The Mighty Dolomites
Twelve days in Northern Italy, exploring the Marmolada region, known as the Queen of the Dolomites, walking hut-to-hut through clouded mountain scapes, lush meadows and fabulous peaks,
The Italian Dolomites
The trip to the Dolomites, like the Coast to Coast, had been a long time in the making. The original plan was to head out in early June to bask in the young summer sunshine, but we had to cancel as Lydia, Esther’s mother, was still in the tumult of pancreatic cancer – so we set off in September, delayed but well prepared for perhaps more ‘robust’ weather.
Our adventure started as usual with a diversion to Sheffield, to drop off Inga and the car, both to the safe keep of our kids and to grab a cheeky lift to the train station - but only after a simple but delicious homemade lentil and chorizo stew. From Sheffield we alighted at Derby Train Station where, with my one pice of thorough planning, we walked the twenty minutes to Derby bus station to catch the East Midlands Airport Flyer, which promptly took off towards its first stop, Derby Train Station. Still, it’s always good to stretch one’s legs in-between journeys.
We arrived at the airport with just over two hours until to our early evening flight. I’d had visions of an empty airport, as who’d be flying of a Sunday evening? Well, lots of people apparently. The place was packed, but we passed through the security quickly enough, and settled down in the nearest bar to enjoy alcohol free beer at extortionate prices, before eventually heading to board Ryanair Flight FR6571 from Gate 19.
There are many reasons to detest flying with Ireland’s premier economy airline, but sitting in my mid-row seat, imprisoned in the garish yellow and grey interiors with 20 minutes until takeoff, I found reason No 1 - their choice of in-flight music. If you can call it that. Imagine a BTEC remix of a Stock, Aitken and Waterman 90s classic with a care home’s elevator playlist and you’ll get the idea.
Still, the flight landed early so how can I complain?
A €19, ten minute taxi ride later and we were at our canal-side room for the night, above a well reviewed restaurant which was closed, it being a Sunday and a national holiday. Oh well…
So having surmounted the glass staircase and enjoyed throwing the windows open on our room, we ventured out in search of our first meal on Italian soil.
Treviso is a beautiful and tranquil small town to the north of Venice, whose airport has provided the requisite location for any named Ryanair destination, as in being at least 40 minutes drive away from where it proclaims to take you. Hence Venice, Treviso on the flight tickets.
Its history dates back to its importance as a trading town in Roman times, predicting the rise of Venice and the doges. Full of canals and riverways fed not by mountain streams but from the inrushing tides of the Mediterranean.
Our first port of call was a lively and extremely busy eatery where we were told by a rather surly waiter that we’d have to wait for 20 minutes and that he couldn’t guarantee the table would be outside in the evening air rather than inside in the thumping tunes apparently popular with today’s youth.
So we opted to walk on.
Thank God we did. We found the Picola Osteria Papero Rosso (Small Red Pepper Osteria) which coincidentally was the first place I’d identified on my random Google Maps search. And what to find it was, a small cozy place run by a man and woman – he the chef, she the front of house – and both excelled in their roles. Having been told at first there were only tables inside, she and Esther quickly identified an outside table that was obviously not part of the evening‘s pre-booked arrangements, and so unexpectedly we ended up with the best seats in the house.
Your first meal in any foreign country always memorable and thankfully this one will be also - for all the right reasons.
Each of our three chosen courses were exemplary for their simplicity as much as for their deliciousness. Chichetti of Gorgonzola and honey, local Casatella cheese with a divine anchovy and another I can’t recall were eaten with smiles, oohs and aahhs.
The only bitterness being the regret that only Italians in Italy can conjure such delights. Or maybe it’s just Carlo, who runs our local Italian. Or maybe he’s not really Italian? He also says he played for Manchester City in the 1950s so he’s suspicious in many ways.
Anyhow, our secondi was a huge plate of delicious porchetta, local cheese and rich jam – each element divine, but together they moved beyond mere divinity. Tortellini with aubergine and tomato and a zucchini bogli (a local pasta akin to fat spaghetti) were capped with tiramisu, raspberry ricotta cakes and grappa. All for less than £88.
On the way back to our room, we found ourselves following floating, low slung tunes of jazz, to find a three-piece band playing in the nearby park. The ambience stayed with us until the church bell struck 10pm through our bedroom window and, having made the most of our Italian bed, we drifted to sleep.
We were only woken occasionally to be fair, by roadside noises, road sweepers, late night revellers, early morning cyclists and the intermittent nighttime bites from Treviso’s insect nightlife.
Bliss.
Locanda Ponte Dante, Treviso
Treviso to Pozzalle
We woke to the poetic chatter of the Italian working day - delivery men, road workers, early morning strollers, police sirens - we heard it all through the wide open windows. But with views of the Ponte Dante and the fast flowing river beneath acting as a stageset to the operatic cacophony, it was wondrously annoying.
Breakfast was from nine, served inside the ground floor restaurant by an Italian version of Carla from Cheers - attitude making up for a lack of style. Her scrambled eggs were similar, but the porchetta was plentiful and her coffee excellent.
At ten o’clock we walked the six minutes to the Plaza di Raphael to catch the bus to the outskirts of Treviso, to a large commercial shopping complex, in order to catch the Cortina Express Coach, linking Venice to the south with the Dolomites to the north.
The number three bus arrived a few minutes late and, having asked in my best Italian to purchase two single tickets with cash, we were promptly ushered on ‘gratis’ as the driver, being behind schedule, obviously couldn’t afford the time to explain to a couple of foreigners the intricacies of the Italian bus ticketing system.
On the bus we were joined by two young American women whose voices carried throughout the whole bus as they railed against the apparent inadequacies of their immediate superiors and work colleagues. As we alighted however, we realised that they too were heading in the same direction, so quickly established a rapport in order to share intelligence concerning the connection.
We needn’t have bothered.
