August 2, 1984: Pooley Bridge to Bampton Grange
On the pier at Glenridding
When I got up to use the loo at 5:00 I couldn’t help noting a steady downpour outside. It was still raining when Dorothy and I began to work on our packs before breakfast and again when I took the dog out for his early walk. Nor was there a bright patch visible anywhere. The eastern mountainside, which Harold and I had studied yesterday, lay hidden in mist. It was hard to imagine what it would be like up top.
Of course I was quite familiar with Wainwright’s advice under such conditions – “If there is rain or mist it is advisable to avoid it (unless the route is familiar from previous visits) and instead use the lakeside path to Howtown followed by a route almost to Pooley Bridge and a path across Moor Divock to Helton, then a quiet road to Bampton.” This alternative, which is full of its own ups and downs along the Ullswater portion, is at least fifteen miles in length. Although the page I had torn from my new Lakeland guidebook included information on this path, it described the route from north to south – and this would mean a number of difficulties in route finding. Altogether I felt it was too risky to attempt the High Street crossing in such weather and also too arduous for my troops to cover the entire distance of the low level alternative. This meant that my hopes for bringing this year’s expedition to a completely successful conclusion could not be realized and that I would have to restart the Coast-to-Coast Path in Patterdale at some time in the future. In the meantime we still had a reservation at Bampton Grange (our starting point for the last day of the walk) and a day to fill with activity of some sort. I therefore had to devise some way for us to get to Bampton Grange.
While I was out with the dog I checked into local bus schedules, read some posters in the hotel, and chatted with one of the waitresses. I had formulated my plan by breakfast and I was able to share it with the others as we gathered outside the dining room at 8:00. Ironically, we had been delighted to discover, in facing such a strenuous day, that we could have such an early meal. But Tosh and Harold, who had seen today’s weather conditions, were hardly in a cheerful mood. Grim resolve is a better way of describing their expressions. As I laid out my proposals, however, the gloom lifted. They were obviously relieved at any change of plans; so was Dorothy.
We were able to have a leisurely breakfast. Tosh and I then walked up to the Patterdale post office, where Tosh bought a Times. Then we each returned to our rooms to relax until 10:30 when, to the relief of the chambermaids, we finally made our departure from the Patterdale Hotel.
We walked in a gentle rain to Glenridding, repeating the mile Harold and I had covered yesterday. At the pier we bought ferry tickets for Pooley Bridge, at the northern end of Ullswater. There was a 20-minute wait before departure and in it we searched for a comfortable place to sit. It was standing room only in the claustrophobic room below decks – with a viewless prospect. So we sat beneath a canvas roof amidships, covering a bench with my old rain cape. This did not prevent rain from lashing at us from either side when the trip began at 11:30.
I used my new map case, hung around my neck, to follow our progress on the OS map and I held my pack on my knees beneath my new rain cape; the others tried to find a dry place for their packs on the least wet side of the boat. Bertie sat snuggled between Tosh and Dorothy. For a time a few other hardy passengers came forward to have a look, but for most of the journey our only company was provided by a young couple with a baby. The baby slept through it all; ma and pa munched Kendal Mint Cake.
We made one stop at the aforementioned Howtown, and watching the rise and fall of the lakeside path I remained convinced that the low level alternative would have been beyond the energies of my group today. Of course we had only restricted views today – we could see both of the lakesides but the heights remained obscured in mist. I think we were charmed by the adventure – for this was certainly a novel way of making progress on a walking trip. (I had hoped to get in a boat trip on Windermere during our rest day, but the morning weather had been against this.) Now we were making good that deficiency – four walkers in their wet suits chugging slowly north.
The Swiss Chalet, Pooley Bridge
After about an hour we reached Pooley Bridge. Bertie scrambled up the gangplank first and while I was waiting for the others the wind got hold of the map case around my neck and began to wind me up. Dorothy arrived just in time to prevent an early retirement due to strangulation. We began to look for a place that might serve us a hot meal and Tosh discovered the Swiss Chalet Hotel and Restaurant; they did not object to dogs. (Though I kept wondering if there might also be a Cumbrian Cottage and Restaurant in Zermatt?) Tosh had the local hot pot and Harold and I had a delicious chicken curry garnished in peaches. It was a surprisingly civilized repast for a day that was supposed to be a strenuous one, but by 2:00 it was no longer possible to put off a direct encounter with the elements if we hoped to reach Bampton Grange on foot. The route seemed straightforward enough on the map, but this would be one of those rare occasions when I was navigating solely by OS map rather than guidebook. For this reason I let Tosh handle Bertie – this way I could concentrate on compass, map case, camera and cane.
