June 27, 2004: Lincoln’s Inn Bridge to Burneside

I had a rather restless night and couldn’t sleep much after 5:30 or so. I re-gathered all my gear from my capacious but shabby room and stuffed my backpack and my daypack. I was having a real problem with my digestion now and I was forced back into that poorly lighted loo three times. In itself this would not have been a problem but (to be frank) such a pattern always plays havoc with my hemorrhoids! I know that this debility affects many a walker (Harold was also afflicted) but we soldier on. Nevertheless I could already sense that it would be uncomfortable to sit down today and unpleasant to walk. The day turned out to be an ordeal in many ways.

I persevered in my preparations (managing to snap a nosepiece from my eyeglasses in the process) and joined the others for breakfast at 8:30. Tosh went next door for our sandwiches and some bakery treats and paid our bill. At 9:20 exactly a van from Woof’s of Sedbergh pulled up and we were off for the ride back to Lincoln’s Inn Bridge. At the last minute the driver backed up three feet so that we would not have to put our feet into a puddle as we climbed from his van. This seemed to be an unnecessary nicety for walkers whose feet would soon be in wet grass or worse.

At 9:30 we found a footpath sign across the street and began moving north – with the Lune on our left. I had told the others that I would need their eyes today ­– for we were facing a day of great complexity; whereas Marsh’s instructions normally ran to two typed pages a day in my transcribed version, today we would have four and a half pages to get through. One problem area lay almost directly ahead, the possibility that – because of high water in Crosdale Beck – we might have to undertake a detour. I climbed a ladder stile and had a look, happy to discover that it would not be too difficult to ford the stream here – though my own version of this gesture was splashingly inelegant – so much for dry boots.

Ahead was an attractive, tall viaduct and our route crossed beneath it and climbed the next hillside. Margie and I waited some time here for Tosh (who often paused to take photos on this trip), then we crossed a meadow and followed a farm track to Low Branthwaite Farm.

More fences, stiles and walls lead us in the direction of the next farm, Bramaskew, but the way forward was unclear on the ground and we ended up on the farm’s access road, climbing up to some magnificent view of the Howgills ahead – a view that convinced me, however, that we had missed some turnoff and must retreat.

This we did, re-entering the farmyard and sloping off half-left instead of half-right, using an electricity supply line to guide us to a hidden barn and a path in the direction of Nether Bainbridge Farm. I must say that the sky was brightening all the while and that blue skies, high clouds and sun were beginning to predominate. The score: rain days thee, dry days three.

We moved cross-country to Hole House Farm, trying to follow the clues in Marsh and on the map, disconcerted when we ended up in the middle of the farmstead, though encouraged by Marsh’s suggestion that the route has “an uneasy, invasionary feel about it.”

We now dropped down into a wooded gully and used a footbridge to cross Smithy Beck. Here the path headed downhill, coming close again to the delightful Lune, which was bubbling away on our left. We now had the company of the river for a mile or so and we were able to make good progress for once. We encountered quite a few walkers on this stretch, including a party of geriatrics – one of whom had a chair attached to her backpack. There was a good deal of woodland about and we frequently walked under the trees.

We were catching occasional glimpses of the impressive Lune viaduct now and then, and, after reaching the environs of Crook of Lune Farm, we used its tracks and paths to emerge onto a roadway just above the Crook of Lune Bridge. Tosh insisted on a stop here and she and Margie snacked on the grass while I sat (uncomfortably) of a nearby style. It was 11:30.

After this rest we continued down the road and across the bridge and under the viaduct. We had tarmac as far as a t-junction, where we turned right briefly and then left down a side road into the hamlet of Beck Foot. The way forward called for us to walk through the front garden of Half Island House, another invasionary moment, and then to climb between hedgerows up a hill. A little more guesswork was required to follow a route to Lakenthwaite farm and I’m not certain we followed the right angle west to a minor road, though I could tell we had to turn left when we reached it.

We could hear trains on the mainline hereabouts but the dominant sound was the roar of the M6 ahead of us. We left our road to make progress against a stone wall, but I think we found a stile where we had been promised a gate and it was with some surprise that we discovered ourselves at the head of a farm bridge that spanned the motorway itself.

On the other side, symbolically arrived in Lakeland at last, we turned left and dropped down to another paved road. We used this only a short distance before resuming our stile hopping and so reached a curious horse at Holme Park. I must say that climbing the stiles was very uncomfortable for me (any form of bending was) and the fact that there were 35 of them – stiles beating gates 35-26 today – did not help my condition at all. I was wearing my rain pants throughout the march this day – just in case I started to leak; ordinarily you wear such a garment to keep moisture out.

I believe that we headed too far to the left on our escape from Holme Park and when I reached a fence I had to drop to the right to find the next stile. There were two chaps here having a rest; we frequently encountered them on this day. Morsedale Hall was our next objective and after this we reached tarmac again and followed a lane forward.

