Lake-hopping to Shap

A variety of water reservoirs approached via rising and descending scrambles colored our remaining days of the Lakes District segment. A sunny morning climb out of Grasmere provided a gorgeous farewell shot of that favorite town of ours. We were able to ascend the steep trail along fern-lined Little Tongue Gill just behind our fondest band of travelers  – the party of seven who always seemed to show up at junctions where Laurel and I were set to trot off in the wrong direction! We love the many trail angels who’ve guided us along the way. In national parks such as the Lakes, there are no Coast to Coast markers, as it is not considered an official national trail.

Armed with a progressively deteriorating guide book, a ziploc of detailed map leaves and a more comprehensive waterproof map, we still required on several occasions focused attention, and the well-timed kindness of others to keep our orientation. Once, I swear to you, we were trekking diagonally through a sheep pasture where we should have tracked straight ahead… and the entire field of sheep Baaaa’d a cacophony of warning, until – sure enough – we wheeled around to find that the damn bridge was behind us. So, here’s to you, trail angels (and sheep). Cheers.

We arrived Patterdale on our shortest day – 8 miles – on the deceptively named valley route – a ramble that brought us down from Grisedale Tarn high above and through the valley between two alternate ridge walks. Both St Sunday Crag and Hellvellyn are said to afford spectacular views, but the clouds were dropping in and Laurel’s caution of heights made the choice clear: Grisedale Valley route it was to be.

At Patterdale we strolled right in to the White Lion pub and for my most gluttonous dinner yet – a plate piled to the ceiling with mash and an enormous coil of the highly acclaimed regional delicacy, Cumberland sausage. We were re-joined by fellow walker, Steve – whose informational narrative on certain segments of the trail have educated us on topics ranging from the uses of peat for heating homes as we slogged through bogs full of it, to the delights of Sarah Nelson’s Grasmere Gingerbread. After comparing notes with the other walkers on the day’s events, we found our lodging for the night at Noran Bank Farm, a beautiful 16th century farmhouse. 

A great night’s sleep had us ready for the next day’s long and very enjoyable walk out of the lakes to the more industrial town of Shap. The views were beautiful thanks to a variably clear day as we looked back to the farmhouse from the hillside and made our way up to Angle Tarn and then on up to the highest point on our entire coast to coast walk: Kidsty Pike at 784 meters (2572 ft). The mists had rolled in by this point so views weren’t visible beyond an arm’s length, but the steep ramble down opened the skies to bright, warming sunshine along the vast Haweswater Reservoir all the way to Shap.

The Lakes: Climbs, Poets, Blisters

Ahhhh, the Lakes. Beloved hills and vales, honored by early 19th century poets William Wordsworth, Samuel Coleridge and Robert Southey. A land brought to life by Beatrix Potter’s heroes, Peter Rabbit and Jemimah Puddle-duck. The 10-mile walk to the Lake District’s crown jewel – Grasmere – gave us lovely views back toward Rosthwaite as we climbed Lining Crag to Greenup Pass before crossing the peaty bog that drops down to the valley. On the day of the Grasmere hike, we enjoyed blue skies and sunshine for most of the morning, highlighting the chartreuse contours flanking Stonethwaite Beck. Soon, the skies began to get heavy with clouds just as the junction between high-level and valley route was reached. Without the promise of clear views, the valley trail won our favor.

Now, thus far in my musings, all reports of this trek across Northern England have painted quite a delightful scenario to all. In the spirit of transparency, I feel I should disclose a few details of my experience as objectively as possible. You deserve it, dear reader. First, the weather this particular summer in all of England has been wet. In the North, it is rainy and gray virtually every day. And soggy. I mean really, really wet. Sometimes the winds and mists at the top of peak hikes (like Kidsty Peak) conspire to blind us and send us tumbling down the hillside. We have had moments of clearing, with warm sunshine, thankfully.

But this does nothing to drain the ground we are traversing. And do you know what happens when feet walk over trails-turned-streams persistently for hours and miles? Feet get wet and blisters develop wherever skin meets shoe. So, I’m not complaining, but you should know that THIS walker requires a ritual of slapping Compeed plasters over increasingly blister-covered tootsies every single morning. This, before pulling on layers of socks and moderately-damp boots for another day’s go. Again, I am not complaining. And still the blisters multiply.

At the end of the day, there was a well-earned cappuccino awaiting us in a lovely cafe. Grasmere proved to be a very special place. We dined and nested at Glenthorne – a Quaker retreat center – where meals began with silence and were shared in lively conversation on topics ranging from London’s Olympics to comparisons between Parliament and American government to Quaker history. A visit to William and sister Dorothy Wordsworth’s home and museum at Dove Cottage soothed my soul.

“I wandered lonely as a Cloud

That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host of dancing Daffodils;

Along the Lake beneath the trees,

Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;-

A poet could not but be gay

In such a laughing company:

I gazed – and gazed – but little thought

What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood.

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the Daffodils.”

-William Wordsworth (1804)

The Lakes District: A Dramatic Entrance

The experience a person has in the Lakes depends on several factors which are wholly out of their control. The weather will always dictate the spectacular-ness of the views and the comfort of the hiker. I’m no mathematician (although my GRE prep has me thinking like one), but seeing as it rains two out of every three days on average in Northern England, it’s statistically in your favor to spend a minimum of 3 days exploring Lakeland.

When the sunexplodes through the thick mist – like it did for us as we ascended out of the Ennerdale Water valley – soggy socks and physical fatigue are forgiven and forgotten. By the time Laurel and I had climbed halfway up the stone “ladder” along Loft Beck, we were blessed with one of the most glorious views yet. The waterfalls across the valley glistened in contrast with the brilliant green velour of the folded slopes. About a hundred steps up to the peak, our view expanded further to illuminate the lakes and village we’d left 10 miles behind us. Mountaintop scenery as gorgeous as this is best honored with a moment of rest and reverence. As you can see, Laurel’s got the right idea here.

Beyond the vista point it’s all downhill through the slate mine and little ancient town of Seatoller to the night’s lodging in Borrowdale; in our case Gillercombe B&B in Stonethwaite hamlet. When they say folks are tougher up North, they are talking about women like Rachel. Photos of her adult grandson donning Ironman Tri medals decorated the dining area as she served us up English Breakfasts. She shared stories of her favorite walkabouts when she’s not tackling the hills of the Lakes. Her best recommendations are Mt Everest (14 days to & above base camp) and Peru. Her trip to New Zealand wasn’t her favorite, though. “Too flat and boring,” she reported, wrinkled nose in disapproval.

Now… when you reach the pub at the end of your day’s walk, it is best to honor your amazing body and your steely determination with pie. For example – oh, I don’t know – Chicken, ham and leek pie.

Becoming a walker…

Five days into a 14-day walk and I’ve ticked off 46 miles of the 190-mile trek…

WHOA. CANCEL THAT.

My mind.. ever busy calculating and measuring… wants to organize my walk into tidy accomplishments that lead me to a “finish line”. Like some kind of ego reward.

But, What Fortune! I have a spirit that sings out in response to this majestic landscape… getting louder in the battle between head and heart. And slowly my mind is returning to quiet, letting go, taking in the “right now” of right now. The data collection function of my head is asked politely to have a rest. It is the time to wake up and look around and literally see the world! This world of green pastures lining the valleys between jutting crags, where stone walls run gravity-defying enclosures for flocks of Herdwick sheep. Carpeted mogul-like glacial remnants – called drumlins – lend velvety texture to the valley floor. Streams are “becks” and gentle, cascading brooks are “gills.” The language of the landscape rolls off the tongues of the numbers of English returning here for their holidays. Most of whom we meet visit regularly to walk the fells (hills) and climb to hidden tarns (mountain lakes). They want to know first where we’ve come from? America? and second… How on earth did we know about the Coast to Coast Walk…?! The truth is I said “yes, I’ll do this thing” before I really knew much about it. It felt right – good timing, lovely companion, a rare opportunity – and I’m certain this was put before me as a gift. So, because I’ve learned the wisdom that “in order to keep it, I must give it away”… I share here the path leading me through these idyllic farming villages where a hearty meal of Cumberland sausage or beef and Yorkshire pudding awaits in the local pub at day’s end. Then through the kindness of an innkeeper, I am provided a cuppa tea, bath and soft bed for the rest of weary muscles.

Out of St Bees we made for a 14-mile walk to the town of Ennerdale Bridge. Not far along, we were met by a monument to the c2c walker. This guy looked pretty content, and I must admit it gave me a certain sense of belonging to a new community. My new tribe! We moved through Cleator Moor, an old mining town that seems to have more pressing concerns than attending to the comfort of leisurely vagabonds. But we did manage to find a cup of coffee for the road toward Dent Hill, our first real climb out of the woods and up to a possible inland vista. The thick mists and strong winds dropped in and enfolded us, so the game became: “find the next rock cairn without tripping over a lamb.” A bog-slog down to the other side brought us below the clouds again – and through the beautiful valley of Nannycatch Gate.

Soon we approached Ennerdale and a room upstairs at the Fox and Hound pub. As I scanned the crowded pub at dinner – and at breakfast the next morning – it was clear that several of these faces would become familiar over the next two weeks. Maps and guidebooks covered tables, walking sticks leaned against walls, rain-drenched parkas dried over the backs of chairs. All invitations to share the story of today’s highlights or tomorrow’s route. Pints of strong ale were knocked back all around Laurel and me… and I felt grateful for the hydration of pure water and a restful night’s sleep.

Displacing England’s Shoreline, One Pebble at a Time

After nearly 15 hours of planes, trains and shuttles, at last I find myself among the friendly people of St Bees, enjoying their sunny seaside hamlet.  The surf laps at the broad beach of golden-red sand while herds of sheep dot the pastures over the gentle sandstone cliffs of St Bees Head.  From our vantage point on the boardwalk, I soak up the last of the warm sun and trace the route Laurel and I walked early this morning. After our full English breakfast of poached eggs on toast, bacon AND sausage and a french press of thick ‘n chewy coffee, we had set off for the shore to follow in the tradition of countless Coast to Coast pilgrims before us – to select and carry a pebble from the sands of the Irish Sea over the 191 mile walk and then deposit it into the surf of the North Sea. My stone is a roughly elliptical green-blue nugget of sea glass. It is the color of some of my favorite oceans on the planet. (It is also the color of my baby’s fresh-ta-def Nike high-top basketball sneakers – go #11!) Pebbles in pockets, photo op taken at the official “mile zero” marker for the c2c trail, and loaded down with the day’s essentials, we made off for the first leg of our 14-day journey.  

The steady climb to our perch above opened up to spectacular views of St Bees to the south, Fleswick Bay up ahead, and the hills of Scotland and Ireland beyond.  Herds of sheep grazed the blocks of brilliantly verdant pastures which are mostly bordered by low ‘dry-stone walls’ – mortarless handicraft which likely date back hundreds of years to when huge fields were parceled out to English families. The sun stayed with us to warm the gusty breezes that swept across the glens as we skirted 300ft red sandstone cliffs blanketed by heathers of pink and purple. The trail was quiet and the sea below remained oddly void of any marine craft or watersport enthusiasts… so the hike belonged to the seagulls and puffins, and the white clouds, and to Laurel and me. 

 Our route took us to the town of Whitehaven – a former coal-mining village on the harbor, bustling today with shops and restaurants. We sought out hiking gear outfitters to bolster our waterproof layer system. The weather forecast this week calls for boatloads of rain. Laurel and I had experienced the unpredictability of Northern England’s weather on Day 1, as we were caught in a torrential downpour walking back from afternoon tea. With the chill factor that comes with drenching, gusty rain fully realized, we spent our first few hours in Cumbria nestled in the luxurious comfort of Stone House Farm’s electric blanket-adorned sleeping accommodations… shivering it out like champs, praying for our shoes and clothes to dry before we hit the trail and battling the unavoidable jet lag of a European holiday. 

Oh, yeah… and “Best of” awards thus far go to:

Best Meal: Queen’s Hotel Pub. Battered Cod with an actual leafy Green Salad for me and Meat Pie in the flavor of chicken and leek for Laurel. (Meat pie…? AGAIN?? Yes, loove… meat pie. Every day.)

 Best Church and Spookiest Graveyard: Priory Church. Formerly, a 12th century Benedictine monastery… still welcomes worshippers through its ornate and extra medieval Norman door. 

 Best Framed Art in a B&B: Serenity Prayer in the stairway of Stone House Farm.

 Coming soon: More walking.  Walking the moors. Walking the fells. Hell, we might even walk a dale or hop over a swale. And photos of food. Of course! You really don’t want to miss this…

Coast to Coast

There is something primitive and vital about getting lost. It strips us down to survival mode, basic drives, anxiety and wonder. Wandering foreign lands demands the trust that will find our way in a place where wayposts are subtle or unfamiliar. The truth is that I travel because it is exciting; excitement ranging from fun, adventure, joy… to fear, uncertainty & heart-expanding surprises.

In two days I embark upon a journey. Geographically, my destination takes me farther from comfort and home than I’ve ever reached in my 42 years. My companions: my dear friend Laurel and my divine guide, whom I choose to affectionately call “goddie.” Together we set out to traverse the kingdom of England, from the Cumbrian coast of the Irish Sea 191 miles east to Robin Hood’s Bay on the North Sea. We will bring our maps and compass, some treats and clothing layers, and our willingness to be guided through changing terrain for anything from 8 to 22 miles per day over two weeks’ time. In the pubs and inns we visit, we will dine on rich English breakfasts and consume cream tea in volumes. We will find other travelers along the way, share stories, relate with (or sometimes just tolerate) them. We will find each other and beauty under myriad conditions. We will probably feel physical pain and possibly emotional discomfort and certainly spiritual growth. We will be re-introduced to our true nature and know ourselves more deeply.

Well, that’s how I predict it will go. But you know what they say, “Make your plans, hear God laugh.”

I invite you to join us on our walkabout. Read this journal, send us love and protection. Enjoy the images captured here with my other travel partner, a wildly purple Olympus PEN E-PMI with 14-150mm zoom.

See you on the trail!

In gratitude,

Joan

St. Bees, Cumbria here I come!

Countdown to departure for England’s Coast to Coast walk: 8 Days!!