Lake District Weekend
16-19 September 2005
By Peter Hawkins
This Weekend was held in a YRC (Yorks Ramblers Club) cottage called Low Hall Garth, beautifully situated in the Langdale valley – but not easy to get to! Although barely half a kilometre from a road, the direct way in is blocked by an impassable ford, meaning access is taken via a narrow, winding, precipitous back road which eventually degenerates to a rough track. Those who found their way there in the dark deserve a Diploma in Navigation (First Class)!
The cottage is all a dales cottage should be: stone built, slate roof (the slate quarries are all around); low doorways, a shower suitable mainly for dwarfs with advanced osteoporosis, bunk beds stacked 3-high in the attic (top bunks designed for afore-mentioned dwarfs); and a cosy open coal fire, which Geoff had going before he'd even got his coat off.
The Hut Handbook told us all we needed to know, and more. With its punctilious attention to detail and stern admonitions, it could, as more than one of the party remarked, have been written by our very own Treasurer. The kitchen alas is separated from the National Trust cottage above by the thinnest of ceilings, so use of said kitchen was ABSOLUTELY FORBIDDEN after 10.30pm. I can confirm the permeability, as when I arrived, the couple upstairs were having the dickens of a row, obviously blissfully (?) unaware that I could overhear every word.
Saturday: after several hours of previous-evening discussion no decision on where we would go, and whether it would be walk or cycle, had been reached (I'm told this is normal for ESTC trips), but somehow magically we all agreed we would cycle over the Wrynose Pass, which lies close by, and do a circuit of a reputedly pretty valley beyond, to the south. The Pass proved less formidable then expected, though only Lynn succeeded in riding all the way. The others spent the rest of the morning discussing if this meant that a) she was fitter than us, or b) that she had the lowest gear!
As usual in England the pubs are never far apart. We reached one at 11.40 but it didn't open till 12. But by the time we'd finished arguing whether to wait or go on, it was 12 and the place was open. This was one of those pubs you dream about, or only find in novels, it had good beer, good food, yet was quiet, friendly and unpretentious. So I'm not going to tell you where it is, except it was at Broughton Mills, which you'll never find anyway!
The gannets then tucked into gammon steaks and plateloads of Cumberland sausage, washed down with the like of Hawkshead Bitter. (The Lake District pubs have wonderful names, like the Ring o'Bells, straight out of Enid Blyton, though somewhat more sinister are ones like the 'Drunken Duck', and the 'Eagle and Child').
After lunch our efforts to reach the east side of Lake Coniston resulted in a taxing traverse of narrow steep lanes with lots of obscure junctions, demanding careful navigation, but of course there was always someone doing a Gail. (see note1)
By this time we had done 25 miles, which sounds much better if you call it 40K, time to collapse into a tea room in Coniston, to be revived with drinks and slabs of tiffin. We got back to the cottage at 5pm, just before the rain came on. OK it was no great ride distance-wise, but every mile in this area counts for two anywhere else. Luckily Clare C was on hand to revive us with a G&T (I like these Club traditions!).
The gannets were back again for
the communal evening meal, with Kathy's onion tart for starters (very
short (see note 2) pastry, someone noted); Clare H's aubergine and
courgette lasagne for main course, and Lynn's super-rich choc pudding
for dessert. Pass me the Alka-Seltzer somebody!
Sunday: the group split into those who couldn't resist more cycling after yesterday, and they went down to Lakeside at the foot of Lake Windermere, and came back with wondrous tales of ferry crossings, steam trains, lunches consumed, and lots and lots of hill climbs.
The rest of us chose a hill walk, preferring the Old Man of Coniston because a) no-one had been up it before, and b) we could start right from the front door, heading SW to start with up a very steep slope on a path more notional than real, then on reaching the ridge, finding the proper path we should have taken, to the summit of Weatherlam (763m), which lived up to its name by being in cloud. A descent westwards to a saddle – to some passing walkers I referred to this as a bealach, at which they looked a bit bemused – followed by another climb to Swirl How (802m), brought us back into mist but the bulk of the climb was done, we just headed south along the ridge for 3km to reach the Old Man (803m).
Up to Swirl How we met scarcely anyone, but approaching the Old Man, and on the subsequent descent into Coniston, it was like Princes St. on a Saturday.
The village looked a mere stone's throw from the summit; we were surprised it took us an hour and a half. Time for tea again in Coniston, then an 8K low level route march, trying to keep up with David and Bill, back to the cottage. By anyone's (and everyone's) reckoning this was a good stretch of the legs.
The evening communal meal began with Jayne's melon slices and was followed by not one main course, but two! How come? Well someone had ticked the 'vegetarian' option when they weren't actually vegetarian at all! (Apparently, according to David, that is not allowed).
We solved this conundrum by all 8 of us being vegetarian for David's scrumptious quiche, and were then instantly converted, all of us, to non-vegetarians for his equally delicious beef pie, served with his home grown cabbage, beans and spuds all from the allotment. After that, Peter's trifle seemed a bit de trop but some of us managed a helping or two.
On future ESTC trips, remind me please to pack some Rennies.
Peter H
Notes
1. To do a Gail: at junction, getting way ahead of anyone who knows the way, and having to be summoned back by cries of "oi"! (NB Gail wasn't even with us!)
2. Short (of pastry): containing a high proportion of fat; rich