Sooooo it's very nearly February. The coldest winter in 70 years has finally arrived. The only problem is, that it's arrived in Russia, Poland Slovakia, and, rather unusually, in Northern India. As for here, well, it's just like mid-October. Bit of a frost sometimes. Minus two or three occasionally. Smattering of cold rain every now and again.
Anyway, I'm determined that my February walk will only be witnessed by the very loverly Bruno. I've told Simon, or whatever his name was, that I'm not going to tell him about the walk, and I'm not intending to mention it to Alan at all. Its OK having company, and I quite enjoy it at the time but, I feel a bit distracted from proper observation by chatter, and a bit irritated by others' personal ambitions. I've found that company has been constraining in some ways - although the chaotic wanderings of January's walk was interesting in itself in the same way that you can't stop yourself from watching really poor late-night films. It's filled in a gap as well. So, it was a mixed blessing. If it had all gone to plan, I'd have more of a problem, but the whole thing can't be like that.
Look, the Howgills aren't very extensive really, and it's quite difficult to squeeze out twelve interesting walks. The outcome is still in doubt. I may never manage it. Next summer's walks may start to smack of desperation. Some would say that the desperation has already set in.
Anyway, no more company for the time being. I'm determined to be grumpy and unsociable and tend to my little garden without help or hindrance, or planting anybody else's flowers.
The next walk will be a short classic starting from the Temperance Inn at Cautley. It's now the 25th of January 2006. I'm planning to do the walk on the 2nd of February - just a week or so to go. I don't expect to have to use crampons.
February
Bugger. Due to a slight confrontation with the Abbey bank, I've not really had access to very much cash, and, as a result, I missed the walk on 2 February and I can't quite remember why now. So, it's now 4 February and tomorrow, I'm off to Cautley with a completely different walking partner, whom I shall introduce shortly. Yes, I know I said that I wouldn't take anybody else on these walks. This is absolutely the last time, though... No, really, honest.
Anyway, the dispute with the Abbey is about to enter its final, bloody end; mainly signified by me opening a brand-new account at Barclays (a bank I sacked about 20 years ago) I won't go into the details of the dispute, except to say that it involved me going overdrawn by £25 for one day (note carefully the number of days overdrawn) and them charging me £110 for this benefit (note carefully the amount of the charges - yes, that's right, £110 English Pounds) A visit to the local branch only managed to extract sufficient information to indicate that it was the computer and they couldn't do anything about it. A more formal complaint will be answered by Abbey within the next four weeks, apparently - by which time the account will be long dead. It's times like these that nicotine is really really attractive. I get better service from the bloody fairies on Simons Seat. (Yes, that's what it was about - I just didn't want to invoke the name in case you all start jeering.)
Anyway, the last five or six days have been remarkable for the really duff weather at low levels. Its been just below freezing, and cloudy, or sometimes foggy. I've managed to completely miss the superb temperature inversions that have persisted for at least the last five days. Today, I've been walking in quite warm sunshine, in almost spring-like conditions in Upper Weardale in my role as a voluntary ranger for Durham County Council. We all had a jolly time and nobody died.
For some reason, I've been thinking about death. It might be something to do with an advert for insurance for when "the inevitable happens", and how its all a bit like tidying up the garden really, and if you take out this insurance, then it will pay for the coffin and all the unpaid bills. Bugger that. I'm not paying for the coffin. Why should I? I mean, if I don't what are they going to do? And as far as the unpaid bills are concerned, well I just hope that most of my creditors bank with the Abbey, 'cos there's not going to be any cash left to pay if I have anything to do with it.
When I'm gone from here, all I want to be is a shadow drifting over a green speckled fellside. Yes, I'll just be a cloud. I'll be rushing along the sides of the fells, so that even my less able survivors will be able to look up to the hills and, for those who are still sympathetic after having to pay off my debts, can look up, make rude gestures and remember me by the passing of those shadows. I'll be with good friends, all clouds together... We'll all be heading in the same direction. (Well, it would look very odd if one particular cloud was heading a different way to all the others). Each time one particular cloud casts a moving shadow over a distant green summer hill, that'll be me, ruffling the grass and swishing the wind. If you've a mind, just park up somewhere within sight and look up. Wainwright gets in your eyes and gives you conjunctivitis on Haystacks. (He had his ashes scattered there) I'll be everywhere else, messing up the hair of hatless hikers, floating the buzzards and the ravens, overlooking and passing by. Join the cloud club - its much more fun than moving spoons or chairs about and scaring your grandchildren.
By now, youve probably formed the opinion that this bit of writing is more about some old fart's descent into insanity than an exposition of the joys of wandering about in the Howgill Fells.
