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Great Crag and Grange Fell from Rosthwaite

Over the last few years I have become familiar with every twist and turn of the A592 and A591 as I have tramped over the Eastern and Far Eastern Fells. Today, I’m driving down the B5289 into lovely Borrowdale. Excited to be making progress I feel like an early pioneer heading slowly westwards into new territory. And road numbers aren’t the only change. I survived on mostly van meals in the more remote fells but the fleshpots of Keswick and Grasmere are already tempting me with easy access to beer and steak, coffee and cake. Like Odysseus I must resist their siren call if I’m not to finish the Central Fells heavier than when I started.

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Four Wainwright’s from Grasmere

I’ve had company over the last couple of days. A Robin arrives regularly at the van door looking for food and then repays my benevolence by demanding that I get off its territory. He needn’t worry as I’ll be gone today and he’s fatter than when I arrived. The murk of yesterday has gone and I can see today’s walk from my parking spot. The long southern ridge leading up Steel Fell, the curve around the head of Greenburn leading to Calf Crag, Gibson Knott and finally Helm Crag all look inviting in the morning sunshine. The most dangerous part will be crossing the A591.

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A walk up Tarn Crag (Easedale)

I have some personal rules which guide my journey through the Wainwright’s (here) one of these ‘I will get a view from each top’ has already entailed some return visits over the first two books. The awful weather and cancelled plans over the first months of the year have got me thinking that I may have to take more risks with the forecast if I am ever to finish my Wainwright journey before I go to rest with my ancestors. For a man who likes certainty and all his ducks in order it’s an uncomfortable prospect, but here I am, heading up Far Easedale looking up at a cloud topped Tarn Crag hoping that by the time I get there it will be clear. I can hear the roulette wheel spinning.

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A walk up High Rigg

From the campsite I can see a fair chunk of today’s walk from the van window. A short climb up through trees to a undulating ridge that eventually leads on to the summit of High Rigg. Stopping at High Bridge End gives me the rare treat of being able to walk from the campsite two days running and saves the hassle of packing the van up before setting off. In fact the Central Fells, being quite compact means I’m going to be able to do this often whilst working my way through book three. Life’s simple pleasures, or alternatively, simple things please simple minds, take your pick.

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Four Wainwright’s from Thirlmere Dam

Commitments and the never ending rain which makes planning clear summit days difficult have kept me away from the hills so far this year. But the weather seems to have finally turned and it looks like spring has arrived, soon to be merged straight into summer. As I park up at High Bridge End the sun is shining, lambs are gamboling in the fields, new life abounds and a chirpy chaffinch heralds my arrival back to Lakeland. The air is fresh and clean and the mountains green and lush. I’ve missed the reassuring presence of these hills and it’s good to be back.

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A walk along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon

‘Don’t worry Mom, I know all about cannibalism, I saw it on TV’. 

Like Danny in The Shining, it’s all too easy in a world of Ultra HD, Wide Screen and 4K to think we have seen and know all about the world and its wonders because we’ve seen it on our televisions. Thankfully there are still plenty of wonders that need to be seen in the flesh to be believed and experienced in all their fullness. Places that can take our breath away and make us stand in awe in their presence, silent and humbled by our smallness and their greatness. The Grand Canyon is one of those marvellous wonders of the world.

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A walk from Rievaulx Abbey to Helmsley

‘Everywhere peace, everywhere serenity, and a marvelous freedom from the tumult of the world.’
Saint Aelred

Rievaulx Abbey sits on the slopes of a quiet valley nestled in peaceful woodland with the River Rye flowing gently past as it has done for centuries. In its heyday it was home to about 640 Cistercian monks who devoted themselves to God following a daily routine of prayer, meditation, reading and church services. They also reared sheep and diverted the river to assist with smelting iron ore. This made Rievaulx one of the wealthiest Abbey’s in England in the 13th century. It was in this hard working, simple spiritual life that Saint Aelred found his peace and freedom from the tumult of the world. Eight hundred years later his words still resonate with many in the modern world who are finding themselves increasingly busy but less fulfilled and would love to find their own peaceful corner of serenity in a ever tumultuous and uncertain world.

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Walking with giants, the coastal redwoods of northern California

Reading the news recently that there are now more redwoods in the U.K. than in California (read here) reminded me of my own encounter with these magnificent giants of the natural world on an RV tour of the seven most western states in the contiguous USA some years ago. Commitments, coughs and colds seem to be conspiring to keep me away from Lakeland at the moment so I figure now is as good a time as any to finally write up and share some of these RV experiences that have sat gathering dust in the bottom drawer…

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A walk up Carrauntoohil, Ireland’s Highest Mountain

MacGillycuddy’s Reeks may sound like a character out of a Roald Dahl book but is in fact an extensive mountain range in County Kerry, Ireland and the home to Ireland’s highest peaks including its highest, Carrauntoohil. The far south west of Ireland is a little out of the way for an Englishman but a road trip around the ‘Emerald Isle’ with some friends provides an opportunity, should the timetable and the changeable Kerry weather oblige to climb this mountain.

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A walk to Sandwood Bay

I first read about Sandwood Bay in 1982 in that wonderful series of hardback ‘Classic Walks’ books written by Ken Wilson and Richard Gilbert. Gilbert’s description of the walk fired my imagination, “rounding the cliff, one of the most glorious sights in Britain unfolds before you. Below your feet lies Sandwood Bay, a mile long sweep of golden sand bounded by rolling dunes and crashing breakers that makes you want to shout for joy”. I too wanted to shout for joy in Sandwood Bay. Thirty Nine years later I got the opportunity.

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