July 30, 1984: Seatoller to Grasmere

At 8:30 we sat down for the breakfast ritual. The chatty diplomat had replaced the elderly couple, but the pharmacist’s wife with the blue-green eyelids continued to maintain her silence. We were actually away by 9:30 – our stay forever spoiled by the circumstances of our arrival. I have no doubt that had we come at 6:00 rather than 7:00, all would have been quite different. Well, almost all, for our host’s condescending, toffee-nosed, anal ways would not have been welcome under any circumstances. Years later I met a Frenchman at a party; he, too, had stayed in Seatoller and he too complained about the man.

There was no rain, but neither was there sun. Mist was hanging low over Borrowdale and I was quite certain we would have to walk up into it. We managed to get through the parking lot across the street all right, but we probably took too high an initial angle into Johnny’s Wood. Dorothy went forward to have a look at a junction of tracks only five minutes from our starting point – and discovered a path that returned us to a lower level, one soon accompanied by the river Derwent. Once or twice we ran out of path in rocky sections but, on the whole, this was a most pleasant episode. It ended when we reached Longthwaite Youth Hostel. Our old friend from the river Liza was just getting his gear together on its porch.

We went over a bridge and followed some field paths into Rosthwaite. I asked a resident if there was a shop here and she directed me out to the B289, where a well-provisioned establishment provided us with soft drinks, postcards, and miles of adhesive tape. A clerk wanted to make sure that we didn’t attach Bertie to a poorly anchored drainpipe. We then walked up the highway a bit and turned right to cross a bridge. Here there was another rest for taping – while I drank a lemonade. I was tempted to put on my rain gear at this time, for the mist was upon us now, but I delayed this decision. In fact the weather began to lift now and over the next several hours grey gave way to blue skies and sun. The morning produced excellent weather for walkers after all.

For three miles we proceeded in a southeasterly direction, walking along first Stonethwaite Beck and then Greenup Gill. Although we were climbing steadily the way forward was not arduous and the views of this valley and its marvelous streams made for a charming enterprise. Little pools decorated the watercourses, miniature waterfalls ran over small cliffs, everything was green and lush. There were dozens of walkers on this stretch, many hefting huge packs. All of them managed to get around our slow-moving caravan which, after many rests, drew up along alongside Eagle Crag, then climbed to an elevation that looked down on this eminence. Just before Lining Crag there was a very steep hill which, we were warned by the other walkers, was only a prelude of things to come. What they were referring to was an extremely steep, rocky ravine to the left of the Crag, a route which both Tosh and Dorothy pronounced insurmountable. I assured them that this was certainly not the case and gradually, with the struggles of two earlier walkers serving as our inspiration, we approached the foot of this passage.

Fortunately we were not climbing in the sun, as at Loft Beck the day previous. I encouraged us to make the assault in short stages, actually telling Tosh at which boulder I expected to see her stop. The rocky chute also proved to be slightly shorter than yesterday afternoon’s struggle. Nevertheless the gradients were even more severe. Dorothy, with the shortest legs among the human company, was pulled up many a steep step in the rocky surface by my cane. Her shorts were a disadvantage now because her bare knees were often needed to complete the scramble.

Afterwards none of us could remember anything of Bertie’s passage. His courage, energy and stamina were combined with a need to flatten out all the challenges in this path before the rest of us, if possible.  He was very sure-footed. Like a limbo dancer he became adept at slinking through very low gaps in gates or fences. Only occasionally did we have to lift him over high stiles. On Lining Crag he just got on with the job.

Prepared for an ordeal, we were surprised to discover that it had taken us only a few minutes to reach the top of the ravine. “Where do I go from here?” Tosh asked. “Follow the cairns.” “What’s a cairn? All I see is this pile of rocks.” These were, in fact, supposed to lead us over easier ground to our pass at Greenup Edge. Naturally the girls refused to wait for this moment before hitting the lunch sacks. So, with wonderful vistas to the west and the emergence of the sun to comfort us, we threw off our packs. Bertie’s lunch was mixed. I sampled the cream cheese and apple sarnie, and our old friend from the Liza paused, in passing us, to accommodate my request for a group photo.

The traffic was still heavy at Greenup Edge; there was even a party of shouting yobbos descending from High Raise. Naturally I wanted to avoid the “Whyth Burn Trap” and I was initially reluctant to plunge down into this basin like all the walkers in front of me, but a check of the compass proved that this was the way to go. A steep descent gradually leveled off and we switched to a south-easterly direction again. Soon we could see the second pass of the afternoon but there was practically no elevation rise needed to reach it. There had been some rather peaty streams to cross in this stretch and Bertie had distinguished himself by throwing himself into them on several occasions.

