November
This next bit is for male readers only. Female readers may wish to have a nice cup of tea and mutter darkly about mysoginism whilst repeatedly stabbing a photo of me with their sewing scissors. I'll probably get into serious bother for this.
Before we set off on our walk, I want to talk to you today about "Good Boy Points" (GBPs) These are the things which allow us to escape from our wives and loved ones for a few hours to wander freely on the hills and moors and mountains trying to remember if we left the car lights on. My main target audience is men with jobs. Men with jobs have only a limited amount of time to enjoy the freedoms which we unjobbed take for granted. Jobbed men may have only one or two weekends a month in which to commune with the hillfog and sleet, and they have to win these boons from their loved ones by earning Good Boy Points (GBPs).
Now GBPs can be earned in several ways. One of the best ways is to paint something. I'm not talking about being artistic here, I'm talking skirting boards, doors, ceilings and walls and the like. It's always a good idea to paint these objects in a colour chosen by the person awarding the GBPs. Any other act of home improvement can be substituted for painting something, provided you can discharge the particular duty without making too much of a hamfisted mess. As I'm useless at anything other than painting something, this is the work that I usually do (even unjobbed men have to gain the odd GBP).
The timing of the use of the GBPs earned has to be ... er... timed, so as not to coincide with any important birthdays (unless it's your own), your wife or lover's early or late pregnancy - especially not the confinement; and weddings or other similar anniversaries are right out. Men in long term relationships will also have learned already how to keep a low profile at certain times in the female hormonic calendar - its no good asking for a day out if she's wanting to kill you and all your kind, or has just backed the family car into a supermarket trolley bay, or similar.
You also have to book it in to the family diary and remind everybody of any consequence of the date at regular intervals so that a visit to the wife's mother isn't booked over the top. Sufficient notice should be given, but not enough to allow for a family "do" to be substituted by the spouse following some slighting which you unwittingly committed and about which you are still completely unaware. I'll give you a clue, though - it was something about your wife's mother's appearance and her attitude to anything which you consider to be quite reasonable and fair do's really. You know what I'm talking about now eh?
If you're having an affair and your girlfriend isn't married, you may well have to earn two sets of GBPs. This is a much stronger argument for remaining faithful to one woman at a time than any of that religious nonsense. Any more that one lot of GBP duties is far too much to pay for a day in the hills. In this case, you'd be better off taking to the hills permanently in my opinion. And get yourself a decent hobby to take your mind off your trousers. Good grief, man, what's up with you?
In between the booking of the walk and the actual walk itself, all rows, arguments and disagreements should be strictly avoided, or at best lost and apologised for. This may mean you will agree to something that you will later regret severely, such as a fortnight's coach holiday in Cornwall with the wife's sister's family, or a trip to Ikea for a new Hantammar or Guntoyorkvald or something - but that's just hard luck as far as I'm concerned. Tea in bed should be provided at least once and as much sucking-up done as possible, but not so as to make her suspicious that you're really off out for a day with somebody you shouldn't be going off for the day with. In fact, if you are meeting anybody with whom to spend your GBPs, make sure it's another bloke, and be prepared to provide proof. You'll find that if there's any danger of some male bonding going on (farting, burping, urinating on trees, that sort of thing) - you should discover that she'll lose all interest in the event and will point-blank refuse any offers to let her come with you. Don't try inviting her, though, as this might not work.
I'm really in trouble now - so best go for a walk.
November - Carlin Gill, Black Force, Fell Head, Simon Seat, Uldale Head
9 Miles - 2500 feet of ascent
For a start, the weather was just like November usually isn't. It had been raining for a fortnight or so and on the night before this particular wander, we'd had the first frost of the winter. It wasn't much of a frost - just a slight nip, really, though the BBC weatherman made the most of it, and the morning was bright and blue.
The car was parked near Carlin Gill bridge, on a stretch of old Roman Road which runs up beside the River Lune towards Carlisle, roughly parallelish to the M6. There's quite a lot of off road parking on this road, though it's a bit spaced out, so if you get there late, like I did, you might find yourself walking a bit further along the road than you intended.
Me and the dog set off to follow Carlin Gill, at first on a slight path beside the beck, but after a while, I managed to find a good path slightly up the hillside to the South. Eventually, the path takes to the riverside and then crosses it, just at the entrance to a gorge. It then becomes slightly more scary and traverses a scree-covered hillside just far enough above the rocks of the gorge to make slipping off a really unpleasant option. But it's easy enough, despite appearances and the path descends back to beck level at the foot of Black Force.
Black Force is one of the highlights of the Howgill Fells and, in its depths, it contains one of the very few scrambles - a Grade 1, or so says the guidebook. It looks much too exciting for me, so I took to the narrow ridge which runs up the Eastern edge of the gill. This is extremely steep grass, with the odd rock, and good views all around. It finishes with a short section of narrow, grassy ridge, which is just a little bit reminiscent of Ciste Dubh in Glen Shiel, though the drops are much shorter. Note, though, that the drop to the right (as you look upwards) would hurt a lot more than the drop to the left. Anybody considering falling off would be best advised to go left. Consider a Mars bar accidentally dropped down the right hand side to be a permanent loss, is my advice. Nuff said.
Bruno took the opportunity of the frosty grass to roll and slide about on his back, a pastime I had to curtail as he was in some danger of taking the Right-hand route down to the waterfall. Come to think of it, Bruno was in a happy mood all day. You can always tell with a dog, how they're feeling. Today, the tail was up, and he was rolling about, bouncing around, acting daft with a bit of bailer twine, and generally enjoying himself. And so was I, though, hopefully, I was a bit more dignified.
As we climbed, I monitored the progress of a couple of walkers traversing the steep slopes of Uldale Head, just opposite. It didn't look too comfortable a climb - steep traverses never are - and I was wondering where they were going. Later, I saw them traversing around the Eastern edge of Uldale Head - I think they probably went up there.
Up to this point, I'd been in dark shadow, and now I popped out into the warm, bright sunshine. The slanted early winter light was amazingly bright, and the valley shadows seemed to be abnormally dark, almost like night. The surrounding hills were all reds and ochres, such that a sunlit ridge, descending into the dark valley looked like a giant slice of fruit.
The other thing that's noticeable about Black Force, for any geology students, is the extreme folding of the rocks in the sheared-off face on the West side. There's a perfect upturned "U", folded like a pile of blankets. Unfortunately, I couldn't take a photo due the brightness of the sun, and the rocks being in the dark shade. It just wouldn't have turned out. I need to come back. I also need to come back to climb further up Carlin Gill - it looks quite interesting higher up, with a large waterfall, and what appears to be a path scrambling up the left hand side. Just can't be everywhere on one walk though, I suppose.
At the top of Black Force, I crossed the beck and climbed the steep hillside up to a path which runs all the way from Gaisgill in the North to Howgill in the South-West. Much of it is not marked as a right of way, but is clearly an ancient route, and for long sections of the way, it has obviously been engineered. The line of the path also does quite a lot of contouring and eases its way through the hills without tackling very steep gradients. Clever stuff.
So, a little way up the hillside, I found the obvious grassy rake that is a "built" section of this road and I followed it around the spur of Blake Rigg into the Linghaw col. It's a very quick hop to the top of Linghaw from here, so I hopped quickly to the top and took a quick picture of the view of the Lake District. A very fine view indeed on such a clear day, with Great Gable standing out like a pudding, and the great slash of Mickledore standing out like a great slash with a pudding behind it.
Back to the path, which from here to Whin's End is a fine high-level traverse, particularly so if you are a student of motorway traffic. The M6 is quite a good navigational aid if your map has blown away and you're wandering about in the fog around here. Just head towards the noise, and you will ultimately reach the Fairmile Gate road - it's a sort of swishing, rumbling sound, for those unfamiliar with motorway sound-effects. But, high above all this the path is wide, green and just an absolute delight to walk on. If you do nothing else, you must walk on this path.
Anybody motivated to study the map closely would notice that the path swings into Blind Gill at one point, and it is at this very point that the hillside is, more or less, south facing. It also has a bit of soft heather and bilberry on which to lounge and demonstrate to a greedy dog the perfect method of eating a meat paste and onion sandwhich - that is, without leaving any crumbs at all, and without letting go of the butty until its all gone. I did explain to the dog, afterwards, that onions in particular were not good food for a dog, and that he'd be much better off, diet-wise, to wait until we got home and he could have a Spillers Shape or two as a sort of reward for his patience. I'm not sure he was entirely happy with this arrangement. Later, I noticed him salivating at my left calf, but looked away quickly when he caught my gaze. I'm not sure I trust that dog completely. If I ever collapse and die on a walk, I hope somebody gets to my remains whilst there are still remains to get to. Maybe I should give him a big breakfast or something - but then again, once he's started eating, he seems to find quite a bit of difficulty in stopping again.
So, on we went, duly refreshed (at least I was duly refreshed) to the Whin's End ridge, which we climbed ever so slowly. The Whin's End ridge is a fine ridge, typical of the Howgills. It's a bit of a slog, to be fair, but the views behind you are wonderful. As the ridge climb struggled over a false summit or two, I considered how much better it would be if I could have wing mirrors fitted to my rucksack shoulder straps. By this method, I could relieve the tedium of such a climb by seeing whether or not I could pick out Blackpool Tower through the wing mirrors. Its more likely that you would be able to see such a thing because objects in a mirror always look closer than they really are, apparently. I also noticed a couple of figures moving very fast over Brown Moor, far below. I couldn't make out whether they were human or animal, but, judging by the speed, a couple of dogs seemed to be the most likely explanation, apart from the apparent number of legs, which seemed to number about four between two figures, as opposed to eight, or any number higher than eight. The probability of it, or them, being a very large spider seemed quite remote, so I put the thought out of my mind. This thought, I pondered may well revisit me in the wee small hours as I'm tucked up in my little tent in some wild and remote corner of these fells, sparked off by some weird and indefinable animal-type noise just outside the door of the tent.. Oooer..
The summit of Fell Head was adorned by a small cairn and a friendly, lounging couple from Cumbria who had come to the Howgills for the peace and quiet. You could lose your keys lounging around like that, if they weren't properly secured in a zipped pocket. We could see the top of the Calf from here, complete with several dozen small figures. There's also a moral here - The Calf isn't the place to successfully find peace and quiet. Everybody and his dog, and his dog's friend, Bonzo, is coming to the Howgills for peace and quiet. Its not all that quiet on a Sunday. Not any more.
We chatted for a bit - or at least I bored the gaiters off them by telling them all about how my mother had been a cotton weaver and how she could tell you what the people in the car behind at the traffic lights were talking about by using the rear view mirror to lipread. That's another useful thing about wing mirrors. You'd be able to tell whether or not your walking companions were talking about you or pulling faces behind your back. Must get some wing mirrors. They look OK with the daffodils (which have just started to appear by the way - just the mearest tip of green poking through)
Just to be clear, here, it would seem from re-reading the paragraph of two paragraphs ago that the Cumbrian couple are permanently at the summit cairn. I do not believe this to be true. I suspect that they do go home from time to time. If, on your visit, there is no Cumbrian couple, but instead, a chap from Bolton, and his dog Rex, then it's not my fault. The cairn is there all of the time by the way. It's a constant. Reasonably reliable landmark, I would have thought, anyway. (As it happens, this statement appears to be untrue - see below. Quite a bit below, actually)
A man in a big fleece appeared as I mooched off over frosty grass towards Breaks Head and Wind Scarth to find a route up Simon Seat. It's a bit of a plod, to be fair, but it does have a wild and remote feel to it somehow. Simon's Seat is a grassy lump and is climbed just after crossing a bog of red grass (Red in November anyway) The cairn on the top is understated, but there's a fine view of the Hazelgill Knott/West Fell ridge, and Wild Boar Fell pokes up just behind.
As I puffed up the hill, two runners appears at the red bog, now below, and consulted their map. I wonder if it was this couple I'd seen hurtling over Brown Moss. They seemed to be on a mission. I don't think they were aware of me at all, although had Bruno been off the lead, he would have gone down to greet them. He wanted to. But he couldn't.
So the next part of the route had to be clever. I was getting quite tired, and I wanted to get to Uldale Head before it got dark. It was now just after 3:15, and my GPS thingy said that sunset was 16:13, which means it would be dark by about a quarter to five. In between Uldale Head and Simon's Seat lies Docker Knott, a steep but shortish climb of about eighty metres. This would have to be followed by another steep but shortish climb of Uldale Head - another hundred and thirty metres, making two hundred and ten metres altogether. I just couldn't be arsed with that much climbing, and the timetable would be tight. So we trotted down to Great Blea Gill and contoured North along the 400 metre contour, though the gap between Docker Knott and Hand Lake (daft name for a hill by the way) and into the great bowl of Blakethwaite Bottom (have I mentioned what a fine wild camping spot this would be?) - saving 60 metres of climbing for a little extra distance.
We stopped at the Bottom for a few last dregs of tepid coffee and an oaty snack thing (wont buy one of those again). Blakethwaite Bottom, it seems to me, is a superb place for a wild camp. It has large areas of dry green sward, if a bit tilted, a nice little stream of clean water, and a very atmospheric position. And, I noted, it catches the sun till late in the day. A cracking place for me and grommet to spend a night. Incidentally, there's a feature called "Blakethwaite Stone" marked on the map, supposedly in the middle of this Shangri-la. I could only find a small boulder, pocked with round holes. I wonder if that's it? Forgot to take a picture - but I'll likely be back here. Remind me to take a photo next time. I don't expect there are any giant spiders haunting the place late at night , though, either. Probably not anyway ... ooooooooer.
Uldale Head is an easy climb from the Bottom and has, it would appear, two tops, only one of which has a small cairn. Deep shadows were now invading the gills and gullies all around, and the Simon Seat was glowing red. Simon's Seat, by the way, might well be an anglicised gaelic name for something altogether more spiritual than somewhere somebody called Simon had a saetr, or a summer grazing. You see, your saetrs are normally in the valleys. In Scotland, these would be shielings, places where the women and children would take the cattle for the summer grazing. An Siath, on the other hand, is something much interesting, referring to the spirits of the hills, or streams. Simons Seat may well be a place meant much more for listening than talking. It is, perhaps, much better appreciated alone than with a chatty partner. Sometimes its much better to be passive.
After a lot fewer minutes of gazing at the view than, in retrospect, would have been more than justified, I set off over the moors towards Weasel Gill, which I had chosen as my descent route. The ridge between Grains Gill and Weasel Gill is steep all the way down, and becomes interestingly narrow as it reaches the valley floor.
A quick splodge over Carlin Gill beck brought me back to the road and a meeting with one of the couple I'd met on top of Fell Head. (Told you they weren't permanent fixtures). She explained to me that her partner, Geoff, I think she called him, (or was it "that daft pillock?") had lost their house door keys somewhere on the walk, and they were just about to mount a search whilst the last few rays of daylight permitted. This was a serious loss of GBPs for Geoff, I'm afraid. Much painting would have to be done to put this one right. I formed a view that they were wasting their time. What you need, in cases like this, is a convenient close relative with a spare set of keys and some sympathy. Your Dad is often the one to fulfil this role, if you've still got one. I am afraid that Geoff was going to be a regular customer at B&Q over the coming months.
But, that's just the sort of thing I'd do, lose the keys. I'm always losing stuff on the hills - pipes mainly. I did have a pedometer for three days. An electronic job it was. Counted your steps and told you how many calories you'd burned up (always a disappointing total, incidentally) Its somewhere up Colt Hill in Dumfrieshire now. If anybody finds it, they can have it. I don't deserve it. I was a bad pedometer owner. I retraced my steps for a mile or so and looked in all the obvious places - fence crossings, stiles, where I'd sat for a rest, that sort of thing. But it was gone. I mourned it for hours with a feeling of complete emptiness. I mourned my pipe, now resting somewhere in deep grass on Eagle Crag in Borrowdale. Lost but not forgotten. Sob... Someday I should build a memorial cairn to all the lost car keys, backdoor keys, dog leads, pedometers, compasses, loose change and unpopular relatives. Lest we forget.
Incidentally - talking about lost things - I was once involved in a search for a missing medical laboratory assistant who had gorn orf in a huff during a family argument around the Ingleton waterfalls walk. We searched the clints, grikes and limestone pavements around Kingsdale all day one hot August bank holiday. We didn't find him. We did, however, find several cameras, a fair amount of spare cash, some binoculars numerous (and I mean more than about four, I think) pairs of lady's underkegs and one bra. An interesting collection, I think you might agree. And considering the circumstances of these losses would be interesting way of spending a lazy afternoon. Did they blow away, I wonder? Were they stolen and hidden in some act of mischief? Did their owners doze off in the sun and then wake up without them? Or were they thrown away in some moment of abandon and determination to become more at one with nature? The stories those pants could tell...
The path lab technician turned up in Dent by the way. He was an idiot and deserved a slapping.
After all this excitement, I went home and had my tea.
