly, there was nothing falling out of the sky. We got all our gear ready before going down to breakfast at 8:30, but Tosh and Harold informed us that we had arrived too early – it was Sunday, and we couldn’t have breakfast until 9:00. I then decided to take the dog out, worrying all the while about the late start. When I got back to the hotel at 8:45 a new verdict had been passed – we could go into the dining room after all. So down went the egg, bacon, ham, sausage, tomato, black pudding and toast.
It seemed to take forever to get ready thereafter. Our boots, stuffed with soggy newspaper, had to go on our dry feet. Our lunches had to be collected from the kitchen. I was quite cross by the time we were actually ready to begin our walk along the road to Ennerdale Water. Instead of leaving at 9:00, as I had planned, we were about to begin what I knew would be a very difficult thirteen mile day at 9:50. We never made up for this late start and, hours later, we paid the price! There was no way I could communicate this likelihood to my party, so I gave up in a resigned huff. Gradually, however, as the sun came out and the pinewoods near the lake gave off their wonderful odor, I cheered up. We were in real Lakeland here, and we could see everything. Ennerdale was marvelously beautiful.
The pumping station at the west end of the lake was in full operation because of the current drought. We walked around it to begin a lakeside path beneath the pinnacles of Crag Fell, resting for the first time as we rounded Anglers Crag. This path was a bit of a rocky scramble throughout its length, not merely in mid-course as I had supposed. It bobbed up and down as well and occasionally there were badly eroded sections and portions that required a little scouting to find the easiest way forward. We kept a sharp eye open for sheep ahead of us, hooking Bertie when any were about. This practice did not prevent an unnerving incident.
A single ewe, diagnosed by farm girl Tosh as old and infirm, suddenly took fright at the appearance of a canine visitor and rushed off to scramble into the lake in panic. There she paddled about, out of the reach, keeping a wary eye on our party. I was not at all confident in the waterborne abilities of this species, but there was nothing to do but remove ourselves as quickly as possible and let the old dame come ashore again. There were many other walkers about this morning, most of them moving from east to west along the shore; only they will know how long it took for the ewe to conquer her fear. The dog seemed to have been unaware of the incident – from beginning to end.
We had another rest in the forested section of the lakeside path, not far from the end of Ennerdale Water. We were somewhat footsore from the rocky surface of our route, now also quite wet underfoot from streams and springs. And we had not been making very good time at all. Our pace improved as we reached the wide meadows at the foot of the forested Ennerdale valley, but there were several stiles to negotiate and a stream to cross. Dorothy went downstream to do this and had to climb a fence to rejoin us. Her pack was punishing her shoulders and she walked with the full weight balanced first on the right, then the left shoulder. “This is not going to work,” I said – but my warning fell on deaf ears.
The diagonal path shown by Wainwright no longer seemed available to us, so we crossed to the north side of the valley on a dirt road. Here, at the River Liza, we found a geriatric walker who wanted us to take his picture. We passed him again throughout the day. Along the north side of the valley, beneath the impressively steep walls of Red Pike and High Stile, there ran a well-maintained forestry road. We reached the youth hostels at High and Low Gillerthwaite a little after 1:00. In a wet patch of grass near a stream we paused for lunch. I finished the second of the two beers I had lugged since London. Bertie had a lunch of dog meal and water every day.
At 1:30 we began a four-mile march along the forestry road. It was quite sunny now but there were many shady patches and we were able to make quite good time for once. Bertie was attacked by two rambunctious border terriers and by a ewe defending a nearly grown youngster. She actually charged him twice, much to his surprise. Many of the maturing lambs had bluish grey coats – almost identical in tone and texture to that of our Schnauzer. The latter disloyally abandoned his master and mistress to walk with Tosh and Harold, who were often some hundred yards ahead of the rest of us. I found this stretch, in spite of the gradual gradient, delightful. The glaciated valley reminded me strongly of the Sierras of my native California, and the forests, though man-planted, were not at all oppressive. By 3:00 we had reached the turnoff to the Black Sail Youth Hostel, a crunchy stone-filled track, no doubt also artificial – one that slowed erosion problems at the expense of the soles of your feet.
There it was, England’s most remote youth hostel, indeed Hostel of the Year in 1983, out on the grass above the forests in the upper reaches of Ennerdale. It was 3:10; we had ticked off four 25-minute miles and we were still late. It was windy up here too. We sat in the shadow of the hostel and I even used the gents – why not? – I was a paid-up member. Then, packless, I did a little scouting. Unfortunately, I found the correct route.