So, without more ado - on with February's excellent walk.
February
Cross Keys - Cautley Spout - Great Dummacks - The Calf - Bowderdale Head
6 Miles - 1700 feet of ascent
If ever there was a standard introduction to the Howgill Fells, this walk, or at least, something very like it would be the one. This said, it is, perhaps indicative of the rather random nature of this work that the introductory walk appears more towards the middle of it than at the start. The walk, though is quite short and sweet and does Cautley Spout and The Calf, which are probably the main attractions for anybody without the time to go exploring properly. Like wot I do. The original intention was to include a climb up Yarlside. This would have been a bit of a bonus, but not really essential. I suspect that most people doing walks combining the Spout and the Calf, will climb via Force Gill. This is OK in itself, but misses out the fine ridge above Cautley crag. It's worth doing. Yarlside doesn't add much to the walk, except a tick. Best do it on another trip.
There's space for ten or a dozen cars near to the Cross Keys Temperance Hotel, just where a path leads off over a footbridge into the great corrie below Cautley Spout. On a Sunday in February, at 11:00 a.m., which is when we arrived, there was but one parking space left. My advice for those turning up on a summer Sunday is, get there a lot lot earlier than this. There's quite a big parking area a few hundred metres up the road towards Kirkby Stephen, but this will obviously be most inconvenient for most walkers who don't like walking too far...
You'll have noticed that I used the word "we" in the introduction, and, despite my previous rantings about doing the rest of this project on my own, or at least with an enthusiastic dog, in a momentary lapse of concentration the night before, I'd invited Brian along for no better reason than I thought it would be quite nice to have company and we happened to be talking on the phone at the time. It's unlike me to describe any of my walking partners with any degree of detail and, this won't be an exception to that, now well established, precedent. Except to say that me and Brian don't go back very far really. We're both doing a bit of volunteer work for English Nature, or Natural England or whatever this week's name is, and we're both trying to get a Walking Group Leader award. This has lead to a mutual interest in trying to learn how to navigate a bit better - in order to pass an assessment, you see. I'm not entirely sure why we're doing it, except to say the English Naturists* are paying and it seems like quite a good idea. The navigation assessments are the same standard as the mountain leadership assessments, and my pal Shiela, of whom you know nothing at all, has just failed, or at least, not passed on this very point. Now, Shiela, as far as I can tell, is a very competent mountaineer who can find her way about no problemo, and not only that, but in North-West Scotland where Mountains are Mountains and there's Old Lochaber and Salty Porridge for breakfast. Where women are women and men are mostly fairly drunk most of the time.
So, it goes without saying that I'm not all that confident about passing, 'specially since, I'm quite aware that some of my navigating, it has to be said, in a spirit of openness and honesty, is a bit ropey sometimes. I can find my way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but anything more complex has to be bluffed through. I usually find it's quite a good idea to follow somebody else.
I'm wandering again - but anyway, the main point of one of my previous paragraphs, now utterly lost and hopelessly casting about on completely the wrong summit looking for somebody to ask for directions, is that Brian's quite an interesting bloke, ex soldier, ex copper, very fond of dark holes in the ground, web-cam type person and general all round good egg. He is so interesting, in fact, that in view of the danger of being out-shone, I will barely mention him again, other than in passing. Look, I just refuse to have anybody more interesting than me in this diary. This is why I'm taking a dog fer Evvan's sake.
Today's weather was almost exactly the same as it had been a few weeks earlier on my January fiasco, er, walk, sorry - anyway, that is to say, it was claggy. The hill-fog was well down the hillside and most of Cautley Spout, and all of Cautley Crag were well hidden.
And so, we set off over the bridge over the River Rawthey, which at this very point sports a beautiful, deep green pool of the sort in which it is very tempting to plunge on hot, summer days. Not today, though. The very thought brings lumps to the throat and certain other consequences too personal to mention, but mainly involving the retreat of very specific parts of the anatomy well into the body core in a desperate attempt to stay warm. (Female readers will be smug in the knowledge that it's impossible for this sort of thing to happen to them).
That and an early debut as a white fluffy cloud - see previous idiotic musings for further details. So we just looked at it for a bit and remarked on how there was probably some fish in there somewhere.
The general clagginess gave a certain dramatic turn to the situation in the corrie bottom. At one point, the mist broke up very briefly and revealed the full height of the Spout, hill-vapours hanging in the great gash with its naked frightened winter black trees (sorry - I know that last bit is grossly overwritten, but to be honest, I just don't care). Then it all closed in again.
