Patterdale, 9:30 am and there is just the one space left at the little car park at Cow Bridge. We drive into it with a feeling of disbelief, having expected it to be full. The gods are clearly smiling on us today, which is more than can be said for others – smiling upon us, I mean. An SUV comes up behind as we step out to take in the glorious air, and the driver has a face like thunder.
“Think yourself lucky there,” he growls, then drives off in a huff.
I suppose he’d had his eye on the spot as well, and we just slipped in ahead of him. But we didn’t do it on purpose, and he knows that, so his pointless remonstrance puzzles me. Anyway, this unexpected sourness is quickly dissolved by the overwhelming beauty of the morning. Brother’s Water is mirror calm, and perfectly reflective of the fells. There are light, fluffy clouds sailing in from the south, and broad patches of light stroking the hillsides. Such days as these among the fells are to be treasured.
It’s incredible to think of it, but it’s four years since I was last here, in the demi-paradise of Patterdale. I promised myself, then, I would do more in the Lakes. But of course Covid hit, and that was it. I’m trying to make up for it now, but finding the fells a challenge. I wonder if I’m just getting too old to handle them, or if it was always this way. Mountain form is a funny business – part acquired fitness, part one’s natural god-given power to weight ratio, and part mental attitude. I’m middling in all three. And these fells are steep.
Anyway, I’m unsure about the route, tackling it with a friend, who’s ticking off the last of his Wainwrights. I’m thinking it might be too much for me, too far, and too exhausting, but worth a go anyway. We’ll be bagging four peaks: Middle Dodd, Red Screes, Little Hart Crag, and High Hartsop Dodd. It’s seven and a half miles round, two and a half thousand feet of ascent.
I have memories of coming down from High Harstop Dodd, with my feet on fire in a pair of cheap boots, their soles worn to a wafer, and using my Alpine poles like a Zimmer frame. I arrived back at the car exhausted, and I’m not sure I’m any fitter now. It’s not an encouraging memory.
I have a soft spot for Patterdale. I used to holiday here a lot in the little hamlet of Hartsop, when my boys were small, and it always feels like coming home when I top the Kirkstone, and cruise down into the dale. My story, “The Lavender and the Rose”, was largely conceived here, and much of the action takes place among its valleys. My imaginary Drummaurdale – the vale of dreams – is here.
We take the path by Brother’s Water. There were Nymphs skinny-dipping last time I passed – though I may have been hallucinating. They’re not here today. The little woodland way is carpeted with ramsons and bluebells. The lake sparkles between the trees, and invites one to linger with the camera.
Beyond the farm at Hartsop Hall, we cross lush, sheep cropped meadows, by the faint remains of the Iron Age village – just low ramparts in the grass and hut circles, now, dotted with massive boulders. I wonder if the rocks came down from the fell during the period of habitation, and what the inhabitants thought of that. It’s such an idyllic spot, but were they persuaded by this act of their gods to abandon it?
We tackle Middle Dodd first, struck at once by the unrelenting steepness. Alpine poles deployed, we haul ourselves up step by step. Or rather, I do. My friend is ten years older than me, does not drink and is mostly vegetarian. He pulls away easily, and I cannot keep pace as the legs drain to jelly. All the beauty is to my back as Patterdale opens out, inviting retrospective photographs. Ahead there is only the rising path, and the occasional passing crag. This ascent to the little cairn on Middle Dodd takes two and half hours. But there is no cause for celebration, only the rising profile of Red Screes beyond it, and another half an hour of uphill.
There is something daunting about Red Screes, which dips now into shade as we approach. I can’t remember the number of stops I’ve made thus far, sometimes leaning over the poles, head down, and deep breathing like it’s the high Himalayas, and I’m sucking on rarefied air. Other times I found a rock and sat down for a bit, let my friend plough on while I fiddled with the camera. I’m carrying the Lumix today – lightweight, and it always seems to do well in these conditions.
It’s not a well trodden route, this, and it’s only when we approach the summit various other paths converge, and the crowds appear, some bare chested and jogging. The fitness of others never ceases to amaze. Nor do they look wobbly legged and breathless, like me.
There is a small, nameless tarn here, a lone eye to the sky. It makes for a suitable lunch stop, while shaky hands fumble with the soup pot, and a welcome shot of sustenance. As we are admiring the view, identifying the summits we knew of old, a pair of young ladies settle across the water, peel off unselfconsciously to bra and underpants, and settle down to sunbathe. We remark that at one time, it would have been a balm for sore eyes. Nowadays, it rather puts us off our lunch, and we move on.
The route descends to Scandale Pass, a loss of height that looked rather less on the map than it does in practice. Indeed, it is a long descent, on legs already tired by that climb up Red Screes. We begin well above the craggy profile of Little Hart Crag, but watch, helpless, as it soars above us. By the time we have descended to the head of the pass, we are faced with a long climb back up, and very little left in the tank. I’m wondering if I am harbouring the dreaded Long Covid and, actually, at this point I couldn’t care less about climbing the crag. There is a by-pass that will take us round it, but my friend is already en-route for the col, and the obvious path to the summit. I spend a while taking more photographs, more leaning over the poles, deep-breathing oxygen back into my bones.
A bite of a juicy Braeburn apple seems to restore some semblance of dignity, and propels me slowly to the col. Once there, the climb to the top seems not so bad after all. But it’s doggie daycare on the summit, more dogs than people, and a tangle of long leads, some dogs loose and muddy. There is noise and fuss. The northern summit beckons, and is quieter. I catch my friend up, and we sit a while, contemplating the route ahead. It’s all downhill from here, and there is a mutual air of relief. We’re both knackered, but my friend is always better at hiding it.
A long stretch of ridge-walking, amid breathtaking scenery, restores the spirits. High Hartsop Dodd beckons, requiring no further climbing. From here the land falls away to the floor of Patterdale, to the ancient village, and a stone barn that never seems to get any nearer as we inch our way down a dusty zig-zag of path, on wobbly legs.
You might ask what’s the appeal of inflicting such punishment on oneself. When I was younger, I would have said, it’s worth it to get to the top. But now the tops, although they’re nice to have, don’t burn in my soul the same. There is only that transcendent perspective, walking so high above the valleys that nothing down there matters a fig any more – except, for the pot of tea waiting at the Brother’s Water Inn. The abiding memory, and one that shall linger long, I’m sure, is a retrospective of Middle Dodd, and Red Screes beyond, shot from that lovely, airy ridge to High Hartsop Dodd, and an appreciation of the enormity of the day’s climb.
I hope the other fellow found a parking spot, and had as good day of it as we did, though I rather doubt it’s in his nature to be thankful or satisfied with anything, for very long.
The Rivendale Review 