I found the right exit from Pooley Bridge and we headed up tarmac past a pony trekking center and Roehead Farm. Slowly we ascended Askham Fell, using a well-traveled track. A string of ponies followed us part of the way, but they turned off before you know who had hysterics. All this time the rain fell on us, and as we reached the open, bracken-covered heights of Moor Divock it blew fiercely into our faces. A Roman road came in behind us and several crossing tracks confirmed our position. We were actually making excellent time. Ironically there were some directional signposts up here. Why they are absent from so well-traveled a route as the Coast-to-Coast Path itself was beyond me – though, of course this problem would be remedied later.
I was delighted to discover that the red lines on the OS map connecting our track with the access road to Widewath Farm represented, in fact, a continuation of our path. We were thus able to skip a long detour into Helton. By the time we had arrived at the end of this farm road and reached a tarmac road running directly to Bampton, the rain had stopped as well. We never saw any sun, but it was now dry for the rest of the day, though windy, humid, and grey.
There were few tourists on this remote and narrow road but enough traffic to make for awkward moments with the dog. Bertie’s natural position, at short lead, was on the left. As we now had to walk facing the traffic this put the dog into the center of the lane for oncoming cars and it was not always easy to pull him around in front of the leading walker. We had a rest sitting on the bridge at Beckfoot, then proceeded to gain the remaining positions on the OS map – Butterwick, Woodfoot, Toddle Cottage. A tractor came by pulling a load of hay while Dorothy picked gooseberries in the lane. Geese held a hillside poultry yard above the telephone kiosk outside Bampton, an unprepossessing village whose shop, we discovered after a brief tour, was shut because it was early closing day.
Then it was another five minutes to our final destination, a hamlet whose name had been altered on its sign by some mischief-maker from Bampton Grange to Bampton Orange. Over another bridge we went and immediately opposite the churchyard stood the Crown and Mitre, a small country hotel and pub. The front door was open and so we entered and gave a shout. Mrs. Bruin led us upstairs to the two front rooms on the first floor. It was 5:15 and we had walked six miles from Pooley Bridge. Our early arrival gave us time for a cup of tea in our room, brought by our obliging hostess.
The Crown & Mitre, Bampton Grange
Dorothy and I unpacked and Bertie had his tea. I took his wet towel and a sopping Michigan sweatshirt to place in the airing cupboard. The others had pretty well exhausted the hot water from the tank in this chamber before I got my turn for a bath. Nevertheless it was nice to get into dry clothes.
I was the last of our party to descend to the pub, where Mr. Bruin was showing the others a recent photo of the Haweswater Reservoir, so low because of the recent drought that the drowned village of Mardale had re-emerged from its watery grave – to serve once again as a prize for ghoulish vandals. I asked Mr. Bruin, with some thought to visiting Bampton Grange again after completion of the missing Haweswater section, if the village had a bus service. “Yes,” he responded, “but you’ve missed it. It was last Tuesday at 10:10. You’ll have to wait for next Tuesday if you want another.”
We were ushered upstairs while our host cranked up course after course on a creaking dumbwaiter. We had tomato soup, lamb chops from a special strain of sheep Mr. Bruin had raised himself, and gooseberry pie with ice cream. Blue tits and sparrows hopped in and out of the bushes below.
After dinner the Lees accompanied me on Bertie’s evening walk. We headed out of the village to the east and walked up above the cemetery. It was quite peaceful, though still grey. It was almost dark when we returned to the pub, and the place was filling up with good-natured locals. We brought Bertie down with Mr. Bruin’s permission and he had the run of the place, making friends, staring wistfully at the plates of diners, stealing the wooden doorjamb. We went to bed at about 10:00 and both Dorothy and I had to put wax in our ears, not so much to shut out the pub noise below, but because every quarter hour the church bells chimed discordantly across the street. One of the bells was cracked and £7000 had just been raised to repair the lot; I was not sure that Mr. Bruin’s guests would consider this money well spent.
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