It is safe to say that the Lake District was everything I had hope for. Its landscape was staggeringly beautiful, its villages were poetically quaint, and its sheep were surprisingly adventurous. But I’ll start from the beginning. Settle down with something hot to drink, this promises to be one of the longer blogs.

As I mentioned in the earlier blog, I boarded the train at 6:36, bleary-eyed and cold but overwhelmingly excited. I didn’t sleep a wink on the train, instead choosing to watch the frosty, mist-cloaked countryside roll past my window in the early morning light. After transferring in Birmingham with no problems, I was on the train to Oxenholme. The train was eventually destined for Edinburgh, and to be honest, if I missed my stop it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. But Edinburgh must wait for another day, and I alighted at Oxenholme around 11:40. It was immediately apparent that I was no longer in the comfortable confines of the Cotswolds. Looking out from the platform, the sprawling expanse of Kendal was visible, but more impressive were the distant snow-capped peaks that cut across the horizon. I had not anticipated the persisting snow, but I had also not anticipated the great height of the fells. It is one thing to see them in photo-form, but quite another to see them in person, but more on that later. I took a short connecting train to Windermere, and got off feeling adventuresome and ravenously hungry. I bought a sandwich in Windermere, and ambled down to Bowness-on-Windermere to eat by the lake. To clarify, the town is called Windermere, and the lake is called Windermere (not Lake Windermere). I don’t know the exact linguistics behind it, but the lakes are either ‘meres’ or ‘waters’ (ie Windermere, Grasmere, Coniston Water, Wast Water). After my lunch, I hopped on the bus and began the search for my hostel. A couple of miles out of town, I found the YHA Windermere perched on a hillside, with a spectacular view of the hills and distant peaks. I checked in, made my bed, and took the unnecessary items out of my backpack before leaving with no particular destination in mind. I consulted my map, and decided to walk down the road to Troutbeck and see if I could find a hill to climb. By this time it was 2:30, so I didn’t have time for a long, tortuous walk. Or so I thought.

Windermere

I walked along the very pretty road to Troutbeck. Troutbeck (the town) is an enchanting cluster of farm cottages overlooking Trout Beck (the river) in the valley below. I followed the road until I saw the welcoming little way-marker indicating a nearby footpath. According to the map it was a bridleway called Nanny Lane, although judging by its angle of incline and its surface it was hardly a nanny friendly path. Anyhow, I began my ascent, intending to turn around and retrace my steps to the hostel. But at a fork in the path, I consulted the map and realized that the path I found myself on crossed over the ridge of Wansfell Pike and followed the slope down into the town of Ambleside on the other side. I figured I had enough time, and since I had come to the Lake District to have adventures, I decided to have one. On my way to the peak I soon realized that the hills are masters of deception. Not only are they deceivingly steep, but they taunt you with their topography. Three or four times I crested a ridge, expecting to find myself alone on top of the world, when in reality I found myself facing another daunting climb. By this time I had come too far to turn back, I was on a mission. I found myself filled with adrenaline, even at these demoralizing points. I would see a peak and feel a surge of energy and launch forward in a fit of irrational vigour. It was wonderful and by the time I did finally come to the top I was lavishly rewarded for my tenacious efforts. With the wind whipping up a frenzied applause, I stood completely exposed and alone on Wansfell Pike, 360m above my starting point and a numbing euphoria came over me. I stood there grinning, breathing deeply, letting the raucous wind swirl around me, and drank in the view. It was truly spectacular, a 360 degree panorama of rugged mountains, clusters of houses, and crystal clear lakes. The peaks beyond me, were a dazzling white, their rugged backbones disappearing into the shroud of low clouds. It was an experience like no other, and something that (although I have tried my best to do here) is really indescribable. And that, ladies and gentlemen is how the arduous and draining activity that is hill-walking claimed another victim. All it took was one peak, and I was hooked. The descent was not particularly pleasant, with each steep step inflicting a jarring shot of pain on my thoroughly irritated knees. I would like to say I powered through and marched with conviction down to Ambleside, but the fact was that even on the spryest of knees the hills take a toll and the descent was slower and much more laborious than the adrenaline fuelled climb. I took the bus back to the hostel and ravenously devoured some very tasty beef chili in the hostel restaurant before collapsing on my bunk.

Troutbeck

Troutbeck: where the cottages look like cottages should

Up up and away

And up ...

And up ...

And up ...

I woke up yesterday morning at 7:30, in order to eat breakfast before the big school group who were staying at the hostel descended on the small dining room. Breakfast was a hearty affair, consisting of the necessary components of an English Breakfast (fried egg, hash browns, sausage, beans, and fried tomato) as well as some cereal and tea. I had a big day planned so I needed all the fuel I could get, and the kitchen staff was happy to oblige. On Tuesday I decided on a more concrete plan. The morning would take me from Grasmere to Easedale Tarn before walking back to Ambleside via Loughrigg Fell. I caught the bus and was in Grasmere (another town with the same name as its lake), on my way by 10:30. The minor inconvenience of the day was that I had to check out of the hostel before leaving, which meant lugging all my belongings with me along on my adventure. Luckily I had packed light, so (initially at least) it was not too cumbersome. I followed the footpaths out of Grasmere toward Easedale Tarn, and unlike the day before, I was not alone on my walk today. Ahead of me on the path I could see little specks of colour negotiating the slope, all working toward our collective goal. It was if Monet had composed the fells, brushing swathes of earthy ochres, dull greens and reds, dotted with occasional conifer and clusters of bare deciduous trees before blending the horizon into the dark brooding clouds above. It was a magically tranquil sight, made even more so by the misty rain and the complete absence of any car-related noise (I had selected this route especially since it was so separated from the main roadway). I set off along the trail and began the climb to Easedale Tarn. It was another steep climb, but again I was handsomely rewarded with some majestic waterfalls and sweeping views back to Grasmere. Climbing the hills is an interesting process in that as you climb, you see very little of the landscape. The focus is on avoiding rocks intent on shattering your ankle and streams intent on soaking your feet. Much of your attention is therefore directed at the ground and only at breaks can you actually sit back and contemplate your surroundings. So, suffice it to say, I took many breaks. I crested ridge and a mossy plateau spread out before me. Beyond it was an especially craggy edifice which was cloaked in a misty, almost steamy haze. I guessed that this must be where the tarn is. I was right and as I climbed up the suddenly snowy slope (the morning rain had now turned to a welcome gentle snow), I found Easedale Tarn. I must say, it was a completely different experience than Wansfell Pike. At Wansfell, the scene was one of exposed, windy bluster, and at Easedale it was the complete opposite. The tarn is surrounded on all sides by imposing cliffs and the result, combined with the muffling effect of the snow and the aforementioned absence of vehicular noise, is complete silence, the likes of which I had never felt. Just like Wansfell, I was breathless (partly because of the climb), but this time I felt an overwhelming calm. No adrenaline, just peace. The tarn was like glass, its surface gently animated by the lazily falling snow, the cliffs reflected in its surface like a mirror. I found a rock and sat, losing myself in the silence and the scene. It may sound cliché, but these places really do have the entrancing ability to make all other worries fall away.

Day 2

The steamy sign of Easedale Tarn

The tarn

My future home

Some brave souls walked past me, on their way to the more formidable peaks, but feeling less confident in my ability to navigate a snow-covered mountain in the cloud, I went back down the other side of the valley toward Grasmere. After finding a cheery little restaurant where I indulged in a pot of tea and delightful turkey/brie/cranberry panini I set off along the shore of Grasmere toward Loughrigg Fell, and ultimately toward Ambleside where I would catch the bus to Windermere train station. By now it was 2:30, so my climb did have a slightly limited time budget, but I figured to have left myself ample time to reach the peak and wander down to town. I followed the shore of Grasmere along a narrow roadway edged with moss-clad stone walls. I broke off up a bridleway through a steep section of woodland before bursting out onto the exposed side of Loughrigg. Again I was faced with a daunting climb, and again I ignored my protesting body (my shoulders, burdened with my backpack, had now joined the chorus of discomfort). And again, the hill taunted me with its multiple peaks until I reached its top. Though not as tall as Wansfell Pike, the view was just as grand. I looked out toward sunny Langdale and Grasmere before turning and facing the dark rumbling clouds of Windermere, heading straight for me. So I didn’t linger as long on this peak, and began to make my way for Ambleside as the driving snow began to fall. The descent was manageable by Wansfell standards, and in about an hour I was back in Ambleside.

My lunch spot

Grasmere

Loughrigg Fell, going up ...

and up ...

Looking back on Grasmere

After taking the bus back to Windermere and wandering the town for a while, I was back on the train, heading back toward civilization. Luckily for me, my train journey was in darkness so I could sit in peace and think about my beautiful adventures without being visually assaulted by the sprawling ugliness of Birmingham and Wolverhampton.

I’ve calculated that I covered around 25km during my two days, and it was 25km of pure euphoric bliss. The Lake District has proven worthy of my hopes and expectations, and I anxiously await April 1 and the start of my Easter break adventure.