August 1, 1984: Grasmere to Patterdale
Climbing Tongue Gill
I noticed, as soon as I peeked out of our window, that it had been raining – but the sky was in transition and there were many bright patches as well. By the time I was trying to untangle Bertie’s lead from that of two neighborhood Shelties there was some sun. We were all packed by 8:30, when we went downstairs to enjoy a last meal in the dining room dominated by three Cremona viol posters. We left a tip for the staff, recovered our elegant packed lunches, and, though Tosh demurred at paying £2.50 each for the latter goodies, we paid our quite substantial bill and departed.
It was about 9:30 when we began to retrace our entrance to Grasmere by following the Easedale road to Goody Bridge. Here we turned north, paralleling the highway on a much quieter farm road with its postal vans, its manurial smells, its irresistible fecal tidbits (“Drop it, Bertie!”) and its views of the Great Tongue, which we would soon surmount. Surely this was the kindest of the week’s mornings, not too warm, sunny skies, magnificent views behind us, a dry track ahead.
After crossing the main highway we had our choice of routes, both detailed in Wainwright, and I chose the Tongue Gill path, chiefly because it was described as easier than the Little Tongue alternative. Many people seem to have made this choice today, though no one else seems to have gotten on the wrong side of the stone wall that accompanied the track – which is what happened to our party. With mapless Tosh in the lead there were a number of occasions like this, but they were usually easier to remedy than this one. Since I could see the parade above us I marched up a streamlet and, while the others rested, I climbed to the top of the wall – behind which our track was hidden. Getting everybody else over this obstacle was not easy. Bracken and nettles had to be wrestled with just to get to the wall and I had to pull each member of the group up the rest of the way with my stick – the scrambling Bertie being the sole exception.
Our ascent to Grisedale Pass, once we had righted ourselves, was a slow and steady slog – which we took quite lazily. There were just a few really steep places, especially near the cascades that splashed and sparkled near the top of the climb. When we had pulled opposite the uppermost of these little waterfalls we paused for a rest and some premature snacking was perpetrated – but I was determined, for once, to reach the mid-point of the walk before we broke open the sandwiches.
This required us to continue the steep climb up to the junction with the Little Tongue route, an event signaled most annoyingly by the arrival, over our left shoulder, of three teenage girls mindlessly marching to the blare of a handheld transistor radio. To have such competition with the cries of the birds, the sound of the stream and the whistle of the working shepherd behind us seemed a monstrous effrontery. There is a music that goes with such a scene (I couldn’t stop humming some the Sibelius Violin Concerto on this trip) but it could never live if it were made public; it would certainly not be top of the pops trash under any circumstances.
Grisedale Tarn and Helvellyn
I let the idiettes get ahead of us and sent Tosh up to the pass. In the event she failed to shout Eureka! when catching her first sight of Grisedale Tarn, but we all enjoyed the spectacle of this alpine gem below us and the view of the route climbing up Helvellyn behind it. Perhaps our enjoyment was especially keen because we knew we wouldn’t have to be attempting any more ascents today. There was no way I could get our somewhat tired party over St. Sunday’s Crag or (with Dorothy’s vertigo) over Striding Edge. Therefore I had determined to follow the most direct and easiest of Wainwright’s three alternatives, that of Grisedale Beck. As we headed for its outlet at the end of the tarn it was nearing 1:00. “I told you this was going to be a piece of cake,” I said, “I expect to be in Patterdale in time for a nap.”
There was a cool breeze ruffling the surface of the tarn. We put on our sweaters and sat on some rocks at the outlet. Not far below was a monument at the spot where Wordsworth and his brother John parted for the last time. Mallards were bobbing up and down on the little waves of the lake as we opened our expensive lunches and tucked in. Bertie, the beneficiary of many a leftover, distinguished himself by courting a Springer Spaniel named Rosie. This brought hysterical laughter from a group of four lads seated on the other side of our rock. “Little dog,” one of them inquired, “have you no decorum?”
Descent, Grisedale Beck
We passed several dogs struggling uphill with an army of trippers as we made our way along the path descending above Grisedale Beck. Bertie sounded the alarm on each occasion. We lost the breeze as soon as we started down and the sun came out on our backs – so that once again we had a warm afternoon. Bertie again stopped to sample each stream. It was relatively pleasant going and we took a bit of time choosing which patch of gravel to place each foot on. At Ruthwaite Lodge we changed direction slightly and descended to the beck below us. Ruthwaite Beck, coming in behind us, had cut a delightful gorge. It took us several hours at our leisurely pace to reach the valley floor below. We rested several times. Once, near the spot where the Helvellyn walkers rejoined our track, we encountered a young girl exercising two dozen dogs, including several yoked puppies pulling together in tandem.
We walked for a while along a tarmac road which, if continued, would have taken us directly to the A592, but I chose to follow Wainwright’s route, which forsakes this for an entry into Glemara Park by public footpath. Once launched on this path it was necessary for us to climb a stile and to dodge, several times, the mindless rampage of two guys on motor bikes – who were in the process of destroying the public footpath with their machines and our peace of mind and the calm of Patterdale in the process. They made no concession to our presence on the trail and my blood pressure had gone up several points before we escaped them at Hag Beck. A compensation had been our first glimpse of sail on Ullswater.
Wainwright’s route ends up at the post office, but we were now behind a huge edifice and I asked a tottering lady in a neck brace if this might not be the Patterdale Hotel. And so it was. “Just follow the washing,” her husband added. In this way, via the laundry lines, we left behind the bracken and the foxglove and rounded a corner of “Wordsworth’s favorite hotel.” It was 5:15. We had walked nine miles.
We were dispatched to rooms one and two, where we removed our packs. Bertie had his tea while Tosh and I went next door for post cards and soft drinks. I had been overshooting my film rations, so I bought another roll. I enjoy escaping, as much as it possible, from world events on these outings but the teacher of journalism (who was still Tosh then, not me) had to buy as many papers as possible.
Baths and brief naps followed and we went outside to sip our drinks before dinner. I finally ate the package of Japanese cocktail snacks I had been carrying since London. It was a lovely evening.
Dinner was rather institutional, with the feeding of dozens of Glenton tourists taking precedence over Harold’s request for specific information about which species he might expect on his plate if he ordered the “poached fish.” The two chubettes who served our table had several conferences when “boiled” proved not acceptable as a complete answer to this question. “You mean is it cod or plaice?” chubette number one asked, as the penny finally dropped. This necessitated another trip to the kitchen – “It’s halibut.” Harold and Tosh had to order this after all the palaver, but they found it quite good. Dorothy and I had the roast beef and Yorkshire pud.
After dinner the girls went into the lounge for drinks while Harold and I walked the mile or so into Glenridding. Sidewalks brought us by the old school and a church where a guitar concert was in progress and roadside paths allowed us to escape the traffic at other times. We couldn’t get very close to the lake but it was an enjoyable walk (in tennies). I was wearing only a short-sleeved shirt but this proved quite sufficient after I had built up a head of steam. It was humid and becoming overcast and the pink light drained from the day. Harold and I did not speak.
When we got back to the hotel I took a sun-tired Bertie for his last walk, rounding the corner in a southerly direction and visiting Patterdale – all three buildings of it. Harold and I had been examining the next stages of the route, which climbs steeply up the eastern wall of the valley, and now I could see the road that would lead us to the foot of our ascent. It would be a strenuous day on the morrow, we believed, and so – to the sounds of children still playing in the parking lot – we went to bed shortly after 10:00
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