September - The Calf from Bowderdale.
13 Miles. 3200 feet of ascent
I really like bananas. They're full of carbolic hydrangeas and potassium and yellow stuff. And, most importantly of all, they are banana flavoured.
They have two main problems, though.
Problem number one is that if you put a greenish one in your rucksack in the morning, only a few hours later it will have black freckles, and one end will have gone all mushy. If you put a yellow one in your rucksack in the morning, by lunchtime, you'll have a bag full of brown mush, only useful for making banana tea-bread or something quite similar. And If you put a mushy one in your rucksack, then don't expect too much at all is all I can advise.
I like my bananas a bit of the green and hardish side. Mushy stuff makes me gip.
Problem number two is, that whilst, in theory, you can chuck the skin in the grass when you've finished eating the important bit, on the grounds that its biodegradable, doing so doesn't look nice at all, particularly on a popular summit like, for instance, Scafell Pike, where everybody except his dog (who doesn't eat bananas), has a banana in their lunchbox and discards the biodegradable bit along with hundreds of others who do the same. Look, your granddad is biodegradable, but you don't chuck him out on the grass when you've finished with him do you? You dispose of him nicely and have a ham tea afterwards. So, personally myself and what I do, is I put the skin in the safety netting that runs around the back of my pack. Thus, after a few months, I have a small but effective mobile compost heap which I can keep an eye on at all times in case of vandalism or attempted theft. I'm seriously considering turning this netting into a small Alf Wainwright memorial garden, once the compost is sufficiently deep to support plant life. Maybe some daffodils would be a good start. Best get them in before the end of September for a good display next spring.
This has nothing much at all to do with September's walk, except for the fact that in my lunchbox, I was carrying a particularly yellow banana - flavoured piece of fruit.
Incidentally, why my rucksack should have safety netting is a complete mystery to me. It is handy for storing fruit, though, but not much good for keeping anything that you'd really rather not lose. But I diverge - back to the fruit-based walk.
September's walk was absolutely jam-packed, or, rather, banana-packed with exciting incidents and humorous happenings, and I exaggerate only a fair amount when I say so. Not a hard walk - but enough to make it worthwhile putting the new gaiters on wot the wife got me for my birthday - oddly enough, my birthday is in November, but Mrs K likes to plan ahead - and (back to the walk) the odd sweat was burst into, and the old legs were a bit stiff the next day. So, no marathon, but a good, beefy walk.
I started at a patch of handy grass, just big enough to squeeze in my little car plus a couple of coaches, a yellow digger and a challenger tank or two, near a strangely ordinary road junction on the A685 a mile or so West of Newbiggin at a place called Brow Foot. Or Wath. Or maybe both...
Incidentally, quite some time later, I was parking my car in another, different Newbiggin some miles away when I chap with a bag full of kitchen waste accosted me and demanded to know if I was, in fact, in the correct Newbiggin. He went on to explain, fairly lucidly and with little or no hint of irony or sarcasm that there were, in fact a total of fourteen Newbiggins in Cumbria and, quite often, people got the wrong one. Luckily for me, he was here to assure me that I had got the correct one this time. I suspect that he was, in reality just bursting to tell the first person that he met that day that the years of painstaking searching of local Ordnance Survey maps had finally come up with this amazing total of Newbiggins and that he was possibly the first person ever to own this special piece of useful knowledge. There was no indication that fourteen was a provisional figure. Indeed, he seemed quite certain. I shouldn't be surprised if his wife knew the exact location, population and principal industries of all fourteen of the Cumbrian Newbigins and was absolutely bloody delighted to hear the fine details of each and every one of them in turn, probably in alphabetical order yet again.
However, the particular Newbiggin in this chapter doesn't appear to have a helpful bloke with a bag of compost. Just be careful to make sure that you've got the right one. Just a tip there for you.
Eschewing (I had a slight cold), a nice public footpath to Scar Sikes Farm, I wandered up the farm track in order to get on with the job of gaining a foothold on the fells more quickly than pratting about in the fields and disturbing the farmer's only time for a nice cuddle with the wife during Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs programme on the Beeb, during which all the audience write in and tell him what a good programme it is and ask for the same records as last week.
I was spotted only by a couple of curious cows. They weren't odd-looking or anything, they were wondering what I was doing I think - or possibly eyeing up the dog for a bit of dog-chasing and generally rushing about scaring the poo out of me, which is what they usually do, and, to be honest, this was the reason I went up the farm track and not through the fields - that is, to avoid any unpleasant confrontations with frisky moo-cows. The dog eyed up the cows, waiting for the inevitable cow-frenzy, and the cows eyed-up the dog. In the end the cows couldn't be bothered, which was a relief. Oh, the other people who spotted me were some farmer-types in a range-rover heading for the farm for an unplanned visit and a bit of Steve-Wright Interuptus.
