August 10, 2002: Dockray to Stainton

Heather and bracken on Gowbarrow Fell

There was still a fine mist about as Gavan and I rose for day five of our walk on the Cumberland Way. We had breakfast in the dining room (I was down to scrambled eggs on toast by now) and when we went back upstairs our landlord had retrieved our wet suits and boots. He also presided over the accounting at the end; I used my credit card again. From him we also purchased some crisps to go with our pre-arranged hoagies. We were ready to roll at 9:20.

The weather had not improved very much but there was no actual moisture descending – so I kept my camera in the pocket of my shorts. The upper elevations were obscured in cloud and I had a great fear that we would not even get a glimpse of Ullswater. Of course I was wearing my wet suit; everything you touched today was wet. I took a photo of a weathervane at the end of the lane opposite our hotel and we then followed paths along the Aire and down into the woods for some fantastic waterside scenery. We passed High Force and switched to the west side of the beck, dropping down to the bridge over Aira Force. I took one photo from the top but when we tried to repeat the process from below beads of mist ended up in every shot – so I erased them on the spot, a nice feature of the new camera.

There were a few trippers about in the grey gloom of the beckside (which Dorothy and I had visited in 1967). So it was with some relief that we found an escape onto the flanks of Gowbarrow Fell, where a good path rose, not too steeply, above Lyulph’s Tower – as we headed east among our first outcrops of heather. Visibility, in fact, was rather good at the lower levels and we had a wonderful view down the lake, where I could pick out a ferry similar to the one that had transported our troupe (and Bertie) all the way from Glenridding to Pooley Bridge in 1985.

The southern part of Ullswater

We reached Yew Crag and turned from east to north, Gavan taking my picture against the cairn here, and, with the northern half of the lake now visible, we continued forward – crossing several streams on a fairly level path and reaching a wall style (styles again lost to gates on this day), where the first group of walkers heading toward Yew Crag was encountered.

There followed a most desperate progress on greasy paths in bracken-covered slopes; it was with some irony that we noted that Hannon describes this section as a “happy journey,” though Gavan complained that our guidebook’s attention to surfaces wasn’t as thorough as he would have liked. We both fell several times as we squished over the slopes of Great and Little Meldrum – with more open spaces above Watermillock church at last providing some relief.

We reached a tarmaced lane and climbed steeply uphill to begin a tricky passage through agricultural countryside – where evidence of actual footpaths and any useful positioning of signs were both rare. At the top of the hill we turned right to use another road that swept past Cove holiday camp (“for quiet people”).

We left the comforts of the road and passed through a thin band of trees to continue through a series of fields toward the Tongue farmhouse. Footing was not good and there were many mysteries as to which gate or stile to use next – but Gavan was doing a good job getting us through all this. We passed to the left of another holiday village, guessing that we were on the right route, and, fighting our way forward over more fields, reached a lane that brought us out to tarmac.

Here we turned right to reach the Lanehead farm, turning left to pass by its barn. We never spotted a derelict farmhouse, as we should have, and we ran out of footpath signs, but Gavan could see where we needed to go so we opened a gate and crossed a ploughed field to escape onto the tarmaced lane to Sparket Mill. As we marched north hills were once again rising in front of us – though we had no idea how much uphill we would still have to do – later editions of Hannon having suffered from an excision of the contour intervals; my copy had them, but it was buried in my pack.

We continued forward after the mill to a t-junction and here, in a little grassy triangle, we paused to eat our lunch. I was even able to take off my rain jacket – for it was getting warmer and the skies were brightening.

After lunch we continued uphill, past the entrance to Hutton John, an Elizabethan manor house that was soon visible on our right – as we left the road to begin a long easterly trod on tracks through cow fields above this property. Unfortunately manure had been added recently to these fields and the stench was dismaying. The cows on our right lined up to have a look at us; then they performed a most interesting ballet – with the cow on the far right of this chorus line backing away from the fence and repositioning herself on the left; this meant that a new cow was on the far right and she did the same thing, as did her successor. A ring-nosed bull also got up as we marched past, but his only act of aggression was to turn his backside to us – and offer a Niagara of ordure in our faces.