Wainwright actually recommends a route to Grasmere via a three summit ridge, but ­– with memories of yesterday’s late arrival still fresh in my mind and judging the energy levels to be low on this fourth day of walking ­­– I decided to exercise another option outlined in detail in A Coast to Coast Walk and descend via Far Easedale Gill. This proved to be a delightful route, though quite steep in its initial stages. Our progress was slow as we searched for a route and a pace that wouldn’t do our feet in. Without a tree it was also hard, in the open country, to find a private spot for a pee.

The gill bubbled and sparked in its rocky bed. There were many wildflowers. We passed, for the last time, our old Ennerdale friend. He was brewing soup on his primus. It seemed to be ages before we reached the more level section of the valley. The sun was now quite warm on our backs and Bertie, for the first time, seemed to slow down a bit. He paused now to drink from every streamlet that crossed our path.

Farming country began again about two miles from Grasmere. We had a rest in a meadow near the stream. There were many trippers about at the lower elevations and Bertie was almost hoarse with warning us about their presence. The entry to our village was truly idyllic, almost Japanese – little wooded hills surrounded by grassy fields and all encompassed by the green and gold of the mountain scene behind. At last we reached tarmac and had a celebratory snort. We walked over Goody Bridge and began to meet the indigenous population. One, professing to be afraid of dogs, nevertheless made friends with ours. The next day I saw him sweeping the streets. We were offered advice on how to reach the Oak Bank Hotel and at the Keswick road turned off. It was only a matter of a hundred yards or so before our hotel came into view. It was 6:15. We had walked eleven and a half miles.

In organizing this trip I had been given instructions, particularly by my wife, on the subject of our bed and breakfast accommodation – which needed to be of a certain standard in compensation for the rigors of the enterprise itself. I was to book the most luxurious accommodation possible and that is why we ended up spending this night and that of a rest day that followed, at a really lovely and posh establishment, the Oak Bank Hotel.

We were shown to our rooms by a uniformed chambermaid, one of a bevy of cheerful and efficient young ladies who served under the direction of our Italian host, Mr. Savini. After managing the intricacies of the German shower unit I jumped in and began an arduous attempt to remove a layer of peat from the Schnauzer. Dorothy followed me in the bathroom and at 6:50 we rejoined the Lees for drinks in the lounge. Here we studied the menu (Dorothy ordered the roast beef salad, I the stuffed pork) and the wine list, heavily prejudiced in favor of Italian labels (I ordered a soave). We were called into an elegant dining room when our starters were ready and I must say we enjoyed this meal considerably more than the previous night’s affair. There did not seem to be any other walkers and quite a few of those present were elderly couples, but there were some families in residence (the children having been fed earlier) and one lone diner dressed all in black, a bearded and bespectacled young man who seemed to be quite shy and gave us the impression that he was a Swedish cinematographer trying to recover from a broken heart. He spoke so softly I could never discover his accent.

The idea had been mooted briefly on the trail earlier, but now a major decision affecting all of us was undertaken over the pudding. Our rest day had been scheduled as the last day of the trip for Bertie and Dorothy. But the latter had been getting such satisfaction from the venture and the former was so obviously having the time of his life that Dorothy now decided she would like to accompany us on the remaining portions of the trip. We were too tired to check with our two remaining hotels to see if this was possible, but after coffee (ah, the dreaded chicory) and brandy (and the Lee’s equally dreaded Coffee Creme cigars), we decided to have a walk through the village in the deepening twilight.

Grasmere, in spite of the traffic and the tourists, seemed to have considerable charm and we made note of many places we wanted to see the next day. Bertie, out for his last walkies, enjoyed the evening air as well. We were in by 9:30 and had an early night and, after four days on the trail, a well-deserved rest.

It was drizzling in the morning, Tuesday, July 31. Briefly discomfited by this when I took the dog out for his first walk, nevertheless I could relax in the knowledge that at least I didn’t have to do a day’s walking in the wet. We gathered for breakfast at 8:30. The others were already worried about putting on weight and ordered only poached eggs. I had prunes and the full grilled breakfast as usual. Dorothy phoned the Patterdale Hotel and the Crown and Mitre in Bampton Grange. There was no problem over the inclusion of two more (girl and dog) in our party, and everyone was delighted by the news.