When the Cortina Express arrived, the driver immediately asked if we had pre-book tickets. On my response in the negative, he gleefully (it seemed to me) informed us that the coach was full. Our two American companions were in the same boat. So having consulted both the UK and US version of Google Maps, we set off in another direction to try and find an alternative route north, having discovered that all tickets for the Cortina Express were sold out until 8:32pm – far later than any of us had planned.
Esther intuitively took the lead but then immediately passed over the responsibility to the two Americans who unsurprisingly oozed confidence. We dutifully followed under highway underpasses, through industrial estates, across grass verges and obscure subways, until finally succumbing to calling an Uber. We waited twenty minutes for the twelve minute and €30 ride back to Treviso train station – like the biblical dogs returning to their own vomit, we went back along the same route we had bussed out of town just two hours previous. To be fair, for €30 we traveled in style - a brand new Merc with an ultra stylish and smart Italian female driver, who poise and demeanor somehow justifying the hefty fee.
The train fare though was incredibly cheap at just £18 for two of us, so even accounting for the €20 contribution towards the taxi, it was still cheaper than the Cortina Express. So who’s gleeful now, huh?
The journey lasted an hour which gave us time to discover the careers of our two new American friends - one a waitress in a Brooklyn bar and the other employed by the National Indian Government of Washington state to help return stolen lands and rights to the people of the Lummi Tribal Nation. Two equally impressive careers.
From our train to bus and once more the search for a tabacchi to purchase tickets and so were directed by three elderly Italian gents up the road, more by gesture than by comprehension.
En route however, we stumbled across the bus we needed at a junction where the driver stopped, initially to let us cross, before ushering us onto the empty bus, again for free, with his warm smile and heavy right foot, delivering us just minutes later to the picturesque town of Pieve di Cadore, itself just a thirty minutes hike to our destination for the night, Pozzale.
We took the path less trodden, through barbed brambles, steep woods and nettled clearings, until we arrived at the mountainside hamlet, with our Airbnb being above the bakery, and, more critically, besides the bar. Having consumed two pints apiece of the very un-Italian Lagunitas IPA as well as a couple of toasted sandwiches, we returned to our quaint and ever so old-fashioned first floor apartment, for a game of scrabble, wine and disappointing cakes from the bakery below.
A heady start to our mountain adventures.
Newcastle 2 - Liverpool 3
Pozzale to Rifugio Antelao
We should have realised, when the Airbnb was clearly listed as being above a patisserie, that we’d be woken early to the noises of the bakers preparing for the day. So it was around four in the morning when we were both stirred from our slumber by various scrapes, bangs and chatter from below. We do have some form mind, having rented a house for a month back in 2006 to escape our home which was infested with builders as well as woodworm, that was also next to the then famous coke-fired Killer’s Bakery in Wirksworth. At least the bakers here at Pollazze were not keen whistlers.
So having stirred early and marvelled at the view from the living room window, we decided (or at least Esther decided for us) that we should set off early.
08:30 saw us packed and pulling the door to on our chintzy apartment, to buy peaches, pastries and plain yoghurt from the shop below and heading out on the first leg of our four day hike.
The route through the village took us past an impressive swallow laden church as well as a selection of fantastic black-and-white large format photos, celebrating village life and times gone by, when the locals looked like the proverbial peasants they probably were, living off the land through hard toil and harsher weather.
The route soon took us away from the road, which was really more a track for quad bikes or four-wheel-drive, and ascended through a delightful if decidedly steep woodland track. We paused often to take in the views as well as some air, and also to breakfast on the peach and yoghurt. This was done besides a ridiculously idyllic mountain retreat – a simple wooden shack with simply stunning views across the valley.
We walked for a few hours in this way, with butterflies and wild flowers to ponder, meeting a few people too, mostly Italians and quite a few families with surprisingly young children, which was as reassuring as it was cute.
Climbing to over 6,100 feet, the pathway started to descend before rising once more to take us up to the highest point of the days walk - the Chiesetta di San Dimisio with more spectacular views across to Monte Antelao.
From here we descended steeply to be greeted by the Rifugio Antelao, our base for the rest of the day and our bed for the night.
Cold beers, deck chairs and sunshine.
Not a bad introduction to the Dolomiti.
Rigufio Antelao to Rifugio Chiggiatta
Having dined on a thin Bolognaise and pasta, an unappealing but tasty fried sausage, grilled cheese and polenta, we retired to our shared dormitory at around 10pm, with the glow of the final nightcap of licorice grappa still warm in the throat. The room held 12 beds in 6 bunks and soon they were all filled, including three bunks filled with one of the families we had met on the way up, along with their worryingly very lively children. My panic was misplaced however as, after only 10 minutes or so of bedtime whispers, they fell asleep and were still blissfully silent the next morning at 6:30am when the sun burst through the windows – no one had thought to close the shutters.
At 8:00 we all gathered downstairs in anticipation of the morning's hearty breakfast, to be sadly disappointed with just flasks of coffee, plastic wrapped ‘toast’, and a selection of prepackaged jams and chocolate spreads on offer.
The views made up for it however as the morning mists were caressing the peaks with plumes of pink and subtle shades of swirling blues and greys.
Bags packed we set off promptly at 8:30am knowing our day ahead would no doubt be full and exhausting in equal measure.
Only 7.6 miles but with 2,700 ft of climb and mostly in the final 2 miles with Rifugio Chiggiato being perched on top of a 6,500ft mountain.
The first section was a steady climb through tree line pathways along the side of a mountain pass, part of the Monte Antelao massif. After an hour the path split, providing two options for our route around the first headland, which Esther explained to me as being the raven or the moose head routes.
Bemused I asked for an explanation only to be shown both routes on the map where sure enough, two clear blue outlines of a raven and moose’s head stood out as obvious nomenclatures. Komoot should take note.
The high peak of Monte Antelao loomed ahead with her sun kissed crests visible briefly in between the fast moving clouds. The path veered sharply to start its 3 mile descent, first through woodland before breaking onto the magical Antelao Meadow, still at 2,000ft, complete with bell laden cows, wild horses and mules and a further pleasant woodland pathway down to the wide glacial looking dried river bed. We crossed in anticipation of our lunchtime destination, a local eatery which soon filled with lots of locals and one in particular who arrived with his pet cat on his shoulder on a lead.