Climbing Loft Beck
It led over grass to a crossing of Loft Beck. Here we were expected to turn left and climb almost straight up, or so it seemed, for half a mile. This was a very difficult section for us. I felt all the accumulated misery of the girls, especially that of Dorothy – with her cumbersome pack. In addition I sat down hard on a hidden rock and bruised myself just beneath the base of my spine. There were rocks everywhere and the footing was treacherous – what it would have been like in rain I would not care to speculate. After many rests, curses, slurs on Wainwright’s parentage, and the occasional burst of energy, we found the right turn-off on a more humane angle up the hill, with the welcoming sight of ramblers walking along the Brandreth fence to our left giving us a clue that we had not far too to go to reach the apex of our route.
Naturally I wanted to proceed to such a point before resting but Tosh and Dorothy insisted on another stop as soon as we caught sight of the lakes of the Buttermere valley, shimmering in the haze to the north. Dorothy, indeed, threw down the offending pack with vehement bitterness at this point, ripped open a side pocket, and bounced the whisky flask off the turf as a symbol of the unnecessary weight she had been lugging. (Of course I had suggested, with the concurrence of the Lees, that we could reposition some of the more weighty items in our remaining packs but this idea had been rejected on several occasions.)
When we at last reached the fence it was easy to see our route ahead of us. There were many walkers about, quite a few descending from Great Gable. Bertie raced among them, barking out the menace of strangers in such wild surroundings. Before long we had reached the ruins of the drum house at the slate quarry and I picked up a sliver of blue slate. Then we began a steep descent in the warm afternoon sunlight. The path had been “improved” because of erosion, but there was no respite for the toes. A white van was parked at Honister Pass below. “Is that an ambulance?” Tosh wanted to know.
Seatoller
We edged along the busy highway and located the old Seatoller road, now abandoned to walkers. This got us out of the way of the motorcycles and caravans and even straightened out some of the curves in the tarmac road, which it approached once. Suddenly a chap in red stockings leapt to the top of a small hill in front of us and said, “Can we give you a lift?” It was one of the guests from the Shepherd’s Arms. His car was hidden below the hill and he and his wife had spotted us as they drove down from the pass. In retrospect, some of us should have taken him up on this offer, for the last mile, in which the track circled Seatoller and began a steep descent, now seemed endless. I even sent Harold ahead to alert them at our Seatoller hotel that we were not lost. When the rest of is arrived at 7:10 Harold informed us that the entire guest list had been required to delay their communal meal for ten minutes on our behalf – and that we would have to sit down immediately!
Four places had been left for us at one of the two tables in the dining room. Cultivated accents crackled over the wine behind us. A solicitor had to get back to work at 8:00 tomorrow morning and a Cambridge don droned on. Everyone else was bathed and relaxed. None was dripping with perspiration or stinking with sweat as I was, none of the ladies was dressed in shorts as Dorothy, none had her hair falling in damp circles on her cheeks. Our autocratic “host” invited beer drinkers to help themselves from a nearby refrigerator and to leave a written record of what they had taken. Eventually Tosh drank three lagers to my two. Dorothy was served a glass of white wine.
An elderly couple doing car walks was seated opposite us. At the other end a pharmacist from Leeds sat with his heavily made-up wife. I do not know whether this woman was struck dumb by the horror of the scene in front of her or was always a cipher; in any event, she did not speak. The others, with the accustomed ease of old-timers, attempted to elicit conversation – but only the Lees kept up their end. Dorothy, humiliated by the discomfiture of her ragged appearance, sank ever deeper into a sullen rage, death’s head at the feast. She managed a little of the nutburger smothered in tomato sauce and toyed suspiciously with her pork, but she disdained the stilton and skipped the coffee in the lounge. About one thing she was quite right: there was nothing about this meal that would have been sacrificed if it had been kept in a holding pattern while four paying guests were given the opportunity of a bath. Dorothy’s disposition was not improved by all the accoutrements of the hunting fraternity on the walls of an obviously very charming domicile.
Only Tosh went in to coffee directly. The rest of us, once freed from the collective ritual of dinner, went to clean up. Dorothy, in dudgeon, did not reappear. I had some coffee while Tosh chatted with a much-travelled British diplomat. His conversation about Russia lead to a discussion of Khruschev’s agricultural policies and the diplomat’s acquaintanceship with Harrison Salisbury. I was not surprised when the reticent Tosh failed to mention that the Russian premier had once visited her father’s farm in Iowa or the fact that Salisbury had written the introduction to Harold’s biography of farmer Roswell Garst.
I returned to our room to take Bertie on a last walk. Harold was on the phone – someone had just called from London with the news that Sally the cat, lost for two weeks, had returned to the flat after all. Our ever-amenable host now seemed to be worried that he would have to stay open all hours while Bertie and I were off for a night of carousing in Seatoller, but, at 9:15, I promised to by back in a few minutes. Seatoller, by the way, had no amenities, not even a pub, just a grass verge – which Bertie and I walked in total darkness.
Orders were taken for sandwiches for the next day’s packed lunch. To be difficult I asked for one of each flavor offered: ham, pate, cheese, cream cheese and apple – holding back only at the proffered honey and banana. Tosh was still gabbling with the diplomat.
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