August 11, 2002: Stainton to Morland
Eamont Bridge
Gavan began the day by reminding the cheerful proprietor of Albany House that there was no toilet paper in the middle floor loo. We had our breakfast on the ground floor at 8:30, our needs being catered for by a pretty teenage girl whom even Gavan pronounced “hot.” When it came time for me to call a taxi one company was busy all the time and a second couldn’t get me a cab for another thirty minutes – so our host announced that he would drive us. I gave him £5.00 for this service. For the third morning in a row we were able to begin our walk at 9:20.
It was another overcast morning, though visibility was pretty good. We had definitively walked out of the fells now and much of the morning’s progress was made in the agricultural flatlands. Gavan had to pay close attention to the clues in the guidebook to get us away from the suburban cottages of Stainton. As we climbed into an early field one of the denser bovine residents rushed away from our presence by knocking over a barbed-wire fence.
Soon we were back on a roadway that lead us down to the Ullswater-Penrith road. On our right somewhere we could hear the sounds of continuous firing – part of the clay pigeon shooting contest associated with the local festivities. It was like being strafed for hours on end. Our lane continued down to the River Eamont, another old friend, and turned east to accompany the wide river for some distance. There were lots of stiles to climb today, and gates to push as well – but stiles enjoyed their only victory of the outing, 34-22. This was a very high total for obstructions on a day in which half of the progress was made on the open road.
We used a footbridge to cross to the south side of the river and began to approach the section that had given me so much trouble on the early stretches of the Roman Way. There were the usual ambiguities about which overgrown path to take and we were still surrounded by Tosh’s man-eating plants, but at least this time we did seem to be making an orderly progress. A long fence lead us up to the railway line, Yanwath Hall on our left, and we passed beneath the arches of the viaduct just as the first sprinkles began.
We took a left on the other side of the railway and passed some private houses before turning east again and continuing forward along a magnificent line of trees in the direction of the river again. The caravan park had grown to monstrous proportions – the chalets having taken permanent and landscaped positions – and there were some ambiguities about the route through all this as we twisted and turned on our march beneath the M6 motorway. A choice of routes was available to us here but we stayed close to the river in our final approach to Eamont Bridge. Just at this point there was a real shower and we put on our rain jackets while trippers wandered around the Mayburgh ancient site on our right.
The rain stopped as we neared the town bridge, two policemen in fluorescent lime green vests directing traffic at the top. Traffic was intense and, only shortly after 11:00, Gavan had no interest in heading into the village to see if any pubs were open. Instead we darted across the traffic and used our own pedestrian sidebar of a bridge to cross to the north bank of the river again. Here we turned right and continued forward on a path that I knew well from my Roman Way days.
This was pleasant enough walking, though often muddy. On the left you could see speeding traffic on the A66 come to a grinding halt as the local traffic jam was encountered. Gavan cut across the last Eamont field, rather than follow the riverbanks, but his angle wasn’t sufficient to evade a marshy section that we now had to backtrack to get around. The pristine environs of the swimming club seemed to have lost precedence to a seedy farmyard here, but once we had located the Brougham Castle Bridge I noticed quite a few changes. The precincts of the castle had all been modernized; there was even a welcome center; this place had been all but abandoned when we started the Roman Way here all those years ago.
Near Moorhouses
There now began a long stretch of tarmac bashing. Progress was pretty rapid and there wasn’t much traffic but neither was it much fun. The countryside too was without much interest as we passed Fremington Farm and took a right uphill at Moorhouses. I paused in the corner here for a pee and a picture. Gavan was well ahead of me but he had paused at the next crossroads, allowing me to catch up. Smoke was issuing from the chimney of High Dykes across the street and rain began again as we pulled on our wet weather gear.
Our new road, heading in a southeasterly direction, had much more high-speed traffic on it – and this was disconcerting. On our right, off in the distance, we could see the orange parachutes of some jumpers who had just been dropped by a low-flying Hercules, another fair-time extravaganza. They were still shooting over there too.
We passed Wetheriggs Pottery, which seemed to have turned itself into a major tourist attraction, and continued forward with woodland coming up on our left. I was getting hungry and there didn’t seem to be any place to sit down, so eventually we collapsed against our packs in a circle of gravel by the roadside, eating the lunches provided by Albany House.
You could get quickly stiff in such a position so we didn’t linger, continuing forward for another two miles before turning right on a new road down to Commonholme Bridge – the rain had just about stopped for the day. We didn’t cross this structure but turned left along the River Leith and began another stretch of field crossings, with rarely used paths pushing us eastward. We passed beneath some red bluffs on our left and could see up ahead of us on our right the outlines of Cliburn’s church. It wasn’t easy trying to figure out how to get into Cliburn itself but we used a series of gates in Rectory Farm to reach the town’s main street.
It was just going 3:00 and I had it in the back of my mind that there was a pub in this town. So I persisted in heading uphill past all the cottages, searching for this object, while Gavan, imagining the added knee pain he would have to endure on the descent, followed reluctantly. Sure enough, at the crossroads at the top of the village, I spotted the Golden Pheasant. It was open and I took off my rain jacket and pack and went back outside to summon Gavan.
The Golden Pheasant, Cliburn
In the event, we spent a most pleasant hour here. The publican gave way to his wife and she drew me one pint of lager and Gavan three of Guinness. When she wasn’t behind the bar she sat with the customers near the fire, where an old Doberman had taken up permanent residence. Old Jim didn’t say much and what he did say we could barely understand but there was a lorry driver here as well and he proved to be a very interesting chap. He began by complaining that he had been up half the night in a chat room with a girl in Georgia, USA. He had been all over Europe in his rig but he longed to go to the States. He bemoaned the low quality of the education he had received locally, the absence of any employment opportunities in the Lake District and the weather, which he said had changed dramatically in the last ten years – sunny summers having given way to grey and wet ones. “Isn’t that right, Jim?” “Aye.”
Shortly after 4:00 we headed back down Cliburn’s main street to begin the last two miles of our twelve and a half mile day. We were soon back in mucky fields, our boots soaked again, but the last stretches, through Glenton Vale, were on grass next to Morland Beck. Rabbits darted about. We crossed the beck twice and then climbed up to a corner of the churchyard, tiptoeing among the tombstones while singing could be heard inside the church. From our friends in Cliburn I had a pretty good idea where our b&b would be located and at 5:10, just above another grassy triangle, we reached Hill Top House.
Our landlady, Liz Kellett, answered the door and led us up to a very nice en suite room on the first floor. We took off our boots here, stuffed paper inside them, placed them on more paper and had a bath each. The place was very nicely furnished, Martha Stewart comes to Cumbria, but there didn’t seem to be any place other than our own room to be.
Shortly after 6:00 we walked downhill to the Crown, whose food had been recommended, and sat among teenagers to have our drinks (teenaged girls seemed to be running the place as well). They had a separate dining room here, fortunately, and soon we were the only diners. I had an 8oz. steak, but couldn’t finish it. I tried to use the mobile to reach Dorothy but it couldn’t pick up a signal here so I used the red kiosk across the street for a brief chat before we returned to our accommodation. Again Gavan searched for some sports on the TV and again we had a very early night.
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