We lunched on gnocchi, pizza, cabbage, and mushrooms and finished off with a shared panacote with fruti di bosci, before we readied ourselves for the two hour climb ahead.
It was only 2 miles but with a 2,400 feet ascent, after a good four hours walk already, plus a heavier than planned lunch, with our backpacks… it was flagged as being an unending slog in the guidebook and it more than delivered on its description. It zigzagged and varied in its angle of ascent only from difficult to painful. Thankfully the midday sun started to haze over so at least we didn’t have the direct heat to deal with – but still, we paused every hundred metres of climb to make sure we didn’t arrive completely dead on our feet – just almost.
After two full hours of grunts and groans, we eventually saw the welcome grey roof line of our Rifugio come to view – obscured by the heavy rain which had replaced the midday sunshine and made the pathway just a little bit more treacherous and gave us another reason to feel even more sorry for ourselves.
The hostel is in a truly magnificent location, but being so isolated, with no vehicle access - not even quad bikes - and with the weather having turned, there were only four of us staying the night.
This did mean that we got our own dormitory, which almost made up for the lack of hot showers (a cold shower was offered for €6) and the slight lack of welcome. The three young men who greeted us (if you can greet someone without actually looking at them) seemed happy enough in their own company as they huddled to one side of the room beside the wood burning stove. Thankfully we were soon joined by a Flemish mother and daughter, Carmen and Annabella, who we had met on our way up through the wet woods below.
Carmen is a ballet teacher and Annabel a soon to be philosophy or psychology student - she had yet to decide.
Neither spoken Italian but being Flemish their English was better than ours and we soon started chatting and feeling at home, cocooned from the increasingly harsh weather outside.
Rifugio Chiggiata to Rifugio Ciarédo
After the evening meal we played cards with Carmen and Annabella, Annabella teaching us an Italian card game called Briscola which was a lot of fun, and ended in a suitably magnanimous a-game-a-piece drawer.
We retired to our own dormitory just after 9:30pm to enjoy an hour's reading only for the lights to be turned off at 10 o’clock.
In the morning we were greeted by an excellent breakfast (eggs, yoghurt, toast) and excellent if cloud strewn views across the mountain ranges. I was even able to make out a view of Rifugio Antelao and trace our path of the previous day, around the mountain passes and through the meadow, before the pathway disappeared into the descending woodland.
We set off for Rifugio Baion, half way to our final destination, a little later than planned at 9:30am but we’re confident we’d arrive in time for lunch, to shelter from the predicted midday storm.
Esther‘s Cicerone guide warned the route included a section of Level 3 whereas my Komoot App flagged it ominously as potentially dangerous, so, as we approached, not quite knowing what we were in for, my imagination started playing its mind games with my resolve, as well as my stomach. I had imagined a Via Ferrata (iron path) to be simply a narrow pathway with a steep, possibly sheer drop to one side, but that the steel rope was there more as a reassurance, something to hold onto to calm one’s nerves… So as we turned the corner and caught our first sight of the steel rope running vertically up a rock face for perhaps 5 meters, before disappearing around a rocky outcrop, I was momentarily confused. Until that is it dawned on me that it was inviting us, daring us to climb.
At this point, the small framed photograph of the young Italian woman, surrounded by candles and flowers we passed just minutes before made sense.
Going ahead of Esther, trying to show a level of calm that wasn’t really there, I grabbed the steel rope and heaved myself up, one lunge at a time, taking my full weight as well as my backpack in my grip whilst seeking footholds in the rockface sufficient to use my legs as well as my arms. As the rope levelled out, the drop below seemed to magnify and so the 10 or 15 meter steep scree below felt more like a 200 meter sheer crevasse.
Esther followed, cursed the man whose placement of the pegs heights and distances took no account of the female frame.
It was probably no more than a 20 metre stretch of Via Ferrata. My Komoot app’s red highlighted pathway showed 450m. There was more to come.
In fact there were three more sections, but in truth none worse than the first - not in the fear factor at any rate - maybe we were getting used to it? As we descended the final section, once more a vertical line but this time in backwards descent, I made the foolish error of telling Esther to watch where she was putting her back foot, having slipped myself. I should have of course been more considerate and not proffered said advice as she was in the throes of clinging on for dear life with the last thing needed such obvious and condescending guidance.
Still, it’s always good to be taken out of one's comfort zone.
We were later told that had we fallen our insurance would be invalid, as to use the Via Ferrata you should be equipped with harnesses, carabiners and helmets. Next time…
The last stretch towards Rifugio Baion was thankfully a simple woodland path punctuated with brief mountain views but mainly panoramas of cloud and mist.
It was set beside an old cattle barn which you had to walk through to get to the entrance. The farm’s cattle were grazing in nearby fields by the sound of the melodic bells.
Inside the refuge, the welcome was as warm as the large fireplace and we settled into our table for two, to weather the worst of the storm which had just punctually arrived, and to enjoy a delicious soup, hearty polenta and sausage and yet more Panacot, all washed down with beer of course and crowned with yet more grappa.
The storm showed no sign of easing off and yet we knew we'd have an hour’s walk at least ahead of us. So reluctantly we slowly donned our waterproofs, bid our farewells and set off into the rains – not before leaving money behind the bar to greet Carmen and Annabella with a drink on their arrival.
The rain eased off but we were still forced to backtrack on our route through the woods as the pathways were treacherous with raging rivulets of rainwater, crashing down the rutted pathway, making ascent difficult and descent comical. So we veered back to take the road and, after an hour and a bit, whose highlight was passing a procession of Italian cows going somewhere with purposeful grace, we finally arrived at the Rifugio in the clouds Ciarédo.
