Doodlecat.com

May

In between walks in the Howgill Fells, I had quite a good couple of weeks.

First of all, I had a three-night, four-day wander around Glen Tilt and Glen Tarf, in superb sunny, if cold, weather, bagging two Corbetts and a Munro into the bargain and generally having a jolly good romp somewhere a little bit wilder than The Calf.

A day or so later, I went to Upper Teesdale to be assessed as a walking group leader, and passed. I should explain that the Walking Group Leader (WGL) award is a British Mountaineering council qualification very much like the Mountain Leader award, but without the ropery, steep ground, wild camping and big river crossings. I think I've mentioned this previously anyway. Do try to pay attention and if I start repeating something I've said earlier, let me know before it gets embarrassing.

Anyway, so I'm dead chuffed and not a little bit smug. The problem (if it is a problem) is that some my friends either have no idea what I'm on about, and glaze over if I try to explain, or they express the opinion that either it's nothing much at all or that in the past they did all that sort of thing anyway and it was much harder then. Or they ask if everybody on the course passed, and when I tell them that, yes, everybody passed, give a knowing look which says that either it was all a fix or that it must have been really easy, then. Or they just take the piss.

Sometimes I think I need new friends. What I really, really need is an ounce of Condor Mild.

I'm off up the Pennine Way for three weeks after this walk, so, maybe I'll calm down a bit.

I'd best nip down the Co-Op and get some more of that chewing gum stuff... several months now and I'm still craving for the nicotine. Nicotine is a happy drug. It changes your mood. Aaaaaargh I want some, and I want it now.

May

Bowderdale - Langdale - The Calf (yawn) - Bowderdale

12 miles 2000 feet of ascent.

This time I set off at the little hamlet of Bowderdale where there is vergeside parking, a notice requesting, politely that parking doesn't take place further West than the polite sign, a little bridge over the beck, and a few cottages. It's the sort of place you might like to go to escape from the madhouse for a while. Its not the sort of place for a party person, I would have thought. It's a great place to smoke a pipe, although its quite a long way from a tobacconist. This is what I noticed. You'd have to make sure you bought enough tobacco and matches till the next time you were in Kirkby Stephen or Tebay.

The objective of the walk was to explore some of the long valleys which run, more or less, North-South through the fells, in particular, I was interested in Langdale for some reason. In the end, this turned out to be a rather satisfying little walk despite the lack of anything to smoke. It seems unlikely that many smokers will use Langdale to get to The Calf. There certainly doesn't seem to be much evidence of smoker traffic - no litter (used matches), no footprints and so on. But its an unusual and interesting way to get to the tops. Afterwards, I felt quite chuffed with this walk even without the summit puff.

I set off along the bridleway which runs South into Bowderdale and almost immediately came across a group of cows. Now, I don't mind cows in their rightful place - which is cut up into little pieces, well cooked and served with roast potatoes. Cows are bad news if you've got a dog. Bruno's idea is that cows are bad news if you've got a person with you because you can't run away properly due to the lead, and their indecisiveness and so on, and it all leads to problems. One of the moo-cows looked particularly frisky, so we hopped over the wall and detoured around a small wood, coming out back on the path a few metres North. Luckily, they were all looking over the wall at the point I'd hopped over and I had no more problem. One of them mooed, which could be cow language for "wherezeegonnn?"

The bridleway runs next to the intake wall for a while and then, sort of peels off to head off up Bowderdale. At this point, I used my newly-assessed navigational skills and took a bearing on a re-entrant some one thousand or so metres roughly West-South-West. Given that it was a superb, sunny day with visibility not less than forty miles, you may be forgiven for thinking that this was a bit of navigational overkill. Well, maybe so. I don't care. I hit the target spot on, and saved myself some up and down work in the tussocks.

From here, a line over the boggy moor took me to a fine, green path that zig-zagged pleasantly down into Langdale.

The prospect ahead of me was a long and deep flat-bottomed valley twisting away to the South, long and deep and sparkling green. Meadow pipits and larks sang, yes, at last, it is spring. It is, definitely spring. About bloody time.

My first act was to go over the top of my boots in the beck. The stones seemed to have some sort of slippery jelly-like substance sticking to them. Anyway, wet socks. At least I wouldn't have to worry about sploshing across streams now. But nothing would spoil the day, this fantastic day. Even without tobacco, it was great. No, really, it was. No, really. Koff.

Deep in the dale it was warm, almost hot, in places. In other places, as turn or a twist of the little dale was taken, a fierce headwind blew straight down from the high fells. But it was never cold. It was, though, the sort of headwind that would blow out an innefficiently guarded match before you could get anything to smoulder properly. You'd have to be careful. I noticed this.

