Category: Europe

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ITALY-SWITZ Tour de Monte Rosa 2014

The Tour de Monte Rosa

The Breithorn from the glacier

Heading for Theodul Pass – the mist hadn’t descended at this stage
Twice I made plans to do the Tour de Monte Rosa. Twice I tossed them. Many more times I looked at my Cicerone book about the tour and kind of shrugged and dismissed the idea of doing it. Why? First, it made the crossing of the Theodul glacier into such a big deal I didn’t think I could get my husband across it without either a guide or harness and ropes that I didn’t want to lug for the rest of the trip (or both). Second, it made the whole thing sound rather unattractive, so that even if one overcame the glacier, one was not, so it seemed, rewarded with beauty as a result. However, I’d bought the book as the idea of circling Europe’s second highest mountain had appeal, and I’d done TMB four times, and the haute route and more. I wanted something new. The book sat on my shelf as a kind of challenge. I was sick of having it there and decided that this year was its last chance. We would set out and go as far as we would go. If we failed we’d give up forever. If we succeeded, then … what? We’d see what lay the other side of this terrifying glacier.

Arriving at Rifugio Theodulo. Hoorah.

Our route for the next day is to follow those ski lines.

The mist lifts, but the sky still looks menacing
We were not the only scared ones. If you surf the web, you’ll find questions by other intimidated people, and every traveller I met doing the route who didn’t have a guide wanted to know how it was: was it as bad as it sounded, did they really need a guide or a harness and rope, etc? Others opted to start just after the glacier and finish in Zermatt, just before it, so as to avoid it. I decided that we would begin in Zermatt and do it first so that it wasn’t hanging over us the whole trip. If we failed, there were other walks we could do. And with that philosophy, we tentatively set out, happy to be underway with a real pack at last, but apprehensive about what lay ahead, especially as the weather was not looking good, and it worsened as we climbed.
By the time we reached our lunch spot at Gandegghütte, which normally has a brilliant vista of the Breithorn – but today had a good view of our feet – rain was starting to fall. We got in just in time. The rain had until we’d eaten our Penne Arrabiata and drunk our warming hot chocolate to clear. It didn’t, but it switched to snow, which I’d prefer any day.

The view after dinner

Wildflowers in the valley next day
Now, one of the things the guidebook insisted on was that if one is so foolhardy as to go on the glacier without a guide, one should at least never go in cloudy conditions when dangerous crevices would be hidden. The people at the information centre down below, however, had told me not to worry, so I didn’t let the fact that we couldn’t see faze me, although I grew less comfortable when visibility was so reduced that I couldn’t see which way was up. The ground was totally invisible to me, and I found it rather eerie – but that was only the very last, steep part. For most of the route where we were on the glacier, we could see enough to follow the tracks made by skiers, and the clouds even parted now and then in the first section.

Descending after Colle di Bettaforca to a different view of the Monte Rosa

Campanulas in the grassy valley down lower 

Marmot near Rifugio Gabiet
After we left the security of the hut, I could tell by Bruce’s facial expression he was worried, but I was confident about what I was doing – namely, taking him on the route for as long as I was comfortable about our safety, and turning back and returning to the Gandegghütte the minute I felt threatened by the conditions. We hit a section that was steep enough to have Bruce a bit uncomfortable, but not enough to make him want to back out. I could hear him panting, but we were at 3300 metres asl by this time, so that was hardly surprising. I went on to kick him some more steps in the snow. (He has Parkinson’s disease, in case you’re wondering about this guy that lets me do everything. He can’t help it.)

 Still below the snow line, climbing towards Col d’Olen

Ibex above Col D’Olen

Me, having fun running down the ski slope
Suddenly, and completely out of the white, my feet touched flattened ground. If I took two more steps, I would be descending over the other side.
“Bruce,” I screamed with delight, “I must be on the pass. The ground here is flat.” He was thrilled. Grimace changed to thankful smile as he fought the altitude to join me.
“The hut is supposedly two minutes in that direction,” I continued, waving my hand off to the right where the theoretical hut was to be situated. It was not manifest. Off we set in faith, and sure enough, in 1 min 50 a door appeared about two metres in front of me. We had arrived. We felt as if we’d attained the impossible, and were totally elated. I didn’t care if we couldn’t do another step on the TMR. Just to have achieved this seemed like victory enough at this stage. It wasn’t that it had been hard: on the contrary, it had been dead easy. It was just that our expectations of success were so very low that it had felt like mission unreachable. Anything more was a bonus.