In high spirits we set out to accomplish our major task of the day, getting the laundry done. The nearest launderette was in Ambleside, so we walked into the village and waited under the protective covering of shop awnings across the street from the village green for the 10:12 bus. I had Bertie in tow, perhaps because I didn’t know how long this expedition would last. In retrospect I’m sure he would have been just as happy sleeping in our room.

When Dorothy tried to buy tickets for four adults and a dog the bus driver winked, “I didn’t see any dog.” The short ride to Ambleside brought us by Grasmere Lake and Rydal Water, quite a lovely trip lasting only a few minutes. We pulled into the bus station and Harold got directions to the launderette. This brought us south on the main Windermere road. We were still in time to have a service wash so this left us plenty of opportunity to walk around the village, window shopping and making small purchases.

There was a long stop at the chemists. I did some browsing in a bookstore, looking for information on a low level route to Bampton Grange in case of bad weather on the heights. I found it in a book recommended by the proprietor. While this was taking place Dorothy discovered a series of signed, framed prints by Wainwright and naturally I had to have one of these too. It was packed up for shipment with the Lakeland guide I had just bought, minus the one page on the Ullswater route I had just torn out. This package never arrived, and weeks later the bookseller, with ill-concealed bad grace, had to repeat the shipment.

The pubs were open now and we entered the Sportsman’s pub on a side street. I had a pint of Guinness. Unfortunately, when the lunchtime food service began, we had to go outside because of the dog and, though we were under cover, it was cold and grey in the back patio and the rain continued to drip behind us.

Harold started to get nervous about retrieving the laundry so we started walking back to the launderette. Passing the bus station, so he informed me, he was almost run over by a bus. Tosh, meanwhile, was purchasing another Lakeland specialty, a package of Kendal Mint Cake. This did not prove a success, as I was the only one who would eat it. The laundry needed a few more turns in the dryer and the others went into a cafe to have some juice. I stood outside with the dog, who was not crazy at the sight of a distant horse.

We had a few minutes to wait for our return bus at the station. The sun made its first appearance and things began to warm up. Six teenage girls were sitting side by side on a bench, each with a nose buried in a different book!

When we had completed the return journey and deposited our laundry in our room we left Bertie and went in search of some lunch. A kebab house, whose odors had enticed us the night before, was closed, and the lounge bar of the Wordsworth Hotel was just ending its food service but the maitre’ d agreed to serve us after all, and we had some lukewarm asparagus soup and some filled baps. While she was taking our orders the crotchety lady behind the counter was stung in the hand by a wasp.

After lunch the Lees and the Linicks split up. Tosh and Harold completed some of our same itinerary, but added a visit to the church and its Wordsworth dotted graveyard. Over the wall, they reported, otters were playing beneath the bridge. Harold went into a camping supply store searching for gaiters and ended up buying a pair of trousers for himself and a transparent map case for me. He was reminded, at the last minute, not to pay for it all with his cancelled Visa card.

Dorothy and I went to Dove Cottage on the main highway, stopping only once for a slice of gingerbread, a Grasmere specialty. It was now quite clear and the sun was beating down on my blue turtleneck. We had to wait outside for our turn in the small dwelling that had once housed so many Wordsworths and their pals. It was very interesting inside. I particularly liked the idea of the chilly rooms being papered with the latest newspapers (of 1801). We then strolled through the award-winning Wordsworth Museum, which was full of fascinating items, though I did find the lighting somewhat on the sepulchral side. Outside there was still radiant sunshine and gorgeous views of Helm Crag and the massif to the east.

We visited a perfumery and Dorothy selected a bottle of Green Linnet. Then we fought with the other tourists for viewing space in Heaton Cooper’s studio. Finally we entered the market near our hotel to buy a few items for lunches to come. Bertie’s needs were not neglected, but this meant buying a box of dry meal and some plastic bags. The former was subdivided into latter when we returned to our room, and Dorothy and I joined Bertie in his long afternoon nap.

I had another shower before joining the others for dinner. Here Dorothy and Tosh had trout and Harold and I poussin. Coffee and liqueurs ended a most civilized meal. We disdained the TV room, with its early stages of the Los Angeles Olympics, and went out for a final stroll with Bertie. We visited the churchyard and took some back streets on the west side of town, passing Grasmere’s vegetarian restaurant. By 10:00 we were in bed, after a most successful and enjoyable rest day.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 5: Grasmere to Patterdale