Its not too difficult, on a day like today to understand why those iron age villagers living below the crag built their stone-lined trackway to the foot of this fall and no further. (Readers dipping into this work should either read the October walk or the information board near the valley entrance for a bit of context) As I understand it, there were many gods and goddesses in Iron age times and by the power of the scene today it wouldn't stretch the senses too far to feel something of the magical nature of the place. This is a place for a goddess, though. I'm understanding now, the very feminine nature of these hills. It would have to be a goddess.
For anybody so inclined, spending a few hours in the depths of this bowl not doing anything very much would be the very thing to do. Maybe on a weekday, though. Much too busy on a Sunday. Sometimes it's a good idea just to sit and listen. Tune in, turn on, doze off and roll down the hill into the beck. Its not always the right thing to do to go heaving yourself around the hills. Why not have a day off? Whats wrong with that, eh?. Take the papers. Poke around a bit. Have a paddle. Sing to yourself. Eat a chocolate muffin. Then go home.
I've described the descent from the lip of the falls down into the corrie in the October walk. Now it was time to do the ascent. Its exactly what you'd imagine it to be. It is very very steep for most of the way, and anybody with an undiagnosed cardiac disease would soon find themselves in some trouble. It's much easier and safer than coming down, though; but it's a long and hard 500 or so feet up to the short traverse to the top of the waterfall.
Once at the top and across the beck, we stopped for a while to rest and scoff. Bruno made his intentions towards Brian's corned beef sandwhich very plain, and was rewarded in the manner he fully expected. I was content with coffee and cake. Just as we were about to leave, a young couple appeared out of the mist at the other side of the beck. We would meet again fairly shortly. Unusually, Bruno barked at them.
We were now determined to find the summit of Great Dummacks, and, in view of the fog, we would have to do a spot of navigating. A plan was planned. It was noted that the edge above the big crag, now on our left, headed off roughly SSW, then turned South, then did a gradual left turn until it pointed ENE. At the point where it began to turn East then ENE, we ought to go SSE. Identifying that point would be the key to finding the top. Our method today would be timing and pacing - and it was 800 metres to the point where we should turn. This is an absolute lie, actually. What happened was, that after a short period of slugging it up the ridge, we came upon a small grassy platform, and it was from this point that we worked out the route. We didn't actually know exactly where we were, so it was with some surprise that this piece of navigation went as well as it did.
Before moving on, I should also point out, that on a clear day, climbing this ridge could well be quite delightful. It's narrow at its foot, but not narrow enough to be anything like scary, and it widens out higher up. As it's on the edge of a great fall of crag and scree; in fact, the greatest fall of crag and scree in the Howgills. It's a sight to be seen, and not something you'd particularly want to do on a foggy day in February.
But, like my navigation, once more, I'm drifting a bit. After a suitable period of uphill stumbling, we came to a point where the edge was seeming to pull away to the left. At this point I took a bearing for the summit and we headed off over the tussocks, soon coming out on flat ground. At approximately the correct distance (timing and pacing), we declared that we were there, although there was slightly higher ground over there, and when we went over there, it was a bit higher somewhere else. Eventually, a grid reference tapped into a GPS told us that the top was 200 metres back the way we'd come. We'd passed over it. I was fairly happy with that.
From the unmarked spot height, which I took to be the summit, otherwise why bother putting it on the map eh?, we headed off on another bearing to find Calders. This turned up at exactly the right time, and, apparently, exactly at the right spot. It was going quite well so far.
The young couple we'd seen earlier were also there, and the lass asked where they were. We told them that they were on Calders, and they said they were meant to be on The Calf. You see, that proves it, doesn't it. Other people can make Uldale Head type buggers-ups just the same as me. It wasn't the time to be judgemental, so we let them take our photos with Brian's camera. They didn't want to have another go at finding the Calf (although it is quite simple from this point) and we pointed out the way we'd come up would be quite an interesting way down. So that's what they did. I hope there weren't any recriminations between them about their navigation error. Its quite easy to do - no, really. And it doesn't do to sneer, specially in these conditions, because, you know, what comes around, goes around. Its just part of learning - the lesson in this case being how easy it is to do.
Let me just illustrate why a sympathetic approach is required. Once upon a time, Alan and me were walking along a ridge in the Lake District, in very similar conditions to today - that is, you couldn't see more than a few misty yards. For argument's sake, let's call the hill we were walking along Swirl How. We slogged up the side for a bit, and roughly in the right spot, at roughly the correct time interval, came across what we took to be the summit. The said summit was also occupied by a couple of lads eating their butties. So we sat and ate our lunches and gazed at the view that would have been there had we been able to see it. After a while, it occurred to me that we hadn't seen the aircraft undercarriage that is stuck into the top of this mountain, and, not only that, but where we were sitting looked nothing much like the top described on my map. And so, the following short conversation took place:
Me: "Do you think this is the top?"