Coast to Coast
Our first stage of the Coast to Coast, from St Bees in Cumbria to Kirkby Steven in the Yorkshire Dales
Just before our descent to Black Sail Youth Hostel
We’d spoken about doing the Coast to Coast for a while. We’d been to Scarthins, our local bookshop and purchased the requisite Cicerone Guide, we’d played with alternative routes on Google Maps for a few days and then, as often is the case, with the initial burst of enthusiasm having waned, the plans were shelved, to be supplanted by longer, more exotic routes - and more Cicerone’s - Walking in the Dolomites, Across The Eastern Alp, Walking in Austria.
But then, Esther‘s beloved mother Lydia, finally succumbed to pancreatic cancer, and so it came back into focus. For one it was in the UK so it would be easier to arrange last minute (and rearrange - more on this later), plus it would give us the flexibility to shorten if needed with easy access to public transport along the way.
But most importantly of course, it would provide Esther with the best bereavement therapy of all - nature and motion.
Knowing we wouldn’t have the time to complete the 192 miles in one go, which realistically would take far longer than the 12 days the Cicerone Guide suggested, we settled on seven days walking, starting at St Bees on the Cumbrian west coast.
Having booked all the necessary accommodation, updating my Google Sheet with every confirmation, I thought it prudent to take Esther through the plan in detail , which we did over beers one evening in The Royal Oak. It may have been prudent but it would have been far wiser to have done so before booking, with several of my proposed routes and reservations needing to be altered due to Esther’s insistence that there was no way on earth that she’d be walking 22 miles in one day up and down the Lakeland Fells and called my sanity into question…
The Charming Town Venacular of St Bees
The Train to St Bees
There is something quintessentially English and mildly depressing about most northern seaside towns and St Bees didn’t disappoint. However, a brief and enforced stop at Whitehaven - to buy a left behind phone charger - established the fact that there were worse. Even though we only really experienced the local Tesco and Railway Station - they were enough to make the judgement.
The St Bees B&B, at Stonehouse Farm however, was as clean as it was twee and we pleasantly lolled on each of the three single beds on offer in the ‘garden view’ room that was Room Number 2, as we pondered the taxing dilemma as to which of the two high street pubs to gamble taking our evening meal.
The Queen’s Hotel appeared to have time warped from several decades previous which might explain why it didn’t have a website. But having stumbled across a few customer photos on their long since updated Facebook listing, I could see why.
But then the Manner Arms, with its ‘considered’ font and Farrow and Ball colour palette raised alarm bells of its own with a menu of pub classics which stretched ominously over several pages.
However, given each were or a mere two minute walk from our B&B, a visual reconnaissance was called for.
The Manner Arms won - more so because The Queen’s appeared questionable as to whether it was open or not, judging by the rust stained, desultory exterior. Or for that matter, if it was indeed open for business, whether we’d want to touch the front door handle, let alone eat there.
So we entered The Manners. The staff were friendly and judging by the level of obscenities heard around the bar, at least we felt we’d stumbled across a ‘locals’ pub.
Having ordered a pair of pints, both pale ales, we surveyed the extensive menu – Esther opting for the sirloin steak and I the beef brisket. When they arrived however, it soon became clear that we had somehow ordered each others by mistake, as my choice looked far the better of the two. So plates were swapped and Esther was able to at least keep up her vegetable intake, whilst I was left with the best-worst steak I’ve ever had - tasty but almost inedible. A bit like eating a stale Peperami.
Wine was followed by whiskey (Irish) and Scrabble (I won) and finally chocolate, before our self imposed 9pm curfew.
To dream of breakfast at 7:30 am
Scrabble Paul 400 Esther 338
NO SEVEN LETTER WORDS
Day 1 - St Bees to Ennerdale Bridge
15.6 miles | 1,850 ft climb
We were promptly ushered into the breakfast room at 7:30am by Carol and who generously allowed us to sit anywhere. We chose a table set for two overlooking (we assumed) Carol’s collection of miniature pony figurines along with accompanying comic pony framed illustrations adorning the peach painted walls.
It didn’t bode well, but to be fair, the coffee and the home-made marmalades served as a first course, were above average.
The same sadly could not be said of the pale pink sausages, nor the flat tasteless tomatoes nor the fried egg which had the appearance of an AI render and tasted little better.
But there was lots of it.
So after packing and drying the coffee stained curtains with toilet roll and a hair dryer (my fault having knocked over my flask) we settled the bill, and set off with full bellies and fuller expectations.
The sun shone down, the beach beckoned and we had our first encounter of the trip with fellow trekkers - a father and his three sons who were equally as keen as us to get their feet wet in the Irish sea. Oh and of course to select a small stone or pebble to carry along the width of England to cast into the North Sea on the other side as is the Coast to Coast custom.
I chose two, each for their Netsuke-like qualities in the hand – one to represent myself and another for Esther‘s mother, Lydia, whose memory I vowed to keep me company throughout the journey.
After the beach the walk ascended along the coastline to St Bees Head. An exemplary stroll with exceptional wild life. We saw low flying cormorants, nesting and inquisitive Herring Gulls as well as Guilemots complete with fledgelings
Turning inland after the St Bees lighthouse and Redstone quarry (which was used for the Anglican cathedral in Liverpool) the landscape and vernacular descended into the humdrum before descending further into the predictable ugly grim reality of northern who-cares architecture. Poverty, abandonment, neglect and despair were as obvious as the satellite dishes.
The diversion didn’t help, driving us further along suburban streets and roads rather than the grassy fells which we had longed for.
A brief stop by a rain induced rampaging river crested by a low slung stone bridge, gave us a chance to devour wild raspberries as well as douse our hair to mitigate the sultry late afternoon heat, before we began the uphill trudge towards our destination for the day.
Finally tarmac gave way to track and then to field delivering us from the urban back to the rural. Esther took the low pathway whilst I traversed Flat Fell competing with a straggle of Cumbrian sheep for the best route to the top.
An hour’s descent along ravines and hedge lined sidewalks brought us eventually to Ennerdale Bridge, stopping at the Fox and Hounds for a thirst quenching pint of Loweswater Gold, beside a small tributary to the River Ehen, before making our way to the Shepherd‘s Arms, our hotel for the night.