En route to Rifugio Pastore, day 4

Dawn on day 5, from Rifugio Pastore
Gradually the hut gained more people, and we got to chat to three Spaniards and two Belgians who had done the route clockwise (as opposed to our anti-), and who were able to tell us a bit about what lay ahead. Again, our guidebook was quite pessimistic, too often (so it seemed to me) complaining about the scenery not being pretty enough. These people, however, told me it was wonderful, and that was without getting views of the Monte Rosa, as it had been raining for them all week. A Belgian wanted to show me his photos to prove it. It was nice to meet with some enthusiasm for the route. Because of my guidebook, however, I only half believed them. Que sera, sera. The future would become ours to see.

 “False route”, day 5 – but utterly worth it for the views

The path after the pass (Passo del Turlo), day 5
During dinner, our little cluster debated the whereabouts of the Matterhorn, most of us reckoning that it lay roughly in the direction of the bar, whilst one Spaniard insisted it was out the window. Lo and behold, it decided it had had enough of our uninformed debate and the clouds parted to reveal it leering in at us. Resounding victory to the Spaniard. I couldn’t believe how huge and close it was. Dessert was ignored. Out our group dashed to photograph this wonder. Bruce and I climbed higher and stayed out until our fingers were numb and the light had all but faded. At 3340 metres a.s.l. it gets pretty cold. The Spanish-Tassie-Belgian cadre then sat and gazed at beauty for another half hour in the warmth of the hut, our seats pushed against the glass. “This is the best TV show in the world,” I said in awe, and they agreed. Ironically, we later found the Danish group of 11 sitting around, gazing at the real, techno variety, watching soccer. I guess they differed.

Final sunrise, from Rifugio Oberto Gaspari
Next morning was clear as we headed out, hungry after a “breakfast” that had been as bad and as meagre (not even any bread) as dinner had been delicious and plentiful the previous evening, following ski tracks down in a big arc with a snowy Monte Rosa off to our left, the Matterhorn to our right as we descended several hundred metres before rising again (with a huge descent and then rise to follow that), ultimately dropping from 3320 to 1860. As on every day, we alternated snowy vistas with green fields abundant in swathes of colourful and delicate wildflowers as we ascended over passes and descended to the valleys in between. In almost every hut, dinner was a celebration of delicious food, offered in multiple courses with seconds always available, and breakfast was often a pretty dismal affair. If you scored a bit of cereal it was pretty amazing. Juice even more so. For lunch, we mostly waited until we’d arrived at our destination, which we did by lunchtime on most days, and ordered delicious soup and sometimes a tart. That gave us the afternoon to explore the area surrounding the hut (and do a hand wash if climbing had extracted a nasty smell-toll on our clothes).

Early morning, Rifugio Oberto Gaspari
On one day (day 5) shortly after beginning, two people moving at a good pace came to an intersection in the path at almost the same time I did. We met and chatted and, as our paces were similar, kept together, talking and laughing as we went. I was aware that the distance between me and Bruce was widening, but I also knew the Danish group was moving near him, and that he was about the median speed of that group, so continued talking and laughing and climbing with my new friends. It was fun to have some company. There was a Norwegian up ahead who knew what she was doing, so we had no reason to check our location. After about 40 minutes or so, the Norwegian stopped for a sit-down, but we didn’t want to, so on we went. My new friends did stop for a bit, but I was still full of the joy of climbing, so decided to go on without them for a while, having seen from above that they were now following on.

Back into the mist; last morning.
The long and short of this story is that ultimately I had climbed an extra 500 metres to a different and wonderful high point that gave stupendous views over three of the Monte Rosa glaciers. I realised I had erred but hoped the Americans I had been chatting to would soon join me, so ate a peach and drank a bit (water plus scenery) whilst waiting for them. When they didn’t appear, I went back down and after about 100 ms descent, found them. We were relieved and delighted to see each other. I went back up to the top with them, and then we began the long descent back to a fork in the track that had been so covered by a stream that it had not been visible. The Danes, with the benefit of a guide who had done the walk a week before and who knew it well, didn’t have the same problem. The wrong track had actually been far more obvious than the right one, and there was no sign to indicate a fork. Now we were chasing Bruce. Rick was mildly upset, as his guide sheets said this was the longest day, and we’d just made it two hours longer. Anyway, we worked together, they providing me with nuts, raisins and tuna, and me kicking steps for them and encouraging them through snow that tested their comfort zone. We made a good team, and caught Bruce and the Danes just as they were stopping for afternoon tea.

Our penultimate day was our last day in Italy. We had adored the whole thing and I was sad to be nearing the border with Switzerland and the end of our trek. The map for this day showed contours so close together they almost presented a pure brown front. Bruce was feeling tired from the previous day just described, which had, indeed, been very long even without an extensive detour, so he decided to miss the contours and take a téléphérique that happened to go to a spot near our hut. I was happy. Now I had a solo hike done at my own pace up a nice steep slope, time to dream and enjoy the scenery, to take in the smell of the forest and the sight of that day’s face of the Monte Rosa, to enjoy the clear streams and to see how many marmots and ibex I could spot and nothing else to worry about.

The mist clears to give us a glorious view of the golden madonna in Passo Motto Moro
I cut the advertised time in half, so when I saw a building ahead, I assumed it was actually the middle station for the cable, and was so convinced I had another two hours to go that I had to read the name of the hut three times to confirm for myself that I had, indeed arrived. Rifugio Oberto Gaspari. Last hut. It was bitter sweet arriving. That afternoon we explored the area of the pass, and I took Bruce over the start of the descent that worried him from above. The practise made him feel much better. Parkinson’s is a huge hindrance to confidence when it comes to descents on slippery snow on paths that don’t actually exist. (His “path” is often merely the steps I kick for him. A person without Parkinson’s mightn’t even think about the danger of falling, but falling is always a possibility if you have this disease, so thinking of the consequences is not amusing).

Just below Passo Motto Moro

On the final morning, after an exceptionally good hut breakfast, we set out nice and early – we had to reach Zurich via Zermatt this day. However, the ice was absolutely solid and as frictionless as a metal slippery dip. In addition, despite a glorious sunrise providing memorable photos, the clouds that had sat below the mountains for my paparazzi efforts had now risen to meet us, and once more we were in a whiteout. I couldn’t find the via ferrata that had been so handy the previous day, and we lost time while I fumbled around trying to get us on the exact route we needed. It was all so simple when you could see. Anyway, at last we found the ferrata and used the steel ropes to prevent falling backwards as we climbed. Passo Motto Moro, that we were heading for, has a beautiful and huge golden Madonna holding her hands out in a peaceful and welcoming gesture towards Italy, her back, perhaps symbolically, turned on Switzerland, a land that strikes one as being more interested in economic than spiritual matters.

We lingered a long time in this pass, playing, taking photos, fooling around. We didn’t want to descend, as descent marked the end of Italy, the end of our walk and the end of our whole trip. Besides, we needed to give the snow a bit of time to soften enough for me to kick some steps. Neither of us fancied a slide of several hundred metres for a record breaking time with crash at the end. I think Bruce found this route testing to the edge of his scare-limits.
I will be back, as I adored it, but I fear it will have to be solo next time. I’m so glad I gave the route one last chance before giving up on it, and that Bruce got to experience its unique beauty before his Parkinson’s made something that challenging an impossibility.

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ENGLAND Lake District 2014

Heron Pike (view)

As in many previous years, I used England as a warm-up for my husband – a kind of transition between his semi-sedentary job and the demands of walking all day, every day over mountain passes on the continent.

Grasmoor view

This year, I chose to go “peak bagging” in the Lake District. I use that verb as a shorthand to describe our activity, but as I look at my four maps of the area, with the routes we’ve done highlighted in yellow or orange in a spiderweb configuration, I realise that it’s far more about ridges and routes than the summits themselves, even though we visited each summit in question. The best views and the most exhilarating experiences of nature’s wonderland are often to be had on the way rather than near the summit cairn.

Mellbreak as seen from our window

Before we left, I pored over my existing highlighted routes, plotting the best bases for filling in the gaps that remained. The Buttermere area was a definite, but as that village is either booked out at the cheap end, or too expensive at the other, I selected nearby Loweswater as our first base. Kirkstile Inn, with its wonderful view out our window of Mellbreak, a fabulous fell, was my choice, and we loved our time there.

Climbing Mellbreak

I didn’t want our whole twelve days in the one spot, so also opted for bases in Patterdale and Skelwith Bridge for variety of peaks and experiences (the latter being chosen more on grounds of nostalgia than access to unclimbed peaks).

Loweswater, dawn

We arrived excited to be there at last after 40 hours’ travel. We weren’t really hungry, but had some soup just to call it dinner; we were far more eager to stretch our legs after such a long time sitting, before official bedtime claimed us. Heron Pike didn’t seem all that far away and the evenings are long … off we set, straight up a direct line from Grasmere, where we were spending the first  night.

Climbing Low Fell (the face of Whiteside dominates the left half of the scene)

The next morning we were up at 4.30 with the approaching dawn, so set out walking with no particular plan. We just wanted to enjoy being there and to see whatever we would see. I can’t resist going up when it’s an option, so put up with ‘flat’ for about ten minutes before the allure of an adjacent sharp climb dragged me with irresistible pull and we began a steep ascent of Heron Pike from a different approach, through the bracken and up rocky crags. I wondered if I was leading us straight into an impassable cliff face, but soon enough a sheep appeared and we were on the ridge line shortly afterwards to enjoy a much more scenic approach to the summit that we’d had the night before. We climbed two more peaks before dropping down, starving, for a hearty English breakfast. I’m surprised we weren’t rebuked for gluttony as we had multiple servings of everything available, and cleaned them out of prunes, grapefruit and muesli before beginning on the hot food. The English don’t serve breakfast until the late hour of 8 a.m., so this (early walk + edacity) became a fairly regular pattern. Our behaviour was either tolerated or not noticed, and no one saw fit to expel us.

Climbing Whiteless Pike

As we climbed over forty new peaks (in addition to many repeat climbs) in our eleven days there, I won’t give an account of each one, but will sect a few favourites from the mix.

Descending Whiteless later

In previous trips to this area, we have climbed the peaks (Haystacks, High Crag, High Stile, Red Pike) in the vicinity of Scarth Gap, on the southern side of Buttermere more times than I can remember, as we love that area, but we have never climbed any of the ones on the other (more northerly) side. I’ve always eyed them up and thought them a little imposing; they look very steep and quite sheer from the front. Thanks to the notion of peak bagging, however, we were challenged to try new mountains, rather than keep summiting familiar friends, and I’m so glad to have been prodded to do this.

 

Climbing Whiteside. Grasmoor provides the immediate backdrop.

Whiteless Pike is due north of the hamlet of Buttermere and looks over the lakes Buttermere and Crummock Water, presenting a rather inhospitable face to both. A direct approach is marked on the map, but not exactly visible on the ground. My husband did not dare a direct approach, and I selected a route that went up the Rannerdal Valley beside the crags of that name and that then climbed steeply from that direction. It was a beautiful way, with a fabulous, narrow ridge before the summit that offered extensive views of shining waters below and layers of mountains above. The grass was lurid green. My husband was rather unnerved by the ridge, but tolerated it, whilst opting not to return home in that direction. Once was enough. Still, there were other peaks to climb before that became an issue, and we enjoyed the views from four more before I showed him how he could get down on a less confronting route. I wanted to see the ridge from the uphill direction and see the lakes with a now lower sun, so I arranged his pickup point and set out to climb some more before dropping and joining him. It worked well. The possibilities for that kind of separation make England very suitable for us.

Grasmoor as seen from Whiteside

The third peak in this foreshore lineup, Whiteside, lies to the NE of nearby Crummock Water and flanks the other side of Grasmoor, yet another hulk with fabulous water and mountain views. This one we did take head on, with Bruce tolerating the mild level of exposure very well. It was the peak beyond, Hopegill Head that had him challenged as we approached. “Where are we going?”, he kept asking, as I headed him for it. I knew it would be much less threatening at close quarters when he could see the route up, so just kept responding vaguely, “Oh, ahead”, (waving my arm broadly), “in this direction.”

And this is taken whilst descending Grasmoor, looking towards Whiteside
As predicted, the actual route was less confronting than his fears. The next question was: “Are we going back down the same way?”
“No. You’ve done all the tricky stuff now. We’re just going to climb that nice one ahead and then drop back down the valley using Liza Beck.”
He knew Liza Beck from the day before, so gained in confidence. From the top of Grisedale Pike, we could see not only Keswick way below, but peaks that I used to run up from Keswick when I was training there (Cat Bells, Maiden Moor, High Spy and Dale Head). It was pleasing to greet old friends unexpectedly, out of context as it were. I hadn’t bothered to look at the map to see what lay beyond my present focus of interest.
Sheffield Pike

My third favourite peak was also done from our Loweswater base, and was the peak we looked at out our bedroom window at Kirkstile Inn. We woke up seeing it and went to bed staring at it, and said “Hi” to it any time we happened to visit our room. The side that faced it was another “in your face” slope, and I knew there was a route that went straight up that slope, so that was what I’d chosen for our first afternoon there. B attempted to come, but gave up when the route became somewhere near ninety degrees and he wasn’t comfortable with the distance he’d fall if he started sliding. He doesn’t have full control of arms or hands, so it was a good decision. He opted to wait for me on a spot we named below and just enjoy the scenery while I played above.

Elter Water
Before I close my account of the Lakes, I must put in a good word for Ian at the Old Water View, Patterdale. When we arrived there, he told us our daughter wanted us to call her. Ominous. This is not her habit. I jumped to conclusions that were correct. Bruce’s dad, aged 92, had died that day. Whilst the death of a person that old may well be expected, it brings closure on a whole relationship that has been treasured for a lifetime: in the words of a beautiful song by Celtic Thunder, “I never will forget him, for he made me what I am.” Dad was an amazing father – a wonderful person – and his model of how it can be done inspired my own husband, in his turn, to be a superlative father. Naturally, our children wanted to cry over the phone and to talk to us, just to hear our voices at length, as they adored their poppa. Ian made his whole bar area our private quarters so we could send and receive Skype messages and conversations, not only with our daughters, but also with Bruce’s brothers who wanted to talk arrangements. Even after we had checked out, Ian declared his place open to us – just pop by any time we wanted to use wifi and use his facilities. He was very supportive, and refused to appear put out by the fact that most of these conversations were taking place at midnight English time, and that he was being inconvenienced by it. The staff at Skelwith Bridge Hotel, two days later, were similarly very understanding and tolerant of phone calls coming into their hotel (and being conducted in the lobby) at odd hours. (Wifi in England usually only works near the main computer).
Pensive son. Glenridding Dodd
I should also mention that, if you’re in the Lakes and wondering about where to park to climb a mountain, or about the various possibilities for climbing, a website that I found indispensable, and which offered wonderful photos without overkill, was David Hall’s site, to be found at http://www.davidhalllakedistrictwalks.co.uk
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ENGLAND South West Coast Path 2011 and 12

Logan Rock 

When we began the South West Coast Path (Cornwall) we did have a small idea of what we might expect, having done a chunk of the Pembrokeshire Coastal Path with the Oxford University Walking Club when based there. But that was Wales, and this was England, and I always have trouble ridding myself of the notion that England is unpleasantly crowded. I’m sure the big cities are. The country regions remain magnificent.

Near Port Isaac

Our starting point in both 2011 and ’12 was Padstow, plucked originally out of a hat, but having the advantage that public transport went there, and it had good press. We flew to Heathrow, caught the bus that went straight from the airport to way out west and sat for another five or so hours, had one more change of bus and we were there, over forty hours of travel accomplished (both times). As you might imagine, we arrived feeling that rest at last would be very nice. It was just after 5pm, so all offices were closed. The town was completely booked out. (Next year, 2012 we took the precaution of making a booking).

Padstow, first morning

Oh well, the next village along the route was only 8 kms away. Might as well begin the trail right now. We shouldered our packs and set out, heading south west along the headlands. I have nothing against sleeping under trees, but unfortunately somewhere in that 8 kms it started to drizzle. We needed a roof over our heads, and a feed wouldn’t go astray either. In the meantime, however, the walking was a marvellous tonic: how wonderful it was to have the sea air massaging our faces, the light wind tussling our hair, to smell and see the English coastal countryside, the stone walls and English trees, the sheep that are different to our own, and the English wayside flowers. It was also grand to be moving after such a long period of sitting. This was the perfect beginning. In no time, the village appeared.

Near Tintagel 

There was trouble getting a room even here, but with the help of a friendly shopkeeper and an obliging family who were about to open a B&B but were not quite ready yet, we found a bed and roof, and the best breakfast imaginable next morning. That night we went to the pub for a meal, and I did the old slapstick comedy routine of falling asleep with my face in my lasagne. It lacked originality.

Near Boscaslte

Filled to the plimsol line with porridge, croissants, berries, cooked tomato, mushroom and eggs, great coffee, home-made jam and more, we bloatedly set out to begin the real journey. The air was still misty, visibility reduced, and yet everything thrilled us. The path, for major stretches, is high along the cliff tops, with a fabulous sense of space. The grass was verdant green – the British speciality – and the sea an arresting cerulean blue from the distance, totally transparent and dancing with glittering light up close. I loved looking down on the tiny coves, perhaps with an imagination informed by Enid Blyton as a child. A cove for me is a place of romantic adventure, excitement, mystery and wonder as well as beauty.

Near Crackington Haven. One of only two overcast days.

What we were offered was a series of endless variations on a theme – each one having its own unique stamp to keep us absorbed – just like each of the over eight hundred eucalypts is very like its other genera members, yet different enough to provide entertaining variety. Here, we had hundreds of  kilometres of coves, beaches, headlands and villages, and yet every single one, whilst being recognisably like its ambient friends, was also unique. If you’re a bored type, you can dismiss huge groups of things under a single generic heading, “Oh, they’re all just fungi, or trees, or mountains”, but if you look for the differences and immerse yourself in those – better still, learn the name of the distinguishing features – then those differences will entertain you.

SW of Padstow

So, for us, it was not a matter of another cove or headland, but we delighted in the variety of size, shape, colour, aspect, lumps and bumps, the particular rocks or islands visible, or the caves or arches that were there.

My husband’s Parkinson’s disease was not going through a good patch in either of our times there, but the infrastructure of the area gave us enormous flexibility. Unfortunately, the first and final days were the only ones where he could last a whole day with me. On the others, he would either not walk at all, or do half a day, and cover the remaining distance by bus.

 

That way, I could throw down the pub breakfast of prefab croissant and unexciting coffee – with porridge if I was lucky – and leave Bruce to luxuriate in the full English breakfast, which he adores, grinning like a naught schoolboy, possibly because it is very different from the fare he gets at home. He likes to be able to chew slowly and take his time, which does not suit my restless spirit much, especially at the start of the day when I am just itching to be outside in the golden light and the dew. I wave farewell, pack on my back, and I’m off. He knows which village I’ll have my lunchtime soup in, and which one I’ve chosen for that night, and he knows to meet me at the pub closest to the water. It always worked. I was free to dance, run, dawdle and photograph … whatever. I felt very free. It’s nice to choose my own pace in a world of compulsion.