Alan: "Why?"
Me: "Well, it's just that the top looks nowt like this on the map. I mean - look at that gully, for instance. There's no gully on the map"
Alan "Hmmmmmmm"
Me (to the lads eating their butties) "What do you think? Do you think this is the top?"
Lads: "Shouldn't f******g be up here if you don't know where you are. F*****g incompetents. Blah blah idiots, blah blah get yourself a proper map blah blah shagged your sister..."
And so, we set off further along the ridge to see if, indeed we'd been at the real summit. Not too far away, we came across the aircraft undercarriage mentioned earlier. And, a little further on, we came across a big cairn with another young lad stood next to it. We were at the top.
Another short conversation took place.
Us: "How do?"
Lad: "Have you seen two lads? Only I was supposed to meet them here twenty minutes ago." (goes on to describe the two lads eating their butties and providing hillwalking advice on the other summit a bit below).
Us: "They're just down there. They think they're at the summit."
Lad : "Idiots"
And off he went. My only regret was that I didn't witness the subsequent conversation. I really would have liked to have been there.
And so it was, that our young couple went off into the mist to find their Great Dummacks, and we went off in another direction for the little subsidiary top of Bram Rigg Top.
The navigation for this went equally well. The top was also occupied by a small group of youthful types (I hate to use the word children, as it would just show my age) - anyway they very noisily being taught how to navigate. No communication took place between us. I expect they weren't allowed to talk to strangers or something. I did offer them some sweeties and a ride in my car to see some puppies, but they were herded off to find another attack point with a bit of handrailing and stuff like that.
Not too long after this, we were at The Calf. It was just as cruddy as the three previous times I'd been there during the production of this epistle. An athletic-looking lass took our picture with Brian's camera but said she didn't want her photo taken as she didn't need evidence that she'd been there. Odd thing to say, but anyway, it was now drizzling in a driving-drizzle sort of way and we set off Northwardsly to find some shelter. The little unmapped tarn was frozen and Brian broke the ice so Bruno could drink, but he wasn't all that interested. At a second small tarn, we turned East on the bridleway. Readers should note that the point where the bridleway leaves the ridge is the furthest right of the rather confusing path junctions hereabouts. Getting the wrong one isn't the end of the world, however, as long as any mistakes are sorted out before too long. Take careful note of what you're expecting your path to do, and, if it isn't doing it, then sort it out. No more lectures. I'm an expert bloody navigator today.
We used the bridleway to drop down towards Bowderdale, and, once out of the wind, at a suitable strategically located tussock, we stopped to eat. In my case, cheese butties and banana, in Brian's case, Corned beef butty and flapjack. In Bruno's case, cheese butty, corned beef butty and flapjack. He did have a try at the banana but seemed to lose interest.
I topped up the compost heap. Daffs coming along nicely.
Another couple passed by on the bridlepath, and I sensed something of dog aversion. Either that or a grey-beard aversion, which, incidentally both me and Brian have although I suspect that we got ours at different shops.
My original plan had been to climb Yarlside from this point. This would have been a 250 metre climb from Bowderdale and a long descent. I suspected, that given the choice, Brian would happily plump for a less challenging end to the walk and so, when the question was posed - the answer was, happily, the sensible one. It was getting a bit late anyway. We would end with a descent into the Cautley corrie.
A bit further down the path and we went off down the hillside to find Bowderdale Head, coming out of the mist a couple of hundred metres north of the bealach/pass/hause/whatever you want to call it that links the dale to Cautley. This is another fine wild camping spot - good, dry ground, a nice stream, a lonely feel (that's not something you might do on your own by the way and, you'll get your legs slapped for thinking dirty thoughts) and so on. There's a path hereabouts. At the moment, it's a thin hillwalkers trod running alongside the Bowderdale beck, and joining with the bridleway from The Calf about a kilometre further North. It is marked on the map, but not as a right of way. However, once over the lip of the bealach, an obvious engineered green pony track descends the hillside in a series of short zig-zags. High above this point, the remains of another engineered path may be made out, but this runs into scree and disappears. It would seem from this evidence, that there is, in fact, a very ancient route running from Cautley and down in to Bowderdale. This should have been a right of way. It's a bit academic really since all this is now Open Access land, and the route is well established. But it should have been a right of way. Somebody buggered up somewhere.
The descent was short, steep and a bit painful. The mist had risen slightly, and we could now make out a bit more of the structure of the place. One of the more interesting features is what appears to be a graceful arching lateral moraine running just above the beck.
And so the walk ended. Beer and chips in Kirkby Stephen. I really like Kirkby Stephen.