John Cleese and Prunella Scales would been delighted that such a credible tribute act was still performing, perfectly aping the Fawlty Towers experience of provincial, tired interiors with a smiling but ultimately shambolic service. Even the chef looked ready at any moment to either quit or die of boredom.
Our evening meal of Lamb Henry (slow braised shoulder) and St Bees lobster linguine (with red sauce, that’s the only adequate adjective) were deemed hearty enough, but perhaps the further three pints of Loweswater Gold may have skewered my culinary evaluation.
Tomorrow promised a shorter day, meandering along Ennerdale Water before the slow incline to Black Sail Youth Hostel – a lonely and lowly 8 miles away.
Which meant we’d have more time to savour our breakfast, pre-ordered on A4 sheets of multiple-choice selections and detailed options which had probably remained unchanged since 1975. Basil would approve.
Scrabble Paul 415 Esther 357
UNVEILS (72) BALLSIER (83)
Day 2 - Ennerdale Bridge to Black Sail Youth Hostel
10 miles | 1,175 ft climb
We started the day with breakfast in the clearly defined ‘Breakfast Room’ complete with a mantelpiece display of gaudy gold and silver candles. Esther devoured a large bowl of plums accompanied by our own smuggled blend of muesli and chia seeds, whilst I wallowed in the decadence of white sliced toasted bread, butter and marmalade.
My pre-selected breakfast arrived - perhaps I’d accidentally ticked the box to denote a child’s portion as the Cumberland sausage was no more than 80mm in length – served with a solitary tomato, a singular poached egg and a slice of black pudding that was cooked on one side only. If I hid my disappointment then it was through a misguided sense of duty as an Englishman, not wanting to make a fuss. Not so Esther. She had written copious notes along with her ‘tick’ next to ‘Scrambled Eggs’ detailing the exact creamy (but not watery!) property of her desired eggs, to accompany her smoked salmon. But alas, as usual, they arrived overcooked in a homogenous pale yellow mass, with an appearance reminiscent of expanding foam. A pitiful sadness mirrored increasingly is Esther’s expression with each mouthful.
Still, my coffee was good. You have to take your victories where you can.
Not to be downhearted, we set off as planned at 9am, walking out of the village through roadworks to a Forestry Commission track, which was unhelpfully declared closed with signs warning of ‘Potential Death’ - which of course we ignored.
Surviving the near death experience of traversing a route at least 80 yards from any potential danger, we emerged beside the serene shoreline of Ennerdale Water. Having sat for a while to take in the view, we opted for the southern track, taking in a spectacular rocky outcrop called Robin Hood’s Seat and a series of lovely birch woodlands interspersed by pebbled beaches and lapping waters. The sun broke out and, as we had lots of time to spare, Esther decided took to the water for a cooling plunge, whilst I looked to safeguarded the rucksacks with dragonflies for company.
On reaching the end of Ennerdale Water, the path turned sharply first left then right to the start of a four mile stretch of monotonous forestry pathway – a rough hued road with decaying forests on either side. After two miles, Esther however, through studying her OS App in frustration with the route, discovered a parallel pathway across the river which proved too tempting not to try and forge our way across.
I started my traverse across the raging torrents of the River Liza having de-booted and de-socked at the first obvious grassy plateau, whilst Esther decided to explore further down the bank, in the hope of finding a better point to cross - stepping stones or similar. Perhaps a rope bridge or a St Christopher. So we found ourselves, on the far side of the river, separated in the woods with no phone signal or Wi-Fi. We were reduced to the humbling experience of having to shout one another’s names, rather than simply messaging or consulting a FindMy app. Neither of us initially heard the other calling and when I did get a response, the tone was not exactly that of a woman relieved to have found her man… Eventually, having our pathways converge along the track, and after the briefest of fallouts (for us at least), we continued on our way until we arrived at the wooden bridge which would return us to the same forestry pathway.
Before crossing it though, Esther took another plunge downstream of the bridge, to cool off from the afternoon sunshine as well to cool her ire with my lack of assistance across the river.
As we still had plenty of time, we opted for one final detour before Black Sail Youth Hostel. The path ascended steeply to 400m - too steeply in places for my liking as I suffered the full weight of my rucksack on my 90 degree bent back.
It was worth the 20 minutes of agony though as the views back to Ennerdale, as well as the descent to YHA Black Sail were equally spectacular. It’s always better to arrive at your destination going downhill than up.
The hostel itself was as good as hoped, its simple interior perfectly balanced by the simplicity of the proffered evening meal; three sausages, a pile of mash, a big jug of gravy and copious amounts of peas. All prepared by the Hostel Manager Rick and his young Scottish apprentice (he put the sausages in the oven) and was followed by a definitely not home-made carrot cake. We opted, despite Rick’s best sales pitch, not to go for the squirty cream. Don’t get me wrong though, this place was absolutely perfect – hosteling at its basic best and most beautifully isolated.
Having booked single bunks in gendered dorms, we were pleasantly surprised to be told we had a dorm all to ourselves as there were only us, a family of three and two others staying the night - for once not full, but still too busy to be kind to a group of young campers in search of a place to pitch their tents for the night. Rick, in his best managerial tone, told them they could only do so where he couldn’t see them so that he didn’t have to report it to the Forestry Commission, and that they could use the toilet now, but that was it.
During the night, as I woke to the winds howling and the rain rasping the windows, I felt a pang of guilt as I nestled beneath my warm duvet.
Somehow I couldn’t imagine this was a feeling shared by Rick.
The walk tomorrow would take us across two tops to Grasmere - a long arduous day called for an early start, so Rick’s Full English declined, we set our alarms for a 7 am start.
Scrabble Paul 386 Esther 369
MINERALS (86) FRUITERY (92)
Black Sail Youth Hostel
Day 3 - YHA Black Sail to Grasmere
15 miles | 2,825 ft climb
(Being written on day 4 as too tired on day 3)
What a day! 11 hours hike. Two tops traversed and one near suicidal wife. At least now I know that 15 miles was at least 5 miles too long for Esther, especially as the sun came out for the last two hour tortuous slog down into Grassmere. Tortuous for Esther due to exhaustion and a pained hip. Tortuous for me to know I’d caused it. Thank God it wasn’t the originally planned 22.
But back to the beginning…
We woke up at 6 am ready to gather our thoughts, pack our bags and gird our loins, to set off at the agreed hour of 7 am.
We left Black Sail behind, beneath the drama of the morning mists and low clouds. I decided on the word ‘brooding’ for the hostile itself – dark, dramatic and dangerously attractive, like the Mr Rochester of Youth Hostels.
As we started our first climb, we could see the two tents of the youthful group below whom we’d briefly met the night before. Fellow coaster to coasters but doing it the hard way – with tents and intentions to wild camp across the length of the 192 mile route. Typical of the youth of today.
After 45 minutes tough slog we crested the first top, chased behind by clouds and enticed onwards by the promise of Lakeland vistas, who teased us for the next ten minutes between swirling mists and battleship grey clouds. Lake Buttermere and Ennerdale Water could both briefly be seen, linked by High Style, with distant St Bees Head – or possibly Whitehaven (begrudgingly) visible in the distance.
The path caressed the contours of the tributary hills to Great Gable before descending via the old tram line down to Honister Slate Mine, where we had to stop to explore the offering a ‘world of slate’ but also an exceptionally good sausage roll. Spicy on the seasoning, enclosed in crisp pastry and generous in size, it was good enough to evoke the mention of Adrian, a work colleague with a penchant for such savoury snacks, who we both agreed would wholeheartedly approve.
Onwards. We descended into Borrowdale, where we were treated to a live re-enactment of a Thomas Hardy novel, as the young, dark haired and plaid shirted young man steered his flock of Cumbrian sheep with the help of his three dogs – small dark Collies Esther assures me. I felt a small pang of jealousy knowing the pleasure Esther would take in watching him at his work, might be enhanced by his likeness to a certain Gabriel Oak.
We stopped for mugs of hot tea and apples in the excellent and appropriately named Flock In Tea Rooms at Yew Tree farm, at Rosthwaite, where we once more bumped into the four young campers from the night before and where Esther, her conversation being overheard, was informed that the Sherlock Holmes story she’d been listening to would be A Study in Scarlet.
It was now midday. We had been walking for five hours and only amassed seven miles. We knew the path would now cross over the tarn onto the eight mile stretch to Grasemere, through which we knew no more tea rooms, pubs or even houses would be encountered. We were heading into the wilderness.
The first hour and a half of climb was through sublime, fern lined slopes with the feverish tarn rushing downhill beside us. We stopped several times on our way up, to what we assumed was to be the second and final summit of the day - the magnificent Lining Craig, whose promontory afforded spectacular views back to Borrowdale and beyond.
But behind which rose yet another 100 metres of incline to Calf’s Crag.
The highest peak attained, the main note of interest of the next two hours crossing Grasmere Moor were the monumental stone slab paving stones – like a hard landscaped garden path, that ran for a mile across a precious peat-bog crested top, before the path eventually opened up towards the Eden Valley.
Paradise it may have been but ten miles in and with still five to go the sun came out, and with it evaporated all of Esther’s enjoyment, energy, life force, will to live - so much so that by the time we had finally arrived to the ancient cobble paved road leading into Grasmere, her demeanour was more like a like a resentful teenager being dragged by her Fascist parents along a walk she never asked for.
Still, the four star rated Swan Inn would surely lift her spirits?
I don’t want to rant about the overpriced, badly designed money machines that Lakeland hotels seem to be, but I do resent paying good money for such a woefully soulless experience.
The Interior design was like a poorly executed Weatherspoons - more suited to an article in a Readers Digest than a four star hotel -maybe I was being a little harsh? Having tasted the humdrum food and paid the £6.75 for a pint of lifeless beer, not to mention the £185 room bill - I don’t think so.
But Esther was so tired it didn’t really matter.
No scrabble – too tired.
Day 4 - Grasmere to Glenridding, Helvellyn YHA
9.5miles | 2,900 ft climb
We both slept well that night in room 22 - probably in part from the exhaustion of trying to find it within the writhing labyrinthine corridors, shape-shifting stairs, and maze-like false turns that made up the accommodation annex of the pub.
We breakfasted on poached eggs and premade Bechamel sauce, served on (probably) Warburton muffins, before collecting our gear and heading out for our day's walk.
Following the clearly prescribed route we encountered our first taste of local hostility “Technology has got it wrong! You can’t come through here!” she hollered “You need to head back to the main road and look for the big wooden sign…”
Suitably chastened and admittedly chagrined, I consoled myself by comparing her to the farmer's wife in Withnail & I.
Anyhow, once on the correct route, as denoted by said large wooden sign, we soon started a shallow ascent across Rowan‘s Ground and passed the waterfall near Gaul Haus Moss to the plateau of Grizedale Tarn. Here we met a tall Dutch couple, a single German female trekker and finally an English woman with her German husband who were both living in Australia. The pleasures are of walking in England.
Esther made an instant connection with the solitary German woman, so much so, she even turned off Stephen Fry‘s narration of Sherlock Holmes – the ultimate compliment.
Having studied the map together, we saw that we were still to ascend further, along the ridge from Deepdale Haus, up to St Sunday Craig, standing at 841m. After a steep 30 minute climb, the dense clouds miraculously broke just as we approached the top – although the view it revealed was, in all honesty, a little underwhelming.
It improved greatly on our descent as splendid views of Ulleswater revealed themselves as we traversed the often steep incline down to Glenridding, avoiding the numerous fell runners following their red flagged route at crazy speeds. It reminded me of the serenity of skiing on wide open pistes only to be continually buzzed by snowboarders – but I kept my patience in check and instead focussed on the incredible stamina, the amazing levels of fitness and the breathtaking stupidity of those taking part.
We descended onto the main thoroughfare of Glenriddings and immediately went shopping for our evening meal, loading our already bulging rucksacks with potatoes, aubergines, courgettes, tins of chickpeas, olive oil, tinned fish - like we’d been deprived of food for days.
With at least an extra 5 kg in our bags, we set off to the YHA Hevellyn, stopping en-route at the Travellers Rest for an hour, to enjoy a couple of excellent pints of Helvellyn Pale, whilst I wrote up yesterday’s entry and Esther stretched out on her side of the bench, before we readied ourselves for the final push to the hostel, a further 1.6miles up the relatively gentle incline of the track.
Having checked in, we immediately headed to the showers, after which we set up a near industrial arrangement to wash clothes, utilising three sinks with varying temperatures and laundry liquid. We did so in the hope that the hostel’s drying room would work its magic and leave us departing in the morning with clean, dry clothes, boots and bodies….
Esther 383 Paul 378
Deep Dale Haus
Day 5- Helvellyn YHA to Haweswater Hotel
12.5 miles | 1,475ft climb
Again we slept well, having dined on vegetables and olive oil, and despite the best efforts of the camping pod gathering outside our window - complete with campfire laughter and their pet dog’s barks.
Breakfast was kept light with just fruit and yoghurt, after which we packed and headed out into the Sunday sunshine by nine.
Last night’s pained climb to the hostel was now reversed into a gentle amble down to Glenridding with the intention of catching the bus to Hartsop.
On our way, however, we met once more the solo female walker from Germany, who mentioned the landlady from her B&B of the previous night recommending the steamer to Pooley Bridge to save a few miles on the walk towards Shap.
As we are heading to the Haweswater Hotel and not the normal pitstop of Brampton, it didn’t actually offer any reduction in miles, but did save a 1000ft of climb. But it was also the romantic appeal of an hour’s steamer on the sun-dappled water of Ullswater that sealed the deal and made the £32 ticket price seem worthwhile.
The steamer itself must’ve been 50 years old or more, named the Lady of the Lake (though I assume not in a tweaked homage to Raymond Chandler) and was crewed by an old hand and two young apprentices, who both positively radiated the glow of youth but strangely only one the confidence.
The trip was accompanied by a piped narration detailing some of the history of the lake, including a rendition of Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’, penned two years after the journal entry which inspired it, apparently.
Allighting at Pooley Bridge we were soon reminded that the Lakes are not just for mountain lovers and outdoor pursuit enthusiasts, but equally for those seeking a day of family fun in the countryside - complete with gift shops, sweet shops and pubs with large gardens and garishly branded sun shades.
The first two miles of the route itself took us along a few village streets until the tarmac ended and the rough hewn moorland path commenced.
The landscape was strewn with heather and fern and offered ever wider glimpses back to the Ullswater as we climbed.
Our path took us away from the main viewpoint however, so we left the crowds behind and forged on our route, which was not always based on, it would seem, official footpaths. This proved the cause of some conflict with opposing directions from Esther’s OS Maps to my Komoot app – especially when my route led us through a field of rampaging young cows.
As we first approached the field we realised that there were maybe 30 or so of them, all looking our way. Suddenly, they startled and decided to stampede, not at us thankfully, but into the adjoining field, through what was only a part opened wooden gate. As all 30 rampaged through, trying to do so three or four abreast, the gate was smashed in the mayhem as if made from matchsticks.
They regrouped at the extreme corner of the adjoining field, so we decided we had time to cross. The fear of them returning though, to smash into us like they had the gate, had us running, complete with bouncing backpacks, to the gate at the far side. This turned out to be the wrong gate of course, but as the cows were making moves signalling their unwelcome return, we looked quickly for an alternative route.
Whilst exploring our options I managed to soak my left foot completely, then on making for higher ground, we were able to watch the cows stampede from one field to another to another to another, as if they’ve been given a giant hamster play cage, made of stone walls, trees and us.
Esther reassured me that had I fallen or tripped, she had reconciled herself to the fact that she’d have to go back to “save her man, whatever it took.’
Thankfully no such trip occurred - so those cows will never know what a lucky escape they had.
The weather has changed as we knew it would, to sporadic showers, so the walk was punctuated with regular stops to put on rain gear only to five minutes later take them off again. The landscape was mainly farmland with the paths meandering through a selection of sometimes picturesque but more often dilapidated farmsteads. At one point we stopped beside a small arch stone bridge, whose engineering prowess was wasted on the sheep, and climbed through the fields to a wide stretch of boggy marshland, when we spotted in the distance, a group of wild horses.
As we drew nearer, we realised that there were far more in number, maybe 15 in total and with three or four fouls, which seemed only days old.
A magical but all too brief interlude.
Now no long distance walk can be completed by two people without at least one good argument, and normally this will be about the route. This was our time. I planned the route unquestionably bowing to the greater knowledge of Komoot and had therefore religiously followed the blue pathway for the previous six days. Esther‘s preferred app though was OS Maps, which shows all the public footpaths and highways you’d expect. So when I ventured through fields where no route was shown on Esther‘s app, this was fine, unless the terrain was not to her liking. Up hill, across bog, through ferns. Each edged her closer to the point of erupting, not in anger over the technological disparities between the two apps, but in my apparent arrogance of not acknowledging the superiority of hers. Still, after another 30 minutes or so, we were back on a regular forestry trail, soaking wet from waiting through 5 foot tall ferns and bloodied of hand from brambles. We still had a 2 mile hike to go (which turned out to be 2 1/2) along regular single track tarmac roads, in heavy rain, avoiding oncoming cars and potential further soakings from roadside puddles.
Still, by 4:42pm the hotel came into view and I said I hoped it was going to be as good as I hoped it would.
It was.
Built in 1937 it boasts the retention of many of the original features, from the parquet and linoleum floors, to the beautiful Crittal windows and bold Art Deco fireplaces, the hotel exuded old world charm and casual style.