When we reached a t-junction we turned right but at our turn-off we encountered an ominous sign about a DW path diversion and once into the next field we were lead directly downhill instead of being allowed to head for a crossing of the railway in a diagonal fashion – perhaps the level crossing of the original route was now considered too dangerous because of the death of several railway workers under the wheels of a runaway train in this area recently. (This stretch of track is cursed; in February, 2007, a high-speed Virgin train flew off the line near this spot, though its ultramodern design meant that only one life was lost.)

Our route put us back on the same road we had left five minutes earlier and, all interest in signage having been exhausted by the local authorities, I had to assume that we were meant to cross the railway on the road bridge, then turn left alongside the tracks as we tried to reconnect with the original route some distance ahead. I was obviously finding such ambiguities to be deeply irritating; I didn’t need to be walking extra miles on such an uncomfortable day.

I assumed I was spotting the correct line of march, between a small hillock on the left and the curve of a beck on the right, but again waymarks were thin on the ground. We located a farm track and continued forward to reach the precincts of Green Head Farm. From here it was possible to use an access road to head west out to the A685. A short uphill jog placed us at the start of the access road to Thursgill Farm but here we encountered a new problem: the DW route to Shaw End was also closed due to a collapsed footbridge over the River Mint!

Unfortunately neither the map in Gemmell and Speakman nor the section of the OS map in Burton’s guide covered enough territory to show the walker how to choose an alternative way forward and there were no clear instructions on the ground. I thought we might be able to find a route overland from Docker Bridge so we headed south against the whizzing traffic of the A685 but when we reached this site there were no footpaths heading west and so I turned us around and we walked back to the start of the Thursgill farm access road – with Tosh already talking about hailing a taxi.

I decided there might be some advice along the access road itself and so we continued forward, finding a blocked gate and a sign pointing to the right. This direction put us into the buildings of an unmarked farmstead where a chap on a tractor had a look at our maps and advised us to continue forward on his farm track as far as the road to Patton Bridge. This we did, catching occasional glimpses of the colonial style mansion of Shaw End off to our left, and when we reached roadway we descended to the bridge over the Mint here and climbed steeply uphill, once again looking for the re-entry of the Dales Way on our left.

This came with a turnoff to Biglands and so we were on route again. I had long ago given up any hope of reaching Burneside in time for the 4:46 train to Windermere, but I told the others that I still had high hopes for the 6:33. There were quite a few stiles to surmount here and I was a bit uncertain over which path to take to Black Moss Tarn until I realized that I was standing next to this body of water; I had expected a smooth surface and what I got instead was a duck and water-lily filled ditch.

We climbed up and around the right side of this overgrown pond before heading for an electricity pylon and a descent to New House Farm. Tosh was beginning to agitate for another rest stop – who could blame her? – so we left our path to sit down in the grass of a bit of moorland – well, I was having a great deal of trouble sitting so I sort of stretched out on my back and ate one of the sandwiches prepared by the Posthorn Cafe. One happy result of this interlude was that I discovered that, twenty years ago, when I had bought my copy of Gemmell and Speakman, I had mis-numbered the miles and we had three miles to go, not four.

After a while we continued forward past the buildings at Goodham Scales and on to those at Garnet Folds. Kids were racing around on their bikes here and there was a distant view of Kendal off to our left. We were soon on tarmac and there was a steep descent on this to the A6.

Fortunately we had only a brief jog to the left on this busy highway, escaping it on the access track to Burton House. Already planning another one of my shortcuts, I told Tosh and Margie, whose energies never seemed to flag, that we were now approaching our last bit of overland walking for the day. Given the grudging surfaces, substandard agricultural vistas and the frustrations of route finding they, too, were looking forward to some road walking.

Naturally this last section was full of its challenges too and at one point I had to tramp back and forth in a recently ploughed spongy field in search of a hidden stile. A bit more stile hopping and hedgerow following brought us out to a junction of lanes a mile or so east of Burneside (pronounced with a long internal e by some, it would appear).

The Dales Way turns right here but I knew that the second lane could be taken directly to our village. So we headed west, passed Sprint Bridge and, rejoined by the DW itself, turned south to find the houses of Burneside. The women got some distance ahead of me here but they waited at a spot where the village lads were considering how best to break a car’s window with bricks. It was 5:30.

I had noted a public house symbol on the OS map and when we reached a t-junction this was soon spotted – the Jolly Anglers. I asked how far we were from the railway halt (not far was the answer) and so I knew we had 45 minutes for some well-deserved refreshments. Margie wanted a double cappuccino and, in the absence of large mugs, was served with two singles. I drank a pint. We had walked thirteen and a half miles, I would guess, on a day that should have required only twelve.

At about 6:20 we continued up the street (passing the Jolly Angler’s complement – the Jolly Fryer) and soon reached a turnoff for the station. We had only a five minute wait before our train arrived and just a twelve minute ride to reach Windermere. There was still one day of Dales Way walking – which we planned to resume with a departure from Windermere to Burneside shortly after 9:00 the next day.

This strategy – putting us into b&b accommodation in Windermere a day before reaching it on foot – had been my solution to two problems: the need for a place at the end of the walk where Sherpa could deposit our bags, and the paucity of accommodation in Burneside. Of course the whole design of this walk had been disfigured the moment Harold took his fall; he was now comfortably ensconced in a nearby hotel and wouldn’t even be transferring to Holly Lodge, which we now set out to find on College Road – some five minutes walk down the hill from a station that Tosh and I had last used twenty years ago when we undertook our first Alternatives walk with students.

It wasn’t easy explaining to Mr. Mott why we were three and not four and why we wanted to leave our bags with him the next day. We repaired to our rooms and got ready to rendezvous at last with Harold, who had made an 8:00 dinner reservation for us at a hotel equidistant between his place and ours, at the Applegarth Hotel – also on College Road.

I called Dorothy and took a shower, glad to get out of my clothes – which were sticking to my backside. The long walk had further enflamed matters below and I had to apply remedial salve. This meant that I had new cause to leave a slimy trail wherever I parked my backside – and this certainly added to my discomfiture.

I had told Margie I would meet her at 7:55 but she was nowhere to be seen so I made my way up the street to the Applegarth. Tosh and Harold were having drinks in the lounge and I joined them – though Tosh soon had to return to fetch the missing Margie.

I must say that Harold’s color was a bit better but he was still very stiff (he couldn’t shake my hand) and he moved very slowly. More worrying was that he often found himself short of breath. He needed medical attention without a doubt.

In the back of my mind I had been working on the problems facing our group on the morrow. We had nine and a half miles to walk from Burneside to Bowness (assuming we didn’t encounter more of the obstacles and diversions we had met today), then we had to find a cab down there, return for our bags at Holly Lodge, pick up Harold at his hotel, and make it Windermere station in time for a 5:13 train. I didn’t think this would be an easy assignment at all and, given my present physical debilities (which I did not share with the Lees), the second rate countryside and the troublesome state of the waymarking, I had little desire to find out. With these reasons added to Harold’s need to see his doctor as soon as possible I now proposed that we call it a day – and return to London on a morning train the next day.

There was no argument, though Tosh teased me about abandoning the route without finishing it and praised me, at the same time, for mellowing out sufficiently to give up on one of my obsessive quests. We knew we would probably have to pay extra for not riding at the time specified on our return tickets, but no one cared. The chief objection should have come from Stiles, which (though winning four of the six daily contests) still trailed Gates 161-150 in the overall championship ­– and now lost its final chance to catch up.

Our orders were taken in the lounge but we were not seated until almost 9:30. I had paté and some sort of over-fancy lamb dish. I was quite uncomfortable and kept examining my chair to see if I was leaking. I wasn’t. After dessert had been ordered I excused myself to dash up to the train station while there was still light, in order to record the morning train times for the next day. Tosh was warned not to eat my ice cream – which was still waiting for me when I returned. We decided to leave on the 10:00 train.

Margie and I left a note about a later breakfast time for Mr. Mott and I called Dorothy a second time when I returned to my room. She was very relieved that I was returning somewhat early – my study had been painted in my absence.

Tosh finally had the full English breakfast, portions of which she kept putting on my plate, when we went to breakfast at 8:30 the next day. I repeated my belief that Harold really needed to see a doctor – “He could have a collapsed lung.” Margie, who often borrowed my sweetener, wanted to know what “thwaite” meant and received a lengthy definition from Mr. Mott. She had walked over to get a view of the lake early that morning.

Tosh got lost on her way to Harold’s hotel while Margie and I waited for the Lees on a busy corner. They were back in plenty of time for us stand in line at the Windermere train station – where the clerk said we would have to negotiate with the conductor over our deficient tickets.

None of these officials seemed very interested until, after changing trains in Preston, an Indian chap assessed us an extra £28 each, though very charmingly so. I worked on puzzles again and finished most of the food in my pack. Our train was again late, but only by fifteen minutes or so, and we were back at Euston at about 2:45. I took a cab home and I was very glad to be here.

Less than twenty-four hours later, Tuesday noon, I was being examined by my hemorrhoids specialist, Dr. Glazer, in a treatment room at Wellington Hospital. He declined to incise the swellings, hoping for a more natural deflation – whereupon the pretty nurse from Perth said she didn’t know whether inoperable piles was good news or bad news. Indeed. At least, after all my worries, I had suffered not a single foot, hip, leg or back complaint in 73 miles of walking, not even a blister.

Harold did not see his doctor until Friday; he was sent to the hospital for x-rays and they discovered that, in the aftermath of his fall, one lung was smaller than the next and that fluid would have to be drained from the chest cavity. So he ended up in hospital for two days after all. It is no wonder that this expedition, one which I had looked forward to with such anticipation, now seemed to me – in spite of its many great moments – to have been one of our more disappointing ventures. Still, there was one day left to make amends.

To continue with the next stage our walk you need:

Day 7: Burneside to Bowness