Once out on the Fell, I turned left, or South-Eastish (note the accurate directions), and headed out over a rising moor, crossing Shawell Sike - a deep gorge, and Simonsgill Sike - not a deep gorge and then South into Weasdale. After not very far really, I crossed the beck and climbed Turn End, and over its nobbly top to Hunthoof Pike, and upwards to the trig point on Green Bell. I have to say that Green Bell isn't very green in September, and nor is it very bell-like either, but never mind... It was here, whilst eating my banana, that me and the dog had the idea for writing this book. We couldn't think of a good name for it, though, and to be frank, Bruno's suggestions were risible, and mine were just pathetic... This is the very last reference to Frank Bruno by the way - nuff respect to the man, but I don't believe he does the hillwalking. Probably has more sense.
Anyway, on with the walk. Further to the South, I could see that I couldn't see the top of Randygill...er...Top, as it was unseeable due to some hill-fog. So I didn't look at it, but pondered on the structure of my Howgills diary and what I should call it. Bruno had lost interest at this point and was busy trying to trip me up with the retractable lead. The traverse to Randygill Top is not one of the most difficult walks in the world, having quite a good, if occasionally soggy path all the way. As I neared the summit, a group of ramblers, or maybe I should call them hill-walkers, appeared out of the hill fog (see above), and said a few shy "hellos" and one slightly more robust "Hiya".
I'd seen this group climbing up the slopes of Hooksey, - the hill opposite by the way - and disturbed one of the ladies who was hanging back a bit in her quest to relieve herself of excess cups of breakfast tea and orange juice. Luckily, she saw me in time, and dignity was preserved all round. I'd watched the progress of the group along the parallel Hooksey ridge as I climbed Green Bell. They'd made good time and were now, it would appear on their way home. And me only just started. Well, I'd had a lie-in due to an attack of unconsciousness which had lasted all night and during which I couldn't get Beyonce's bra strap undone and some other confusing, slightly disturbing, but nevertheless interesting circumstances which I can't quite remember.
Anyway, the summit of Randygill Top was duly located in the hill fog (not a difficult job, I have to admit).
The next objective was the top of Kensgriffe, a slightly smaller hill just over there, I that rough direction that you can't see me pointing in... For some reason, I always like to put an "e" on the end of Kensgriff, as it makes it look better. Kengriffe doesn't have an "e" at the end, though - so just ignore it.
Before getting to Kensgiffe, I'd have to avoid descending too far into Great Randy Gill, so a spot of navigating was called for. A straight line for Kensgriffe would not do. It would have to be a dogleg, as I explained to the dog who really ought to be an expert on such matters, but isn't. So a bearing of, er, thingy, was taken and magnetic variation of a couple or three degrees or so added to make a direct assault on a small and undefended pool of water on the col or bealach between the two hills. This went reasonably well. I missed the pool, but it's a big col or bealach and five degrees either way would probably have sufficed. I was also helped somewhat by the sudden lifting of the mist after I'd walked only about ten yards, giving a superbly clear view of a small patch of peaty water and a wide and unmissable col. Or bealach.
Kensgriffe is a gentle climb from the bealach or col, (Note how I cleverly varied the order there) after carrying out the route-bending manoeuvre required in a dogleg. Kensgriffe has an exciting South-East slope of crags and scree which drops about 150 metres before it starts to ease off. Anybody considering descending this way would be lucky to survive with their fingernails intact.
I had lunch out of the wind half way down the South-West (also note the careful avoidance of the South-East slope) slope. It's a bit steep, but not sufficiently so that the dog would roll down it if he dozed off. He was much more interested in helping me with my cheese sandwich anyway.
I sat and munched and watched a raven doing a spot of acrobatics and going "Prrrrp" (I think that's how you spell it).He floated off, followed, at some distance by another raven. They both went "Prrrrp". They called "Prrrrp" to each other and Prrrpppppd and kawed off into the wind without making much effort at the flappings. Ravens are one of our more interesting birds. They seem to have a sense of fun, but there's something, almost sinister about them. They are deep in your inherited memory; shapeshifters, messengers, spies, bringers of both good things and evil things. If you died on a hill, and your body wasn't discovered for some time, a raven or two would keep you company; and in repayment for these kind ministrations, you would involuntarily provide your own flesh now fully anaesthetised by death, starting, most probably with the eyeballs. Well, you wouldn't need them any more. This flurry of gorging and pecking and flying about around your stiffening cadaver would probably attract the attention of anybody out looking for a body, thus ensuring the swift recovery of most of you to your loved ones, and those who are really just waiting for your will to be read. Anyway, the point is, you're never alone with a raven, though, just remember that, if nothing else.
The next bit is, I like to think, the crux of the route. It's a bit of a stopper for anybody who doesn't like very steep grass, and descending it is a bit like walking off the end of the world. However, on this occasion, we have to climb up it. It's the slope heading up to the top of Yarlside - Yarl being Norse for "End of", as in "world".