I had booked a room with its own balcony and although it was still raining as we arrived, we just had to take to the private terrace to behold the glorious view of Haweswater itself. A reservoir serving the good people of Leeds and Manchester since 1935 – it was not so the good folk of the village of Marsdale, whose homes, farms and even graveyard, all had to be relocated the nearby Sharp to accommodate its construction – itself a stone through from the soon to be opened M6 – talk about out of the frying pan…
Dinner was pre-booked for 5:30pm in the bar, offering ‘the more relaxed dining experience’ which was certainly taken on board by our laid-back, nigh on bored waiter for the evening (we did manage to get him to smile later ). Beers and wine were ordered along with home-made sourdough bread, pork crackling with black aioli, chicken terrine (all most excellent), heritage tomato salad with mozzarella and Beef Wellington to share for a main (more so excellent) rounded off with cheese, Eaton Mess and whiskey sours served in the majestic games lounge. I even managed to hide the two glacier cherries in the fireplace before Esther returned (Esther objects to glacier cherries the way the women of Greenham Common objected to nuclear missiles).
Eventually, we settled on a game of Scrabble. Three seven letter words later, including two back to back, and I at least returned to the room happy…
Breakfast was booked for nine. A taxi to Orton for 10:30.
So we could relax and make the most of our time together in the lap of luxury, with the promise of the morning sunlight dancing on the waters below.
Scrabble Paul 444 Esther 369
EBONIZES (89) EGOTISTS (78) SPEILED (70)
The Haweswater Hotel - Worth Every Penny
Day 6 - Haweswater Hotel to Kirkby Stephen
(Taxi to Orton) 12.8 miles | 1,000 ft climb
Too few days start off with an excited leap out the bed, but falling to sleep beside the double doors overlooking Haweswater left me dreaming of the possibility of the dawn. So when Esther woke around 5:20 am convinced she’d been bitten (turns out she probably was) my first thought, after due consideration to Esther, was what was beyond the golden velvet curtains?
The crisp light of the first hours of day have their own beguiling lucidity and when combined with the hazy reflections on the water’s surface of trees, mountains and clouds, the delight is doubled. I asked Esther to join me, to take in the views and together we read, drank black coffee, listened to the singing of the birds, and watched the shifting shadows of the clouds. And so to breakfast.
It was served in the main restaurant so we got to experience the main dining hall as well as the bar. It made you realise the modest size of the hotel as we could have been no more than 20 covers, all managed by the blonde lady of East European heritage and character – efficient almost to the point of surliness. Even when she dropped someone else’s full English across the beautifully parquet floor, it was quickly spun into an opportunity for her to show her professionalism and the lack of everyone else’s. Within the two minutes she had to wait for someone to fetch the mop, she must have rolled her eyes four times at least. In fact, to the new observer, you’d have never have guessed it was her clumsiness, no doubt exacerbated by highly impractical heels, which had seen the bacon, fried egg, beans, hash brown, and solitary sausage bedeck the restaurant floor
But to give her due, she had arranged a taxi for 10:30 to take us to Orton, so that our day’s walk to Kirkby Stephen was a manageable 12.5 miles rather than the 21 from Sharp.
The taxi driver was a nice Edinburgh born gentleman, who told of being rent for her family home at the tender age of 16, to move to Newcastle, despite his pleading to stay. It was obvious the 60 year-old wound still needed stung. I’m sure the £80 taxi bill he charged us will have helped.
We started the walk well, by visiting Orton‘s renowned chocolatiers, selecting six apiece, to be kept in separate bags to save arguments.
Our first day walking in Yorkshire was pleasant enough – countryside with rolling fields, beautiful birdlife, impressive sheep (in stature as well as number) but little else. No dappled woodland. No fields of fern. No cascading waterways nor ancient trading routes – just good arable and farmland, with few trees, but no doubt superior efficiency yields.
Esther’s hip started to play up after a few miles, so some items of clothing, make up bags, sandals and water were transferred to my rucksack to try and stave off any trip-ending injuries.
Apart from the sheep and the soporific landscape, the main attraction was the sky. High white clouds clashed with angry grey complete with boisterous claps of thunder in the distance. Jet fighters, military transport planes and pilot trainees all graced the air span above as did Wagtails, Eurasian Wrens and a host of others I was too lazy to identify.
By 5:30 we finally turned into the High Street of Kirkby Stephen, with but one thought - the day’s first pint. We tried first the Black Bull Inn but sensibly turned around immediately using the terrible music as an excuse to run from the appalling atmosphere of a pub left to the whims of it staff, feeling like a poorly run youth club. The Pennine down the road wasn’t much better, but at least the Wainwrights was decent and they had tables outside. It was there we agreed to call an early end to our walk. My foot was playing up which I put down on my boots weary thin, but probably also to shouldering the added weight for the last 8 miles. At 57 these things take their toll.
Two more pints of Wainwrights gave us enough time to book train tickets home before we walked back down the high street to our accommodation for the night.
The Band Room was tucked behind the Black Bull Inn, but thankfully this time we only had to suffer the stares of the chef and not the music from the bar.
Stephen, the owner of the barn, had to come to let us in, as there was an error on the key safe, but it meant we got to meet him – and a lovely guy he was too, with that warm soft Yorkshire accent that rolls and caresses like the Dales themselves.
A decent meal at the Mango Tree Indian and Asian Restaurant, eaten within a suitably gaudy colour combination, was taken to a higher level by the ghee smothered paratha breads, which as well as being the perfect vehicle to scoop up every drop of flavoursome sauce, were themselves beautifully light and crispy.
Home then to the barn with the promise of an hours TV and no scrabble, before hobbling into bed to let our bodies and bones start their slow recovery from the week’s endeavours.
Lydia’s stone will be kept safe for our return, to perhaps complete the middle section from Kirkby Stephen to Richmond over a three day walk later this year. Who knows, maybe even with Inga.
Richmond to Robin Hoods Bay can wait until the spring.
No Scrabble – just beer an Indian and some crap TV
The Morning View from our Balcony
The End
The King’s Trail
Embarking from Cromford Train Station, we set off for a month away, taking in Brussels, Berlin and Malmo along the way to Northern Sweden, to the mining town of Abisko, just inside the Arctic Circle.
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