I strolled off the train at Windermere into some more typical English weather. There was no way it could dampen my spirits though. This was the first place so far that I had really wanted to go to. When traveling I have found that I go to a lot of places just because of the name. It’s that “you may as well see it since you here” thing. London was a good example. I am not terribly fond of cities and London is about as big as they come. But I had to go and see all that touristy shit. Don’t get me wrong it was good but when I stepped of the train into Windermere I knew I would enjoy the next few days a lot more than those I spent in London.
I had vague directions to get to the hostel, so I shuffled along with my back pack through the drizzle. It was that rain were you can’t decide whether it is worth the effort to get out a jacket and put the cover over your back pack. Eventually after hiding under an old stone archway for ten minutes waiting for a heavier shower to subside, I donned the wet weather gear. I set off to cover the few kilometers to the hostel and it promptly stopped raining.
Ambling into the hostel before check in time I waited in the lounge for someone to come. It wasn’t long before I had a key and had dumped my things and set off again in search and information centre, a supermarket, and outdoors store and something to occupy the rest of the afternoon. The fresh crisp air made strolling through the small town even more pleasant. I picked up a map and found a little hill overlooking Lake Windermere. I headed on up and got to the top just as the morning fog cleared, about two in the afternoon. The calm lake was quiet at this time of year but during summer this and all the lakes in the Lakes District team with life. I was happy I was here at this time of year.
I got the hot tip on a couple of hikes I could do over the coming days, from the dude at the outdoor store. The hostel I was staying at was situated at the bottom of the Troutbeck valley. From here I did two hikes. The first was nice and easy and only took a few hours. The second was a little more strenuous and took about six or seven. It could have been shorter but I’ll get onto that later.
Before the hikes there is Merlin, Marion and Elli. Two Germans and a pushy rider from Birmingham. I met them in the smoky hostel lounge on the first night. That day they had walked the route I was planning to go the next day. We talked long into the night about this and that, with old Merlin, the excitable type, leading the conversation. He was really engaging and his personality bounced off the walls when he talked. Definitely good fun and I knew the next few nights would provide some good shit talking.
Not knowing how long this walk would take, I got up bright and sparky and tried to pack my bag quietly. I snuck out of the dorm and down into the kitchen to prepare a hearty breakfast of nutella and bread, no time for toasting. During this quick breakfast I had my first encounter with a woman who became known as the weird crystal lady. Not to brand everyone that is into crystals as weird but this one was definitely a few screws loose upstairs. So, before I knew of her vast oddness I greeted her as I would anyone else at a youth hostel. With a polite “Hello, how are you?” She looked at me, didn’t say anything and walked past me to prepare her breakfast. Fair enough, not the talkative type, I thought. No, no, the weird type. More on her later.
With my Boy Scout backpack prepared I burst out the door ready for anything. I got thick fog. Not to worry. I am never disappointed when I go for a walk and miss out on view because of the weather. I think that is because, for me, climbing a mountain isn’t about the view from the top, it’s more about getting there. Anyway I strolled up the narrow village road past the hobby farms with BMW’s and Mercedes’ in the driveways. I was warned to keep an eye out for the track, as it snaked its way between two houses and was poorly signposted. Yes, that was pretty much true. The sign was on the wrong side of the road and it was about 10cm by 10cm.
I found the track and quickly warmed up as I stretched out and headed towards the top. I took of my jacket and thermal-T and continued in only a cotton T-shirt although the thermometer at the hostel read 8 degree when I left not half an hour before. I followed the eroded track to the summit past quite a number of ugly looking sheep. They were British after all. I got to the top in just under an hour and quickly cooled down as I perched on a rock to take in the foggy view. I nibbled my Kendal Mint Cake as I donned my beanie. These mint cakes, if you read the back of the packet, are 95% sugar and 5% mint extract. They taste like minty sugar.
The rest of the hike was fairly uneventful. This part of the Lakes District was criss crossed with old stone walls marking off grazing fields for sheep. These are quite the eyesore if you ask me but they make navigating in a thick fog incredibly easy. I trotted along beside a five foot high stone wall back down towards the road. There was a small group of sheep ahead of me but they cleared as I came closer. That was until the alpha sheep led the rest of the herd over the hill and on a course straight towards me. I thought, no, there is no way they are going to attack me. However when I was a mere 30 meters from the gate and the safety of the road the devil sheep encroached too far into my woolen comfort zone. I pick up the pace and the foaming rabid woolbags countered. No, I am not getting trodden to death and sodomised by a pack of vicious sheep. With a hop skip and a trip I recalled my high school high jump prowess and attempted to clear the stone wall in one leap.