This slope is steep, and it goes on for about 120 metres. It has no crags, apart from some slightly off-route mixed ground, but it does have a few bits of scree and the grass at the steepest part doesn't appear to have been properly fixed down when it was built. It would be nice to be able to say something like "the climb was soon accomplished", but it wasn't. The sweat ran into my eyes and I struggled upwards in a series of semi-balanced lurches and uncoordinated wobbles. Bruno's extendable lead was fully extended, so he had to wait till I caught up. I paused, panting, several times to admire the view of Kensgriffe. This is the last time I will mention Kensgriffe with its extra "e".
Just a mention for anybody climbing up or down this slope when its frozen up or under snow - its highly likely that an ice axe will be needed to negotiate it. It's also possible that should the snow be very hard and/or iced, a pair of crampons worn on the boots (not impaled into a water bottle, which is what I once did), would prevent a very nasty accident. Its probably more likely that in typical winter conditions, the slope would be iced, but without a significant covering of snow, and in these conditions, a descent in particular could be interesting to say the least, and probably quite quick.
The summit of Yarlside isn't, I have to say, the most exciting place in the world, unless you're considering a horrible descent to the hill a bit further north beginning with a "K" and not ending with an "e" Who was Ken by the way? And what did he want with a Griff? What is a Griff, I wonder, and do they still sell them?
A short traverse over peaty boggy stuff soon brought Yarlside's North Summit underfoot. North summit? I'm making it sound like an alp. I could hear Cautley Spout not roaring from this point as it had been a very dry summer, but I couldn't see it due to a resurgence of some hill fog. The North summit's South-West Ridge (ooer!) is an easy descent, and when the mist lifts, which it did, gives a fine view of Cautley Crag and it's Spout - probably the finest view in the Howgills unless you prefer the other ones.
This ridge leads to the head of Bowderdale, conveniently named Bowderdale Head, which, personally, I find very useful indeed. A short ascending traverse on a newly made path climbs up to the top lip of the Spout. The Spout doesn't actually have a bottom lip by the way. It's not a person, it's a waterfall, and a very nice one too. This little traverse sticks closely to the edge of a steep drop, which is quite handy as you wouldn't want it to fall off at this point. This is one of the few areas in the Howgill Fells that you think you're actually in the mountains. Anybody without a head for heights at this point in this walk might have a problem, but then again, maybe the ascent from K*******(e) would have sent them off back towards the car.
After considering a Mars bar for a few minutes, during which it was fatally injured, I continued, following the course of Force Gill Beck, which was a bit boggy in places, but it provides quite a gentle climb onto the Howgills' principal ridge. Bruno ate an ancient notice board on the way by way of demonstration that I'd been particularly mean with the sharing of lunch. I think it probably used to say "No dogs", but was now completely blank, and in lots of bits.
The path debouches - that is, it ends up, on the lowest piece of ridge between Bram Rigg Top, which oughtn't to have the extra "g" at the end by the way, and The Calf, which is fine without an "e" and the absolute highest part of the Howgill fells, and the place where the majority of Howgillers will make for, it being the highest part, ultimo altidudino and all that kind of stuff. The path along this popular ridge walk is a path which seems to have been rebuilt to motorway standards.
The path isn't very pretty, but neither was the peaty mess it replaced, and, let's be honest, it did make for an easy climb up to the trig point.
The trig point and summit is not really a very nice place, at least it wasn't on this particular day. It was draughty and misty and muddy and damp. A bit like the dog really. We headed off North-Eastish on a good, clear path passing a small tarn, taking the left prong of the two-pronged fork in the path where a bridleway heads down into Bowderdale. From here, a nice, green, and very pleasant track heads down the Calf's Northern ridge - a fine place to sit on soft turf and have a bit of a snooze out of the wind. Bruno lay between my legs with his chin on my boots and we drifted off into Beyonceland. I like to believe that Bruno was dreaming about Lassie, except that Lassie was a bloke and Bruno's "equipment" was removed several years ago, so he has very little interest in any kind of unpleasantness of that sort, of which we will not have a discussion because this is a book about walking in the Howgills, not some fantasy soft-porn tribute to Onan or whatever his name was.
After a while, we roused ourselves - look, don't start. We won't have sniggering at the back there. There was a raptor of some sort - hunting a few hundred metres away on the edge of the hill - I think it was probably a kestrel. Anyway, we continued, rather less briskly than before, on our exploration and exposition of this fine walk. We continued Northishly over the pleasant top of Hazlegill Knott and then West Fell and then gently down to the intakes of Bowderdale. Not difficult. And there are rather fine views of the Pennines and bits of the Lake District for interest.
At last, I entered the hamlet of Bowderdale. Three farm sproglets were playing with an air-rifle and looked very guilty for some reason as I walked past. Maybe they weren't old enough to have an airgun. I never played with air-guns when I was a kid, obviously. I wanted to ask them for a go with it, but didn't.
I was very soon back at the car. I'd left it unlocked all day. Nobody had touched it. Possibly because it hadn't been washed since June.
I'm looking forward to October - not sure exactly what we'll do for a walk. Readers will have the advantage over me by being able to read this book out of order and know what I did in October before they read September. It's cheating, but nobody will ever know.
