August 18, 1994: Lowick to Coniston
Approaching Stock Farm
The sun was still shining when Gavan and I went down to breakfast at 8:30. I was served and did eat the full English breakfast – including bacon and sausage. (These items might have originated on the farm and I certainly didn’t want to give offence by sending them back.) Mrs. Ellwood also packed us some sandwiches and at 9:25 we were off, trudging through the fields to the Red Lion one last time.
We crossed the A5092 and used a bridge to get over the Crake again. Then we turned north, still on tarmac, and used a road that could have been followed all the way to Coniston, along the east side of the lake. If it had been pouring I would have been sorely tempted to do this, but it was a lovely morning and so we turned to the right to begin an ascent of the fells on the east side of this long sliver of a lake. Gavan got quite a distance ahead of me on the extremely steep twists and turns of the road – which leveled off as we reached the turnoff to Hill Park farm.
By this time I was gasping and was not at all pleased to discover that my companion had failed to fill the largest of our two canteens. Liquid would be a problem for the rest of the day. We passed a field full of calves as we neared the farm – whose gates began another day of doom for the Stiles team, which went down 20-2. We used farm tracks and open fields to continue on a generally northern line, with stone walls to guide us and views improving all the time. After passing through a plot of woodland we reached Stock Farm and pressed on to the abandoned Low Bethecar. There was a derelict land rover parked at right angles to the track and Gavan had me take his photo here, grinning at the wheel.
He now announced that he wanted to walk faster, that he had memorized the instructions for the section ahead and that he would leave me the guidebook so that we could rendezvous at the top of Arnsbarrow Hill. I was very uneasy about this, but I made no protest at the time and soon I was all alone among the bracken, searching for the junction with the road from High Bethecar. In fact route finding on the ridge top was not that easy; many things looked like paths but I never discovered a plank footbridge that was meant to serve as a turnoff signal. Gavan, perhaps having learned that things were not quite as straightforward as the text he had memorized, was waiting at the foot of Arnsbarrow Hill anyway – beginning his ascent only when he could see that I had spotted him.
I stand on top of Arnsbarrow Hill, Coniston Water far below.
The climb to the top was steep and there wasn’t much of a path but we made rapid progress among a wonderful purple heather that seemed to cover every square inch of the summit. Views of the Coniston Fells were now also prominent on the other side of the lake and we spent some time, during a rest on top, trying to figure out which notch in the skyline was tomorrow’s Walna Scar Pass. (I now told Gavan that I didn’t think it was a good idea for us to split up again.) Our next target was the nearby Top O’Selside, another heather-crowned summit to the northwest. It was, incidentally, quite unusual for a long-distance footpath route to take in summits –but these were hardly giants. Gavan seemed to want to march directly from one peak to the next, in spite of guidebook warnings not to do this, and we were soon floundering around in pathless bracken. I urged him to keep a more northerly line and we had to re-climb part of our fell before reaching little Arnsbarrow Tarn. Above it a path headed west to the summit of Top O’Selside, and we were soon enjoying more wonderful views.
Gavan on the descent from Top O’Selside
Our task was now to descend steeply, again without the assistance of any path, to a track that paralleled the lake. I could see it well below us and after the strain of a steep decline we reached its surface and decided to have our lunch in a little grassy hollow. The weather was beginning to turn against us; grey replaced the sun and not long after passing Spy Hill Farm the rain began – and we had to put on our gear. Moisture was not our only problem. Our route required us to make some progress in the environs of the Grisedale Forest, but felling had taken place since the guidebook had been printed, forest roads had been improved and for about an hour we were not quite certain how far our feet had taken us. Views became restricted as we were surrounded by pines and the rain continued without letup. But the track was level and walking was easy. Gavan persisted in his search for a grassy gap in the trees doubling back behind us – and at last he was successful.
We began our descent here after a little rest and it was often steep, wet under foot and rather dark. My views were also restricted by my hat and my rain cape and just before we reached Lawson Park (Gavan a hundred yards ahead of me) I suffered a freak accident. A tree, leaning at an angle over the path, made smart contact with my head as I marched along looking for the best footing. I wasn’t hurt but my glasses and cap were knocked askew and I had to reposition both of them before starting off again. As I did so I heard a ping, which I assumed to be my sunglasses snapping back into position over my regular glasses. However after another fifty yards I realized that I no longer had a left lens in my specs! I shouted to Gavan to wait for me and returned to the tree, spending five minutes bending over in search of the missing lens. It seemed to have disappeared and I was getting quite frustrated. I blew on my whistle, hoping that Gavan would join me in the hunt, but (although he heard the blast) he assumed it came from some other source and ignored it. In the stream flowing at the foot of the tree there was a pink object that I had paid no attention to in my search for clear glass, but a closer examination now proved that it was my lens itself that had taken on this unusual color in water. I wrapped it in my handkerchief and was able to pop it into the frame later that night.
We now continued forward through more forest and eventually made contact with tarmac again, heading north amid increasing signs of settlement as frustrated tourists splashed us with their cars. A path paralleled the north shore of the lake and we used it to make our final approach to Coniston. It was still raining when we arrived at 4:34. Officially we had completed eleven and a half miles; I think we did more. The Crown Hotel, which Dorothy, Bertie, and I had used in 1985, was a very welcome sight and we were delighted to see that its bar was open. The room we were shown to was the same one used in 1985, but we didn’t spend much time in it before returning to the bar where we settled in for a comfortable late afternoon session. Starved of liquid I now consumed two pints of lager, quite unusual for me.
We ordered our evening meal at the bar and then went upstairs to take our baths, returning to endure the sounds of Popeye and Bluto on the fruit machine and the corny medleys on the juke box. I had to leave Gavan as he was ordering his fourth pint of Guinness, for I was quite tired and wanted an early night.
To continue with the next stage our walk you need: