Easter is usually a family weekend in the O’Brien house, and this inevitably means a walk somewhere. In the past we have visited Sandbanks or Presque’Ile, enjoying the peace and quiet of the early spring. This year, though I may be missing the company, I more than compensated for the missed walks. As with my last Lakes excursion, this blog promises to be a very lengthy affair, riddled with sidetracks and scatterbrained musings (cut me some slack, it was a 6 day trip), so settle down for a while. This is as much for me to remember the events of this delightful adventure as it is to tell a story, so don’t feel obligated to read the whole entry in one sitting. Too much decadence can be overwhelming.

Day 1: Oxford to Coniston

What was to be a fantastic trip got off to a fairly unassuming start. The train was not quite as early as my last foray into the English north (at 9:30AM this time), and the first leg of my journey was without incident. However, after my transfer in Birmingham, it became clear that the second part of the trip was not going to be agreeable. The train was massively overbooked and luckily I had a seat, but for the poor sods who got on between Birmingham and Preston, it was standing room only. I’m unsure why this happened, and I could have endured the crowding were it not for the hopelessly slow progress we were making. Between “engineering works” on the tracks (why they scheduled these for a holiday Monday is beyond me) and “signal problems” in Preston, by the time the train arrived we were more than one hour late. Conditions didn’t improve much in Preston as we watched the time of our connection train to Windermere get later and later before eventually being deemed “delayed”. We waited in Preston’s outdoor station for another hour before boarding a train for Glasgow that would stop at Oxenholme where we could then get another connection to Windermere. The train to Oxenholme was again overcrowded, thanks to the engineering works bungling, and this time I was one of the poor sods left standing in the aisles, contorting myself into all sorts of uncomfortable positions to let people with obnoxiously sized luggage get past. We laboured into Oxenholme and thankfully the connection to Windermere was not far behind. After alighting at the station, breathing in the Lake District air once again, I took a moment and calmed my frazzled nerves before hopping on a bus bound for Coniston.

The Lake District is stitched together by fine seams of narrow, twisting road, edged by stone walls layered with deep green moss. This treatment makes the potentially ugly automobile infrastructure network much more pleasing to the eye, but it makes for a righteously slow bus journey. We picked our way through the valleys and over the hills to Coniston in a series of short bursts of speed followed by stops to let oncoming cars pass. It is easy to spot the local drivers, who barrel headlong along the roads in battered Land Rovers with seemingly no regard for human life, and the tourists who with three feet of clearance on either side to spare, inch along nervous about the potentially catastrophic impact that a twig may have on the shiny new BMW. Thankfully however, this continuation of my tortuously slow transit process was far more bearable as I was free to drink in the sunlit beauty of the hills and valleys (a view much more desirable than the grimy train platform at Preston). We stopped in Hawkshead (home of Beatrix Potter) before finally reaching Coniston in the late afternoon. By this time I was restless to get to my hostel and take a break so I wandered into town and soon saw the Coniston Coppermines road sign pointing me straight uphill.

The setting of my first hostel was quite simply spectacular. After picking my way uphill for a mile (probably quite an amusing site for the on-looking sheep) I crested a ridge and a valley stretched out before me, ringed with snow-tinged peaks of rugged rock. There was a small cluster of townhouses, which I thought looked oddly out of place in such a remote valley, and further down the lane lay my destination. It was the perfect hostel in every way. Cottage sized and built of whitewashed stone, the Coppermines YHA was a sight for sore eyes indeed. I checked in and the chipper manager informed me that I was the only one booked in my dorm for the night. This was a welcome surprise on a day that had been dominated by unwelcome ones, and I was glad to have a night of peace and quiet to recharge for the week ahead.