After picking myself up of the ground I naturally began taunting the sheep from the safety of the adjacent paddock. BBBAAAAAAHHHHHIIINNNNGGGG my way past the evil jumper makers I slinked off down the road happy in the knowledge that the farmer who owned those sheep wasn’t there to see that whole thing unfold.
I arrived back at the hostel and the talk of the evening was the weird crystal woman. By now the other three had each had their own encounters with her. At this point we all just thought she was a little kooky and very antisocial. By the follow evening that view was to change.
I got up earlier the next day and set off on a longer hike and set off up the other side of the Troutbeck valley. The plan was to summit Ill Bell and then head past high street and down into the saddle at the top of the valley and to finish the day at a pub I had been told about for a nice cold beer. That is pretty much how the day panned out.
I stretched out on my way up to the top of the ridge. I snuck ahead of two older guys who were out on the same ridge. I stayed ahead of them until the top of Ill Bell where I stopped for a while and had some food and took some photos. I got talking to them as they reached they reached the summit. They were both 50 odd and in training for a long distance race coming up soon. The race took in the three highest peaks in England and covered 42 miles in 24 hours. Not bad for a couple of old fellas. We parted ways not long after leaving Ill Bell. They took a route to the east along high street, which an old road which was cut along the top of the ridge back in Roman times. They told me that the Romans had summer roads and winter roads. The winter roads were down in the valleys however in the summer these roads got too muddy. To remedy this, the Romans built roads higher on the mountains for use during the summer when the snow had melted away. So “High Street” was the remnants of one of these summer roads.
So as the two fit old buggers made their way along the nice road I peered down the cliff that was my route. That is I looked as far as could along the track until it went over what looked like a fairly sharp precipice. I knew that was the path and I knew there was beer at the end of that path, but neither of those things seemed to give me any confidence. Cautiously I placed one foot after the other and found the going OK. The real problem wasn’t the steepness of the track, although it was fairly steep, it was the snow. Most of the snow on the scree slope had melted away. However on the actual path where the scree had fallen away and an eroded path was left, there still remained a good two feet of slushy snow. Nothing much I could do, beer beckoned. I just kept my knees bent and took each step slowly. The clouds that had been enveloping me for the whole downhill episode finally cleared as I reached the clearing at the bottom of the saddle. This was the top of the Troutbeck valley and the view to the south down the valley and onto Lake Windermere was outstanding. Well worth the few hairy moments getting there.
After a break for some photos and more Kendal Mint Cake I looked up the other side of the saddle and swallowed hard. To say there was a path would be lying. There were, however, lots of slippery boulders as it had just started to sprinkle. They were good sized rocks, the type we get along some of the rocky beach headlands at home. It was exciting to be gaining altitude at such a rate. I guess this was my first experience of bouldering. It’s very popular in the UK for those who want something a bit more than hiking but down want all the equipment of rock climbing. As I reached the top of the spur I was enveloped in another cloudy fog, luckily I found the rock wall I was looking for just in time. No need for the compass, I just followed the wall until it came to another wall, then I followed that one. I passed another three people coming the other way with a dog. They were all kitted out in tight leggings with walking poles and all the trimmings. I’m sure they felt good.
I know I felt good when that pub came in to sight. I nearly fell over myself trotting down the hill to that sweet smell. I swaggered through the door with a healthy gleam of sweat over my face. I didn’t realize I had completed the hike so quickly, I strolled right into lunch time. The place was filled middle aged people out for a Friday afternoon lunch. Didn’t bother me, I was pretty stuffed and definitely in need of a beer. So with beer in hand I found myself a nice seat near the window and gazed out at the mountains jutting up around the pub. I contemplated finishing the beer and scampering up the mountain directly across from the pub but I was content to have another beer and imagine what this place would be like in the thick of winter. I got talking to the caretaker of the pub who was sitting near me having a cup of tea and a smoke. He told a bit about the history of the pub and the area. The pub itself is over 600 years old and still has the original beams in the roof. I could tell as soon as I walked in, the roof was about six feet high in the entire building so I had to crouch down everywhere I went. Harking back to the days when the average height of the population was, I guess, well below six foot.
Outside I found that the local bus only runs in summer so I had about five kilometers walk down the road to home. I gave up sticking my thumb out to cars after about twenty minutes. I realized all the cars were really nice and usually occupied by old people. I eventually arrived home and read some Thomas de Quincy until Marion, Elli and Merlin got home. Then we all went out and painted the town red.