In 2012, as said, we started once more in Padstow, but went in the opposite direction. As we’d made a booking this time round, we got to explore the town the evening of our arrival, which was good, as it’s very quaint. Its popularity is there for a reason. The next morning we were both up at about 4.30, excited to be there, and wondered the coast for hours before the British breakfast time. It reminded me of my childhood, when I seemed to have lived a whole life before my parents awoke to break their overnight fast. They never had a clue what their innocent-looking daughter had been up to.

 

We used the same modus operandi this year as well, so I mostly walked alone and met Bruce at the far end of the day, when he would often walk backwards along the track to intersect my route, having settled in our pub for a bit first. I carried my pack, not because I needed to, but because carrying a big pack is, for me, part of the necessary apparatus of a proper walk. Without it, the walk becomes something else – a daywalk and not a pilgrimage. My pack connotes freedom, adventure and excitement. I want it there with me.

This method meant that Bruce could do exactly as much as he felt he could manage without being ruled by the distance between villages, and gave him a gradual easing in, a transition between his hectic but sedentary schedule at home, and the long-distance paths we were about to undertake. The website for this walk says that its height gain is the equivalent of climbing Everest four times!!! It’s no wonder Bruce found it challenging to do straight off the plane. You are constantly going up or down, and very steeply. Gradual slaloming of the path to tone down the steepness is for the Swiss, not the Brits. They attack each rise head on. Short but sharp, but they add up and take a toll if you’re not conditioned for it.

 I would like to return to this area one day. My memories of it are happy. It warrants another visit – with better photographic equipment and methods next time.
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ENGLAND Lake District 2012

England, Lake District 2012.

Whinn Rigg
In 2012, by the end of a two weeks’ stay in the Lake District, we had bagged 87 Wainwrights (Fells). This section of our holiday was preparation for a larger segment that would take place on the continent, where I intended to walk from Lake Geneva down to Chamonix Mont Blanc and then across on the haute route to Zermatt. This was my husband’s crash course in getting fitter and stronger after working too hard and letting his health drop. In total, he took off six weeks. We also did the South West Coast Path and the Cotswold loop. (See URLs for these at end)

My husband has Parkinson’s disease. When the hospital gurus did a check on him at the end of all this holiday, they told him he was much healthier than he would have been after any course of medicines that they could prescribe, and that his general coordination and symptoms had taken a definite turn for the better.
Notice that I am now counting Wainwrights. I have now been bitten by the bug. I want to climb them all. 87 down, 127 to go. It’s fun.

Wastwater, near the Wasdale YHA where we were based for part of this venture.
One of the mot amazing fell runners of all time, Joss Naylor.

I was delighted to meet Joss Naylor, above, on the summit of Middle Fell – we had each run up from different directions. (He is aged 76 here, but ran like a young filly). We chatted and then we began our descent. I thought it quietly amusing that, although I have many top places in my past life in World meets, he didn’t expect me to keep up with him, but did me the courtesy, once he’d  noted that I was keeping pace, of chatting to me while we went.

Shot whilst climbing Yewbarrow, one of my favourites of all.
On top of Scafell Pike, that is, on top of England. This is my third time up this one. Yet to see the view.
Summitting Hartner Fell

Climbing Crinkle Crags – just LOVE that name
Cold Pike in cold weather
Bruce climbing Weatherlam

 

Swirl How
From the summit of Holm Fell
Brock Crags, looking towards High Street
Angle Tarn Pikes

 

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ENGLAND Lake District 2006

England: Lake District 2006.

In 2006 we were doing research at Oxford Uni. Naturally, amongst the many walking trips we undertook whilst there, we went to the Lake District.  Here are some snippets from that time …

(The photos are a collection from all the peaks we climbed, not just the ones from this story. Sorry I didn’t own a better camera back then).

Story 1: Sca Fell
“You’ve chosen a nice sunny spot,” said a lady as she glided past while we ate our lunch standing in a broad saddle on the intersection of four paths, using a rocky slab as a table and a cairn as a shield.
“Yes,” I called in reply, “but I’m worried about getting sunburnt.”
“Just slop on some more cream,” she yelled as she marched on her way.