Walking to the hostel

My little mountain cabin

Day 2: Coniston and Torver

I woke up at 7:30 the next morning, keen to get an early start and early breakfast. I sat in the tiny little dining room in the basement which was half-buried into the hillside. I sat and devoured my hot English breakfast (fried egg, beans, hash brown, bacon, black pudding, tomato) and had a couple of cups of tea. Another English couple was at the hostel and they were both very nice, we chatted about hillwalking and the Lake District landscape (the typical hiker small-talk) over breakfast before parting ways for the day. It was a cool day, probably hovering around 4 degrees and I set off, as always armed with my trusty map companion. I walked out of the valley and over the hills, eventually aiming for a mountain tarn called “Goat’s Water”. The views over Coniston and Coniston Water were stunning, and the muted dull colours of  the hills were wonderful against the cloudy sky. I ascended to Goat’s Water moving from rocky trail to rubble footpath, to snow-covered rubble footpath. The tarn was a beautiful spot, but I suggest a slight name change. Goat’s Ice would be more fitting. The tarn was frozen over thanks to the unseasonable cold snap that has gripped England for far longer than usual. Nonetheless, it added a certain air of harshness and isolation to the brutal landscape. The barren rocky crags surrounding the cold frozen tarn gave the whole place a positively Arctic feeling and this only increased when a sudden and ferocious burst of snow blew over. I huddled against a boulder, enjoying the other-worldliness of it all. For that brief moment it was as if I was a lonesome Arctic explorer, at the mercy of the elements in a cold, unforgiving land. To quote a title of one of my favourite books growing up, by the eminent Canadian Farley Mowat, I felt “Lost in the Barrens” of England and it was exhilarating. That’s the power of the Lake District’s notoriously variable weather, it can completely change the character of a place, at one moment peaceful and tranquil, and at another relentless and savage.

Goat's Water

The flurry

Abandoned slate mines on the way to Torver

I walked down from the tarn walking across the gentler, rolling hills down into Torver. I had only noticed Torver as a cluster of buildings on the map and headed there hoping to find a pub for lunch as it was approaching 1:00 in the afternoon. At the Church House Inn I not only found a pub, I found an oasis. I perused the menu from outside and after waffling a bit, decided to go in. What a tremendously good decision that was. I opened the door into the bar and was greeted by a wave of warmth and the rich scent of an open log fire. The ceilings were barely inches above my head and the atmosphere was one of a bygone era. I sat down, pleased with my chose, and for the moment alone. The bartender emerged and came to offer me a menu. She was a wonderfully cheery lady who alternated between calling me ‘darling’ and ‘gorgeous’. I went to the bar and ordered a pint of Loweswater ale, a local brew, and returned to make my choice. I settled on the steak sandwich and it was delicious, far from the traditional mediocrity that usually characterized pub food. I would have happily stayed all day in that cozy little room with the log fire, sampling the fantastic local beers until I couldn’t see straight, but I knew I wanted to walk the shore of Coniston Water and make my way back to town. As I left, I noticed that the chef had been a chef for David Bowie of all people, so this explains the added glitz to the food. 

Church House Inn

I ambled out of Torver following bridleways toward the lake, having staring contests with bewildered and straw-strewn Herdwick sheep along the way. A cluster of cars signified the point where the bridleway met up with the Cumbria Way national trail and I veered off, following this new trail down to the water. Coniston Water is a long narrow expanse of Lake, edged with gently rolling hills clothed in plantations of spruce and larch. I wandered along the stony beaches, throwing stones and listening to the lapping of the choppy waves against the shore. Over the course of this trip I found that water has a very soothing effect on me, and I will discuss this more later, but suffice to say it made for a nice contrast to the morning’s snowy, brusque bluster.

The path lead back to Coniston and after buying a few things for a snack dinner I was back at my little mountain-cabin home, enjoying the comfortable confines of my upper bunk, alone for a second blissful night. I made sure to keep the curtains open during the night so I could see the stars for the first time in what seems like ages, and let the cool mountain breeze lap over me in my bunk.

One of my many future houses

Coniston Water

Coniston

Day 3: Coniston to Elterwater

I awoke again at 7:30 and again feasted on a lovely English breakfast (to avoid repetition, this became my delicious daily routine) before checking out and bursting out into the glorious sunshine. Wednesday was an absolute stunner of a day, and for the first time in either Oxford or the Lakes, it felt like spring. The air was calm and the sky was a deep blue as I joyfully skipped out of Coniston, bound for Elterwater. The hills really do sing in the sun. Their snowy, rocky peaks are crisply defined against the clear blue sky, free from the shroud of low cloud that I had become accustomed to. It’s an interesting interplay really. The clouds fight to conceal the hills, showcasing the subtle, earthy tones of the hills – the russet colours of the dead ferns and grasses, the dull purple of the heather and the dark green of the yews – opting for a muted composition, while the boisterous and unabashed sun prefers to shed its cheerful light on everything in all its glory, turning up the volume of the landscape symphony up to 100. This is another example of how the character of this place is in constant flux, but in both cases the result is a display of spectacular beauty. The sun does lend itself to springtime particularly well though and as I walked through the wooded hills and across open pastures I relished the warmth and actually began to believe that spring will come after all.

Looking back on Coniston

The key point for today’s walk was Tarn Hows, a collection of tarns that had been altered by man to create one large body of water. The surroundings had been ‘landscaped’ long ago, through the planting of non-native spruces and larches, but generally it was tastefully done, and done with some restraint. The result is an overwhelmingly splendid place that has become one of the most popular attractions in the National Park. It is owned, like much of the Lake District, by the National Trust and the trails have been carefully maintained and groomed. It does therefore make a particularly attractive place for crowds and I was far from alone by the time I got there in the late morning, but (as my fantastic guidebook had told me), I was able to find a bit of seclusion. I sat down by the water’s edge, sheltered from the pathway by a hill and some large sturdy spruce. It was a magical sight as the sun glinted across the crystal clear water and I sat for a while under the trees, falling into a sort of meditative calm. My spot had the characteristics of some of my very favourite places: it was part Bon Echo, partly the woods behind our house, and part Humber Valley behind my Grampa’s house north of Toronto. However, as with any place in the Lake District, it really could not be compared to any other, and I was gently reminded where I was by the views of the far-off grassy hills and the occasional chatter of walkers and barking of dogs behind me. I noticed a pop can bobbing in the water, caught by the outstretched appendages of a fallen tree. Unable to bear the sight of this offensive evidence of human ignorance in such a perfect spot, I tight-roped my way out onto the tree and carefully plucked the can from the tarn. Seeing as it was a 33p Coke can, I figured it had had a long enough bath and I deposited it in the next garbage can I found, satisfied with my gesture.

Tarn Hows

The view from my spot

It was with great regret that I wrenched myself from my spot and started off for Elterwater, but I had places to be. I followed the valleys and clearings to Colwith Force waterfall. It was another fine understated but beautiful nature place, plunging through the rocky crevices of a hilly oak woodland. I kept walking along the beck (aka stream) until I reached the village of Skelwith Bridge. Not unlike Torver in that it was really just a cluster of cottages, I was again lucky to find a great lunch place, this time a cafe instead of a pub. Chester’s cafe was a bustling place on that sunny day as many fellow walkers had the same idea as I did, but I scored a patio table and ordered a pot of tea and deliciously gourmet lamb flatbread. Feeling thoroughly springy by now and knowing I was close to my destination I bounded off toward Elterwater with renewed vigour and soon found myself in the lovely little hamlet. Again, like most Lakes establishments it is a quaint and very old looking group of whitewashed stone cottages that appear to have been stuck in a time warp for a few centuries. Elterwater is nestled (again like many villages) in a valley surrounded by peaks and hills, and is bisected by the lovely Great Langdale Beck. I found a calm spot and sat for a while waiting for the hostel reception to open, tossing stones and getting lost in the serenity of the sunny, winking water.

Colwith Force

Looking down on Elterwater

The Lake District: where the porches are just big pieces of stone

This hostel was another gem, although this time I finally had to share the room with some other gents. The building is a converted house and carriage house and quite a bit larger than Coniston, but still small enough to feel welcoming. I relaxed for a while in the lounge, reading The Times (apparently Barack and Michelle had a bunch of kids and their families over to play games at the White House for Easter, how nice!). I knew that the next day’s walk promised to be arduous so I went to bed early, still basking in the warm glow of my springy Easter day.

Day 4: Elterwater to Honister Hause

As promised, this day was a long haul. I was out the door by 9:00 as had become usual and after grabbing some rations at the Co-op in the lovely little village of Chapel Stile, I was ready to head into the valleys and the mountains. Day 4 brought me into the real big-boy hills. Langdale Pikes, the Pike of Stickle, Crinkle Crags, Bowfell, Esk Pike, High Raise, and Glaramara are some of the most famous summits and thus the most popular climbs. In the interests of self-preservation and due to the fact that many of the big fellas were still covered in snow, I followed the Cumbria Way through Stake Pass on my way to Honister. Walking the valleys was no less spectacular than climbing the summits and even walking through the “pass” involved a 400m ascent which is no small feat. The day was another chilly affair as the clouds and wind replaced the sun and springtime air of the last day. I walked up and over some of the smaller hills, approaching the formidable, craggy edifice of Langdale on the horizon. I was soon surrounded by these hulking masses of rock and snow and it was a truly humbling sight. What was even more wonderful was that the valley and pass evidently proved too difficult for cars and soon after rounding the corner of Langdale, the road abruptly ended and for the next four or five hours I was walking in a place where only walkers and a few brave sheep dared venture.

The Langdale Pikes

Into the valley

The houses and farms disappeared and the only noticeable signs of human intervention were the very occasional waymarkers and the stone sheepfolds at the base of the hills. I was totally and completely alone, free to pay my respects to the mighty mountains. During this walk, as in all my walks, my thoughts drifted and I began thinking about the nature of the hills. I settled on the idea that a mountain is like a wise old man. They are far superior to us in age, they have seen many millennia pass by and know every trick in the book. They therefore deserve our profound admiration and utmost respect. This led me to another thought. It is common for hikers to come to the Lake District looking to ‘bag’ peaks. These are people looking to slay the mountain beast, to conquer the hills and claim victory. It’s unfortunate really, and I think the hills respond to this attitude. Approach them with the mindset that they are inferior and conquerable and the hills will make you suffer and the rewards will be shallow and petty. If, however, you approach the hills with respect and reverence, and desire only to be on the hills to feel their presence and to interact with them, then they will richly reward you with an experience that no ‘peak bagger’ can ever have. Go alone, go with the purpose of being alone, do not try to understand or analyze nature for its spiritual qualities can not be explained or deconstructed, drink in the beauty of the place in all its intricacies, and reap the rewards. John Muir, one of my favourite people, says it best:

“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop away from you like the leaves of Autumn.”

I followed Stake Pass to its crest and after saying goodbye to the views of one breathtaking valley, I was quickly and abruptly introduced to another. Stretching out before me was another massive expanse of barren, uncolonized land and I could just barely pick out the narrow rubble trail that was to be my route. I descended the snaking twisting path into the valley with the frenzied wind whipping joyfully at my face. It was a tortuous descent for my aching knees and shoulders, burdened by my backpack, and I took a much needed break after reaching the bottom. The trail followed a stream down through the valley which was fringed by more impressive crags and cliffs of glacial art. By the time I reached the warm pub in Stonethwaite I was ready to collapse but a steak and some chips and a pint of Cumberland Ale soon fixed that. The food wasn’t quite as spectacular as at Torver (and no food for the remainder of the trip would quite match it), but in my state of exhaustion it was heavenly. I slowly picked my way back uphill to Honister Hause hostel which was nestled in the crook of Honister Pass and located immediately adjacent to a working slate mine. This was another smaller location and again I had a room to myself. I slept like a king.

Where I came from

Where I was going

Pretty moss

Pretty river

My pub oasis

Day 5: Honister Hause to Buttermere

Today was a day of recuperation from my long, laborious trek and I had just a quick little jaunt (by my standards anyway) until my next destination in Buttermere. The morning was cloudy and cold and the rocky crags of Fleetwith Pike were tinged with a dusting of frost as I set out into the stillness. I’m sure there are more beautiful roads in the world, but I can recall very few that can match the B5289’s flair for the dramatic. The narrow strip of tarmac twists and turns through the narrow gap between Fleetwith Pike and the two more gentle giants called Dale Head and Robinson (not Robinson Hill or Robinson Pike, just Robinson). I followed the road for a while and it felt more like following a well-groomed trail than a road really. I only encountered a couple of cars, thankfully leaving me to enjoy the valley in the gloriously palpable morning silence. I strayed after a while and followed the beck that flowed next to the road, stopping on a couple of occasions to toss some stones and listen to its hypnotic gurgling. I have never seen rivers so clear. Eventually I reached the edge of Buttermere, one of the smaller lakes in the park. I followed its rocky shore until the town of Buttermere where I had lunch and decided what to do to kill time before the hostel opened.

Starting down the Honister Pass

More pretty moss

Looking toward Buttermere

Looking toward Haystacks

And a cow that couldn't care less

Buttermere is spectacularly set in a small strip of low land between more of the renowned peaks of Red Pike, Grasmoor, High Stile, High Crag, and notable fellwalker Alfred Wainwright’s favourite, Haystacks. Being surrounded by so much majesty, I was itching to do something so after lunch I decided to walk up to one of the intermediate ridges that offered a panoramic view of Buttermere and its surroundings. I followed the backbone of the ridge and reached its peak (a paltry 355m this time) and surveyed the area. I could see Crummock Water, the lake that closely neighbours Buttermere, and through a gap in the hills I could even make out the ocean and further on, the Isle of Man on the horizon. As you can tell, I was spoiled not only with the weather, but with the visibility too. But don’t take my word for it, have a look for yourself:

Channelling my inner Andy Goldsworthy on a beach on Crummock Water

The hostel

Day 6: Buttermere to Keswick

After another great hostel stay I was bound for my final destination of Keswick, the Lakes’ major city. I had originally planned on taking the bus to Keswick to get there early enough to peruse the bustling Saturday market before walking the circuit of nearby Derwent Water. However, these plans soon were dashed by my lack of cash for bus fare and a lack of restaurants in the village who had the capacity to give cash back. I was initially disappointed but I had a backup and I soon set off, intending to walk to Keswick by way of another mountain pass. After all, I had gone five days without sitting in a bus, why start now? This was a very different valley trail than the path from Elterwater to Honister. The hills here had a remarkably different character. Gone were the sheer, brutal cliff faces and instead the hills were rounded and graceful as if painted by a great sweeping glacial brush. They were starkly barren however, with no trees in sight for the first couple of hours save for a few scraggly specimens who clung close to the little streams trickling down from the peaks. This day marked the return of the sun and for the majority of the walk I was coat-less and glove-less for the first time. I think I may have actually come back with a tan thanks to this day. Go figure, you set off for the supposed “wettest area in England” and you come back with a tan.

Away from the craggy cliffs

And on to the rolling mountains

I picked my way along the trail that followed the contours before abruptly abandoning all sense and disintegrating into little more than a compacted line through treacherous, ankle devouring rubble. This slowed my progress somewhat but I was still through the pass in good time and on my way through the forested valleys toward Keswick by mid morning.

Spot the trail

This brings me to another insight about the Lakes. The experiential variety of the landscape is incredible. In one day I went from the lakes of Buttermere and Crummock Water and their harsh, snow-capped mountain companions, along a barren, exposed hillside trail, followed another crisp, entrancing mountain stream, through deciduous and coniferous forests, along a lakeshore and past a marina before reaching a city of fairly substantial size. It’s staggering. I have never been somewhere where there is so much variety, and all of it incredibly beautiful. The whole place just seems to work together – the forests, the rivers, the lakes, the hills, the mountains – all in glorious and harmonious concert. Even the villages, the human invasion of the landscape, seem to add to the sense of place. The quaint stone cottages, pristinely whitewashed and closely huddled together with their neighbours, achieve something that few settlements have managed since: they enhance their surroundings. I think this is because they are made of local materials, and it makes sense. The stone fences and stone houses add a certain quality to the landscape that is pleasing because it looks as if they are meant to be there. It’s the same with limestone houses in some towns in Canada for example, or brick buildings in Toronto, or the stone-built colleges of Oxford (whose stone came from nearby Headington). They reflect their region, they use locally available materials (partly as a matter of necessity), and the result is an incredibly harmonious relationship between built form and natural form. It’s an attitude that has lost prevalence in an age of globalization (an age when an apartment building in Toronto looks the same as one in Hong Kong), and it’s a concept worth revisiting I think.

Anyhow, I was in Keswick by 1:30, which considering it was probably close to a 10 mile walk, I considered quite a feat. I ambled around the market, which was a wonderful collection of farmers, artisans, photographers, sculptors and merchants. It was definitely worth seeing and after I had snooped around every stall I decided to head for the lake. I think Derwent Water may be the most beautiful large water body I have seen in the Lakes. I haven’t seen them all, but this one was magnificent. The water was shimmering in the sunshine and its perimeter was ringed with a mixture of plumes of deciduous skeletons awaiting spring’s new clothing and the dark green spikes of spruce and pine. It was (like the rest of the park) a postcard, and I sat for a while on its shore, enjoying the splendour. I went back to town for a brief while and returned to the lake to watch the sun set on the last night of my trip. I sat long after the sun had gone down, watching the sky glow a brilliant pinkish orange and watching the water lap against the rock I was carefully perched on. It was a perfect way to end my last full day.

Keswick market

Keswick pier

New friends!

Cool carving

Cooler sunset

Day 7: Keswick to Grasmere to Oxford

After a quick morning walk to the ancient Castlerigg Stone Circle, just on the outskirts of Keswick, (another site of humbling wisdom and mystery), I was on the bus to Grasmere. For the first time in 6 days I was being propelled to a destination by a vehicle other than my feet. I had been to Grasmere on my earlier trip but I had not done the main attraction of the town, which is the Wordsworth Museum at Dove Cottage. This was my only real destination for the day as I wanted a leisurely pace.

Castlerigg Stone Circle

Maybe it’s the Wordsworth connection, maybe it’s the bucolic lakeside setting among the fells, maybe it’s the daffodils, but there is something inexplicably magnetic about Grasmere. It strikes me as the quintessentially perfect Lakeland village. I walked through the churchyard and saw the Wordsworth collection of simple and modest family graves (adorned of course with a few daffodils). In the interests of honesty, I was not very familiar with William Wordsworth before I came to England. I knew the name but nothing more. Since, however, I have discovered an eighteenth century kindred spirit. His poetry, often informed by nature and the Cumbrian scenery around his early home in Grasmere, speaks to me, and so I decided his house would be the last stop on my grand tour; the Mecca at the end of my pilgrimage. The guided tour was highly enjoyable and our group crowded around the cozy little cottage that Wordsworth, his wife, and his sister had called home. Afterward, smelling of smoke from the cottage fireplace, I mused around the Wordsworth museum, looking at manuscripts and artifacts before buying myself a little keepsake. I now own a little tea cup, adorned with daffodils and inscribed with one of the most cheery and purely happy sections of poetry I’ve ever read:

            I wandered lonely as a cloud

            That floats on high o’er vales and hills

            When all at once I saw a crowd

            A host of golden daffodils

            Beside the lake beneath the trees

            Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Dove Cottage

It's fitting that this is my last picture from the trip.

Feeling uplifted and happy, I waited for the next bus from Grasmere to Windermere and was soon on the train back to Oxford. The train journey was another crowded one, and really nothing worth recounting here. I arrived back in Oxford around 7:00, exhausted but deeply content. What a wonderful feeling it was walking out of the train station and sauntering home through Oxford’s High Street feeling as if I was coming “home”. I walked through the streets, past all the famous buildings that now feel familiar, toward my humble abode, happy to be back. It is an experience that I will treasure, and one that very few tourists of visitors to Oxford ever stay long enough to feel. It’s a blessing that I get to return to such a beautiful place, it lessens the culture shock that would inevitably afflict someone returning from the Lakes to a place of boredom or ugliness. In short, it’s nice to be home. It’s nice to be able to wear freshly laundered clothes, it’s nice to walk unburdened by a pack weighing on my shoulders, and most of all it’s nice to be in my own room in my own bed.

Like with any other place that has a profound influence on your soul, I know that I leave a piece of me behind in the Lake District. A small part of myself that I can only tap into in that resplendent place will remain there, anxiously awaiting my return. I will try my best not to keep it waiting.

As I sat here beginning to write this blog, I decided to christen my tea cup with a bottle of Cumberland Ale that I had hastily bought to bring home. In a strange way I found myself honouring the Lake District in the most appropriate possible way. With a mug emblazoned with the immortal poetry of Wordsworth and a beer that is, as the label says, “Pure Lake District” I salute the Lakes, in all their poetically intoxicating beauty.