Langdale was occupied by large numbers of sheep and half a dozen non-smoking black ponies - and one white one who probably also never smoked in his life. They watched me, curiously from a distance and got marginally excited as I drew near. But, in the end, they were neither frightened nor aggressive. They just watched, interested, but impassive as I passed close by. I talked to them and took their portraits. They seemed, generally, OK about it.

It also struck me that there were several locations in Langdale which would make beautiful wild camping spots - near to Neygill Fold, for instance there was a fantastic, flat, green sward with a clear stream of good water. This might well be a station on a wild camping itinerary for a future walk. Or, possibly not, look, I can't be everywhere, innit?

This should really be called Deepdale. It does feel very deep. Along the sides there are steep gullies with ancient grassed-over scree fans at their feet. The valley twists and turns and hides and shelters the walker (and his dog). The valley floor is green and dry and there's no need at all for any bog-trotting. It calls out for a dawdle. We stopped for a while in a little, hot suntrap. I ate my cheese butty and didn't smoke anything. Bruno slavered on my trousers and looked hopeful that a bit of cheese might fall out in grabbing reach, which is just what happened. A food-obsessed dog grabbing enthusiastically but carelessly at a bit of Wensleydale lodged in the upper reaches of the trousers is not perhaps the cause of very many Mountain Rescue Team accident reports. Bruno's jaws and choppers were designed for the explicit purpose of extracting bone marrow from the thighs of recently killed wildebeest(s) using the simple but effective method of gnawing and crushing. The effect of a careless snap anywhere near the naughty parts doesn't bear thinking about. We came very close to this for a very nano-moment there. Be extremely careful with your cheese is the only advice I can give at this point. The consequences of him running off with a loose bit and burying it for later are just horrible.

I could have stayed there all day. I could have had a smoke, if I'd had my pipe and tobacco. Not that I was bothered anyway...

The further South along Langdale you go, the narrower it gets. Then, after passing the West Grain re-entrant, it splits and the main stream takes the right hand fork. From here, the valley is almost gorge-like. The rock strata is against the flow of the beck, and from here upwards there are many small pools, just deep enough to sit in on a hot day. Not quite warm enough for this sort of thing today, though. It was still trousers-on weather. Ne'er cast a clout till May is out. May, of course, isn't the month, it's May blossom - the stuff on hawthorn trees. You knew that, though, I expect.

You can't smoke May blossom, apparently, although you can eat it. It doesn't really taste of anything, though. According to Bruno, your crotch area is quite safe when decorated with a sprig or two of May blossom although this may well draw unusual comments from any shepherds or keepers met on the day.

"Mr Tribble's aunt has no pans" as one of them once said to me in dialect, pointing and smiling a bit oddly. This roughly translates as "There's something on your pants".

How true!

At one point, a narrow gorge is passed, opening out into a wider area with a high sheepfold. This point is about five hundred feet below the trig point on The Calf, with the steep, grassy headwall of Langdale to climb for almost all of that ascent. As height is gained, a wonderful overview of the valley is revealed. It is a bit of a slog, though, to be honest.

Back on the summit of The Calf once again, I came across other walkers. A pair were heading off towards Bowderdale, another couple headed towards Fell Head and yet another couple were discussing Great Dummacks. I think that's what they said, anyway. I didn't stay around - it was still February around the Trig point. Instead, I set off for the bridleway down into Bowderdale.

This is a very easy path, and quite delightful to follow. It stays just above the beck bottom and, at some time in the far distant past, had some minor engineering on it. Cycle tracks and boot prints were evidence of its popularity, but not today. Just me and the dog and the larks and pipits and the nervous sheep. And the sunshine and wind on my back. And the warm and friendly wind and the cloud shadows drifting on the hillsides just over there.

Its difficult to write just how happy this little section made me. This sort of joy really shouldn't be allowed without an expensive licence involving many years of training and a special invitation from a secret cabal of joyful people who are allowed to wear special hats and have Joy Days once a year. Outrageous. Happy. Gleeful. Its filled me up. Its coming out of my ears. Oh, no, that's something else... Anyway, it fair makes you giggle and sing and dance about. And not think about nicotine and how nice it is.

As it reaches the end of the dale, the path climbs up to the intake wall and I reached the place where I'd started the little navigation leg. It only remained to navigate the cattle.

I walked straight through them, rather quickly, pretending not to be there. Bruno eyed them nervously. I eyed them nervously. They eyed me curiously and they eyed the dog. We all eyed each other. In the end nothing much happened apart from rather a lot of eyeing. The car was where I left it, and I'd remembered to lock it.

I went home in a rather smug mood. Still a non-smoker and a happy non-smoker too