The mist swirled around as the wind howled and rain fretted. We ate standing, as it was too wet and cold to sit. I devoured more lettuce wrapped around blobs of apricot and cranberry chutney, with two-day-old bread for ballast.

Nearing the summit of Sca Fell
“Delicious,” I enthused, not to be ironic, nor to be some Polyanna figure: it just seemed the perfect lunch for such a place – sweet for energy, crunch and juice from the lettuce, no fat to make us feel heavy and lethargic – and it tasted excellent, thanks to the high quality chutney. I consumed the last of my jelly babies (Jonathon Swift would have been proud of my measures to reduce English overpopulation and mendicancy) in the rather hasty “meal” and we were off. It was not a day to hang around.
Wasdale.
Climbing the Pillar

We set out into the mist. We could see the path in front for about a metre – enough to stay on the track, mostly; certainly not enough to be sure of anything much. Luckily this was our second summitting of Sca Fell, so I knew roughly which shapes might emerge out of the mist and which way the land might be expected to slope. But we were climbing England’s second highest mountain, so the general idea was “up”, except that often to go up, one needs to go around or down, and climbing steep slippery rocks that go up but into a cliff face is not a great help.

Pillar summit
Scoat Fell

 I seemed to manage to keep us on course, and in moments of doubt, ghostly figures of other climbers on the same route would appear out of the fog on their descent, or we would overtake their shadowy forms as they stumbled over the slippery rocks or laboured up the slope, and we would know we were on track. There was a wonderful camaraderie amongst those on the mountain. I’m sure that only in England can you climb a remote mountain in the foulest possible weather and find a queue on the steepest slopes.

Story 2. Next day ….. Pillar and more

“I think we’d better sit here and take stock,” I said, as we found the first ledge of rock big enough to accommodate us in over half an hour of scaling slippery waterfalls in the mist. We were supposed to have undertaken a difficult but achievable scramble up the Pillar, keeping to the left of Pillar Rock, which dominates the landscape, or so the guide on climbing in this area says. There was no Pillar Rock in the mist – indeed, no Pillar. “The only problems will be encountered if one tries to climb to the right of the rock,” I had read the night before. Fine instructions if you can find this imposing massif.  We didn’t, and so climbed to the right of the rock. As we sat there, I announced it might be a very long sit, as I was way too scared to attempt a descent without a rope, and I couldn’t find a way up. We had about three squares of chocolate left, and our uneaten lunch. Not much to last about 20 hours until a search party tried to rescue us.

Scarth Gap
“Just make yourself comfy.”
“Why can’t we go down?” Bruce asked, surprised by my announcement.

“No way,” was all I bothered saying. Both directly up and down were impossible, and to the left was a steep, impassable rock face. The route to the right was similarly blocked. Our only hope was diagonally right, but I needed chocolate before I tried our only chance of escape. Nice, Lindt, orange-almond chocolate. Then one can climb further.

Chocolate to cheer, we set out again; with enough handholds to make some slight progress. Suddenly through the mist I saw a shape that had softer edges than the rest of the rocks – the shape of a sheep up to my right, not far away. I knew that if I could reach her, then we would have reached safety. Anywhere a sheep can go, I can go. She must have come around an easy back route that adjoins where she now was. Hooray.
We reached her and celebrated beside what we thought was the summit cairn, consuming our lunch now that we didn’t need it for dinner and breakfast and snacks during the night waiting for the rescue team. The mist was so thick we couldn’t see any other cairns, so after the refill, I set out in search of a way down – also precarious, as visibility was only about two metres. My search revealed that we had eaten about three metres away from the real summit cairn – invisible from our picnic spot. By making sure I stayed within earshot of Bruce, I circled until I found the next cairn in a progression, so we eventually found a route – we didn’t care which one. Any safe route down was welcome. The one I happened on also turned out to be the one I wanted, one that enabled us to also climb Great Scoat, Little Scoat, the Steeple and Haycock before descending, yielding yet more photos of blobs in the mist to add to my already considerable collection. The others at our YHA accommodation in the valley that night giggled with delight at the photos, so it seems they were a success.