We had improving views of the village of Dacre below us on the right, but after reaching Dacrebank Farm we again had route-finding problems, having to fight our way across an overgrown field in order to reach an escape onto the village road itself. Here we headed downhill. I had been noticing that Gavan was limping quite a bit now, particularly on downhill stretches, but he refused my suggestion that we call a halt here. Instead we did enter the precincts, at 3:00, of The Horse and Farrier, a celebrated pub – which was happily open.

Two little girls and a dog were galumphing about as we sat down to our beers. There was no doubt about it: we both stank of cow shit. I asked the publican if he had any phone numbers for Penrith cabs and he supplied me with two. We had a nice rest and then continued through the rest of the village and took a lane past Dacre Castle, now a private home.

On the track to Dalemain

Footing was certainly better on the tracks that lead us eastward toward the rear entrance of Dalemain, another stately home turned garden center and restaurant. We were now passed by a geriatric jogger in pastels. Out in front we were greeted by the rushing traffic of the A592 and, unfortunately, Hannon put us on it for a bit – our escape at last coming as we dashed across the road and crossed a field to enter Evening Bank Wood. We had a stiff climb on wet paths up to the top and then we had more confusing field crossings before at last emerging on a tarmac road in Stainton.

We continued downhill, the sun at last making an effort to emerge, and walked past our next day’s turnoff to reach the local country hotel at 5:10. Its proprietor, who had also reported no vacancies because of the horse trials, had been kind enough to recommend I try for accommodation in Penrith and had even given me the number of tourist information there, suggesting that when I reached his hotel a taxi could be summoned.

There didn’t seem to be any staff about now, but I took off my pack in the car park and fished out my phone and called Lakeland Taxis on a number supplied to me by the innkeeper in Dacre. They were happy to send a cab immediately so Gavan and I went out front to wait and I took off my reeking rain pants and stowed them in my pack.

A very old bald man arrived and stowed our gear in his boot. On the drive into Penrith, a three mile journey, he drove us past the grounds of the pot festival – this had also been listed as another reason for the great demand on local accommodation, but in May I had thought they were saying “pop” festival; we were competing with potters not teeny boppers in our search for a bed.

Albany House was located on Portland Place and we were made welcome in a room on the second floor. New proprietors had taken over since I had made my booking in May, but the young chap who presided over matters was very forthcoming and gave us lots of advice on where to eat. We had a cleanup first (I cleaned my mucky rain pants in the shower) and shortly after 6:00 we were ready to go out.

We had spotted The Royal pub nearby and this seemed a likely spot so we stopped here for drinks and, later, food. It was a Saturday night and the young smart set of Penrith was foregathering for the night’s revels, with quite a few very attractive young ladies among them. By contrast, at the next table, we had a group of drunken farm hands, each more tipsy and red-faced than the next. Part of their camaraderie required them to slap one another – and to steal one another’s flat caps. Gavan was certain a fight was about to break out and made arrangements for us to move to another table in an adjacent room – after food orders had been placed. I had an order of chips in drizzled bacon and cheese and a chicken curry that was far more satisfactory than my first.

After dinner we wandered around in the dusk, visiting the nearby town center and doing a lot of window shopping; there were a lot of antique shops and stylish restaurants but the old market town still looked like it could use a facelift. Gavan bought some more snacks in a liquor store and we returned to Albany House to climb past the toilet on the first floor (no en suite here). I phoned Dorothy and ate a packet of Maltesers, which I had purchased in Lancaster – while Gavan watched some athletics on the TV. Soon after 10:00 it was lights out.

To continue with our next stage you need:

Day 6: Stainton to Morland