THIS IS HOW YOU VACATION.
Start by making a whole whack of sandwiches. We form an assembly line - mayo, hot mustard, ham, salami, cheese … PB & honey and bananas for breakfast. Already everything is easy. We know how to do this, and I love the efficiency of our packing. Carrots, hummus, apples, granola bars, nuts, chocolate and jelly babies - already busted into last night, because the texture is just so good!
It’s still sunny and balmy, well over 15 degrees. Hit the road, to the NORTH, as the signs keep telling us. So many roundabouts. I’m driving, because now I have practice (and sleep) it’s not so bad.
Then the roads get narrow. Seriously narrow, and twisty. Cyclists on one side, ancient stone walls (Agnes calls them ‘moors’ - is that right?) and whizzing cars just beside me. I’m paranoid about the right side of the car - I misjudged where that curb was - and Agnes is stressed for me. But at the same time the driving gets painful, the landscape starts to change. Lakes. Mist. Mountains! I can barely look, I’m so fixated on the road, but Agnes is squealing. She wasn’t excited until now - how different could it be? But it’s DIFFERENT. This is the Lake District, for real. We listen to Kamasi Washington’s Fists of Fury, an epic soundtrack for our entrance.
 |
Finally, we make it - New Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, a charming old stone house in the countryside, surrounded by giant hills. There’s a race or some event on - officials, cars, many muddy cyclists. I gratefully park, and we take stock. It’s about 2 pm. Our goal is to get over to the Wasdale Head Inn tonight, where we’re booked in. That means hiking across the peaks, into another valley. It’ll take at least 6 hours, we figure (based on Coach Mike’s helpful tips). We can make it, but barely.
We ask the guy at the bar. He’s very helpful, especially considering we didn’t buy any food there - just gobbled our own sandwiches. If this were a horror movie, this is the harbinger moment: ‘go that way, at your peril’. He says: if you don’t make it to Angle Tarn in two hours, you MUST come back. One of his front teeth is black.
We set out - still sunny and warm. The path goes along the Cumbrian Way, a major walking route. It’s clearly marked, through sheepfolds, along the valley, up along a little creek. We can’t stop marvelling at everything. The loose-stone fences, stretching high up into the hills. The lack of trees. The clouds racing across craggy peaks. The variety of sheep gate technology, complete with dog gates - and signs with a picture of a bloody lamb - keep your dog on a lead, or else.
There’s a fork in the path, with a rare sign post. The Cumbrian way goes right, up to Stake Pass. Our path leads left - towards Esk Hause (whatever that is). So we begin to climb, up out of the valley. Agnes soon ‘de-kits’ - British for strips down to her shorts and t-shirt. I’m still in my rain jacket, against the wind.
The list of British-isms is growing.
Faff = futzing around, especially common before/after rowing
Outings = going out for a row
Kit = your gear
Y’alright? = most confusing way to say ‘how’s it going?’ Still no idea how to properly answer.
[Added later:
Chilled = a song is ‘chilled’ not ‘chill’
Sorted = amazing expression. Sorted out, figured out, taken care of. As in: dinner’s sorted. Or in King’s Cross station: see it, say it, sorted. Way better than See something, say something]
 |
| Probably not the first selfie that day |
At the top, a new sight. A Tarn. It looks like a small lake, sort of a mountain pond. Because there are no trees or anything, you can see the whole shape. We’ve made our two-hour marker with a little room to spare - no going back now. Time to take a compass bearing, according to the harbinger at the bar. So I do. We need to head roughly north east, across the hills towards the next Wasdale valley.
The path seems good ... But we’re heading up into the cloud. It’s getting cold. The dull grass is beaded wet. Coats on, hoods up. Then - kind of suddenly, the path is no longer obvious. There seem to be at least three paths, near a random stone structure. Which way? I check the compass, and figure we head off this way - but I’m not 100% sure. It’s not quite the right direction, but the path looks okay.
 |
| IT'S A TARN! |
It’s cold - I really wish I brought my mittens. We pause again, for Agnes to zip her pant legs back on, and then - a dog! Black with a bit of white around the muzzle. Then a man appears out of the cloud. Charlie-bee! He calls the dog. Turns out, it’s his friend’s dog, but he takes him out for walks. I ask where he’s been - Scafell Pike. That is NOT where we want to go today. But somehow, that’s where we’re headed. So much for my compass bearing.
Tim - that’s the man’s name - orders us to come with him. He’s got a green rain coat, dark hair in a little pony tail. Super friendly, VERY fast walker. He’s not judging us, but he makes it clear we were in danger. People get lost up here, he says: break things, fall off ledges. There’s a mountain rescue squad of volunteers - he can’t climb, so he’s not one of them.
He offers some new vocab for us, real Cumbrian words:
Twine = whine.
Clarty (PRON: Clahhhhhty) = boggy, wet ground
(We will use these words a LOT over the next few days.)
He answers a few of our questions: what’s a Ghyll? A little creek. What’s a fell? A mountain.
He does not tell us who laid the paths or who build the fences up the hills (and are they called moors?) but then, we didn’t ask.
Soon, we’re out of the cloud. The sun is still out, on the far hills. And we’re heading down. Tim and Charlie head off into another valley, and we’re on our own, walking by Sparkling Tarn.
The sun is getting low, we’re getting tired … but now I think we can see our destination. Way off down the valley, there are a few buildings, near a big lake: Wast Water, and hopefully, Wasdale Head Inn.
We start the long descent. There’s a level full of slugs - shiny, black, everywhere.
And then we’re into a long series of sheep folds. We bah and they bah back. There are lambs! Lots of them, plus some pregnant sheep. And once again, we have many questions:
Are all of these girl-sheep?
Where do they go to sleep?
Why are all the newborn lambs black?
Do they turn colour as they get older?
Just as it starts to rain, we get to the back of the Wasdale Head (it is the Wasdale Head!!). It’s perfect, a quaint old inn - the only one here. Inside, the walls are covered in old photographs of walkers and climbers. Men scaling peaks in bowler hats. We’re in room 8, perfect Holiday Inn set up of twin beds.
We eat at the pub in the back. Sunday roast for Agnes, brisket stew for me, and stout for both of us. The stew looks a bit like dog food, but it’s delicious - the better of the two choices, we both agree.
After sharing photos and instagramming - biscuits and tea in our room, and TV. Of course, Lord of the Rings would be on. Eventually, sleep.
Total walking: 2-7ish. A good 5 hours.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment