Photo by the lovely photographer (come wedding planner) Owen Mathias.
Just over a year ago we took off our fleeces, popped on our glad rags and got hitched. Although there wasn't a mountain in sight we still managed to make walking a central part of our day, we made everyone walk a little too far over a park in heels! It was early September and 30 degree heat. We felt decidedly smug. We'd obviously planned it this way, everyone knows it rains in August and gets nice again in September. So when planning out anniversary trip to (where else?) The Lake District, we bathed in a similar smug glow. We'd had a couple of grim trips weather wise but this was early September and we knew, better than most, that early September was a time of weather perfection. The weather forecast tried to rain on our parade. But I was born in the week of the 1987 hurricane. I know that Mr. Fish and his weather predicting comrades make mistakes and this weekends prediction of rain and fog was definitely one of these.
So we packed up our toy car with hope in our hearts and took the now familiar M6 up to Langdale. We tried out a new campsite this time as our favourite National Trust Campsite was booked up. Baysbrown Farm Campsite is in Great Langdale, at the foot of Silver How and walking distance from Chester's By the River, our favourite Lakeland Veggie establishment. So the change of location was no great hardship. The day was clear as we rattled up the M6. No concerns, it didn't look like anything was going to get in the way of our plan to equant ourselves with the Old Man of Coniston, until...
"Google 'Grasmere Guzzler' Eve", Liz commanded from the drivers seat. And in one sentence our afternoon plans shifted. Turns out, Liz has seen a sign on the road advertising this auspicious occasion. Goggle informs me, it is a beer festival with food and five bars and hundreds of beers from up and down the land, including local beers and our favourite Newport Brewery Tiny Rebel and who am I to question the all knowing google.
We are however, bagging Wainwrights and we cannot spend a day in The Lake District without attempting to bag at least one peak. But luckily for us Silver How is an easy going Wainwright at 395m and lies directly between our campsite and Grasmere. An easy afternoons walking, sandwiches at the top and then down to Grasmere for beers and dinner and a taxi home for an early night so we are fresh for our longer walk and fancy meal we have planned for the actual day of our anniversary.
"Google 'Grasmere Guzzler' Eve", Liz commanded from the drivers seat. And in one sentence our afternoon plans shifted. Turns out, Liz has seen a sign on the road advertising this auspicious occasion. Goggle informs me, it is a beer festival with food and five bars and hundreds of beers from up and down the land, including local beers and our favourite Newport Brewery Tiny Rebel and who am I to question the all knowing google.
We are however, bagging Wainwrights and we cannot spend a day in The Lake District without attempting to bag at least one peak. But luckily for us Silver How is an easy going Wainwright at 395m and lies directly between our campsite and Grasmere. An easy afternoons walking, sandwiches at the top and then down to Grasmere for beers and dinner and a taxi home for an early night so we are fresh for our longer walk and fancy meal we have planned for the actual day of our anniversary.
Tent up in 5 minutes (we've got it down to a fine art), our day bag was already packed with emergency cold weather gear, maps, tasty snacks and coffee. So we were marching purposely towards Silver How barley 10 minutes after arriving. The route up and out of Great Langdale was straight forward. Up on a small road, barely wide enough for one car, past the church (which seemed to be forever ringing it's bell... the bells, the bells...) and onto the fell side. The slope was steep but grassy and easy under foot. We meandered though bracken, chatting away without having to closely examine where we were putting our feet. Lulls in conversation came only from our need to catch our breath on the steep climb.
The path brought us quickly to a small plateau, which was almost 100% bog. I am beginning to realise that the Lake District is made up of 50% bog and 50% scree. From here we could see the clear path up to Silver How via a scree gully, which turns out to have steps when we get closer. This is possibly the most easily navigable Wainwright yet. It's a hop, skip and a jump and we're at the top, quaffing coffee and discussing the Guzzler with a bunch of lads on a weekend away from Durham University (they hadn't heard about it but were heading swiftly down to Grasmere for a pint or ten).
Silver How is a great vantage point to see some of the fells we've climbed and places we've visited since we started coming to the Lakes. As the Durham lads headed down for their pint, we took a seat, using our map to locate ourselves. Pointing out Loughrigg Fell, Weatherlam and The Langdale Pikes. Liz realised that across the vast moor like plateau that sat just below us like a moon scape is Blea Rigg. Blea Rigg caused us some jip when we were planning our Langdale Pikes walk some months ago. We felt we should have been able to bag it but couldn't work out how to fit it in. We looked at our watches. It's three o'clock. We've got hours yet. We consult the map. It's a straight forward walk. We should be there and back and drinking a pint hours before darkness fell. The weathers clear, windy, but clear. We've plotted a route. Joint decision. We can do this.
The plateau is one massive bog, no surprise. But the route is straight forward. We know the landmarks we're heading for. We've noted peaks and tarns and gullies on our map and for half an hour we're good and the walk is glorious. Just us and the sheep. But the weather was beginning to turn. Slowly at first it became cloudier, a little drizzly, but nothing we couldn't handle. But then all of a sudden, the fog is everywhere and when Liz goes to scout a route I almost loose her. At the same moment as the fog descends, the path we though we were following disappears. We are not where we thought we were. The trees we were expecting have not materialised and there is now no path at all- if we were where we thought we were there would be one, a clear one, a bridle way.
We take a coffee break. Gather ourselves. We need to make a plan. We've both realised that if the fog doesn't clear Blea Rigg is not a safe plan. Before I go on, I want to make clear, getting lost in the fog is not big and it's not clever, it's fucking scary, but it happens even on a day that starts clear, it can come from nowhere. HAVE A PLAN PEOPLE.
Liz thinks she can back track. She's sure of it. We only did it two minutes ago. It'll be fine. And at this stage what choice do we have. We know Silver How is roughly south, south, east of us so we use my external compass and Liz's internal compass. It is barely a minute before we realise we have lost the path we came on. We are now blindly following the compass, searching for recognisable landmarks, hard on a moon scape. I don't tell Liz but I begin to plan what we will need to do to contact mountain rescue... got my whistle, got our space blankets, plenty of battery on the phone, breath Eve we'll be ok.
The land around us is becoming more familiar. We come round the edge of a small peak and I begin to truck on in the direction my trusty compass suggests but Liz stops me and with total confidence insists we take a path which would lead us directly back in the direction we came from. I accuse her of have fog dementia in a tone which was intended to be sympathetic but came out down right patronising. I'm doing no better. When the internal and external compasses appear to be at an impasse, heading somewhere between the two seemed like the best plan and as we came to this truest of compromises we stumbled across two very distinctive tarns. We were both certain we had passed them on our our bound journey so I led us off hopefully towards a peak which I was certain was Silver How only to get up close and realise it is barely a peak at all. Luck alone saves us at this point. The fog lifts and we spot Silver How within spitting distance. We virtually run to it so we don't loose it again. My heart lifts as we sprint down the scree gully and down the path to Grasmere. Talking a minute to be grateful we're alive (and heading safely to a beer festival) we look back up at the fell. The bloody fogs only lifted!
Silver How is a great vantage point to see some of the fells we've climbed and places we've visited since we started coming to the Lakes. As the Durham lads headed down for their pint, we took a seat, using our map to locate ourselves. Pointing out Loughrigg Fell, Weatherlam and The Langdale Pikes. Liz realised that across the vast moor like plateau that sat just below us like a moon scape is Blea Rigg. Blea Rigg caused us some jip when we were planning our Langdale Pikes walk some months ago. We felt we should have been able to bag it but couldn't work out how to fit it in. We looked at our watches. It's three o'clock. We've got hours yet. We consult the map. It's a straight forward walk. We should be there and back and drinking a pint hours before darkness fell. The weathers clear, windy, but clear. We've plotted a route. Joint decision. We can do this.
The plateau is one massive bog, no surprise. But the route is straight forward. We know the landmarks we're heading for. We've noted peaks and tarns and gullies on our map and for half an hour we're good and the walk is glorious. Just us and the sheep. But the weather was beginning to turn. Slowly at first it became cloudier, a little drizzly, but nothing we couldn't handle. But then all of a sudden, the fog is everywhere and when Liz goes to scout a route I almost loose her. At the same moment as the fog descends, the path we though we were following disappears. We are not where we thought we were. The trees we were expecting have not materialised and there is now no path at all- if we were where we thought we were there would be one, a clear one, a bridle way.
We take a coffee break. Gather ourselves. We need to make a plan. We've both realised that if the fog doesn't clear Blea Rigg is not a safe plan. Before I go on, I want to make clear, getting lost in the fog is not big and it's not clever, it's fucking scary, but it happens even on a day that starts clear, it can come from nowhere. HAVE A PLAN PEOPLE.
Liz thinks she can back track. She's sure of it. We only did it two minutes ago. It'll be fine. And at this stage what choice do we have. We know Silver How is roughly south, south, east of us so we use my external compass and Liz's internal compass. It is barely a minute before we realise we have lost the path we came on. We are now blindly following the compass, searching for recognisable landmarks, hard on a moon scape. I don't tell Liz but I begin to plan what we will need to do to contact mountain rescue... got my whistle, got our space blankets, plenty of battery on the phone, breath Eve we'll be ok.
The land around us is becoming more familiar. We come round the edge of a small peak and I begin to truck on in the direction my trusty compass suggests but Liz stops me and with total confidence insists we take a path which would lead us directly back in the direction we came from. I accuse her of have fog dementia in a tone which was intended to be sympathetic but came out down right patronising. I'm doing no better. When the internal and external compasses appear to be at an impasse, heading somewhere between the two seemed like the best plan and as we came to this truest of compromises we stumbled across two very distinctive tarns. We were both certain we had passed them on our our bound journey so I led us off hopefully towards a peak which I was certain was Silver How only to get up close and realise it is barely a peak at all. Luck alone saves us at this point. The fog lifts and we spot Silver How within spitting distance. We virtually run to it so we don't loose it again. My heart lifts as we sprint down the scree gully and down the path to Grasmere. Talking a minute to be grateful we're alive (and heading safely to a beer festival) we look back up at the fell. The bloody fogs only lifted!
The rest of the evening is spent picking over the corpse of our failed walk to Blea Rigg. We sit in the pub discussing what we could have done differently, our shock at how quickly we didn't know where we were and read pages and pages on the internet about how to navigate in fog. The best piece of advice was given to me by Eryl Selly, seasoned walker and all round good fella, a few weeks later, "Know where you are on the map before the fog comes down." He wasn't wrong. Even before the fog came down we were only 80% sure where we were, you need to be 100% if you're going to loose most of your landmarks.
The Grassmere Guzzler helped us to relax. It was the ideal end to our stressful day. Well it would have been, if that was the end to our day...
At around 10pm (we though a reasonable hour to be heading back to our beds) we took few taxi numbers from a sceptical looking barmaid. We are big city lesbians. We felt the lack of Uber was like the dark ages but we'd got out actual cash money so we could pay for a taxi cab, we thought we were winning the past.
First taxi number, "We've got no taxis at the moment."
Liz, "When is your next taxi available?"
"Tomorrow morning..."
Now we tried the second and third number but it appears there is only one taxi firm in Grasmere (well they're actually an Ambleside company) it just has different names and numbers, they all take you through to the same person giving the same heartbreaking piece of information.... No taxis until tomorrow.
The Grassmere Guzzler helped us to relax. It was the ideal end to our stressful day. Well it would have been, if that was the end to our day...
At around 10pm (we though a reasonable hour to be heading back to our beds) we took few taxi numbers from a sceptical looking barmaid. We are big city lesbians. We felt the lack of Uber was like the dark ages but we'd got out actual cash money so we could pay for a taxi cab, we thought we were winning the past.
First taxi number, "We've got no taxis at the moment."
Liz, "When is your next taxi available?"
"Tomorrow morning..."
Now we tried the second and third number but it appears there is only one taxi firm in Grasmere (well they're actually an Ambleside company) it just has different names and numbers, they all take you through to the same person giving the same heartbreaking piece of information.... No taxis until tomorrow.
Now I am a wimp and Liz has a reckless streak but tonight, one year after we got married, we realise we've both changed. I realise that walking home is our only option, and I don't even cry about it. Liz realised that that walk has to be on the road, we can't take on the mountain in the pitch black, even with ourt head torches.
Grasmere to Baysbrown farm on the road, in the dark, in the rain takes 2 hours. So we bought one last pint and hit the road. Our phones had battery and signal (unheard of) so our route was clear at least. The odd car trundled by but we flashed our torches from the edge of the road to make clear we were there and I felt 100% safer than I had earlier that day on top of the fell. We rocked up to the campsite a little past midnight, safe but wet and toasted one year of being married. So much for an early night...
Grasmere to Baysbrown farm on the road, in the dark, in the rain takes 2 hours. So we bought one last pint and hit the road. Our phones had battery and signal (unheard of) so our route was clear at least. The odd car trundled by but we flashed our torches from the edge of the road to make clear we were there and I felt 100% safer than I had earlier that day on top of the fell. We rocked up to the campsite a little past midnight, safe but wet and toasted one year of being married. So much for an early night...
Lessons learnt!
- Fog can come from nowhere.
- Know where you are before the fog comes in (Thank you Eryl Selly for that sage advice).
- You can always turn back- there's no shame in that.
- Always have a phone with battery, head torches and a spare pint, you don't know when you're going to have to walk 2 hours in the pitch black.
- There are NO taxis in The Lake District.
- You can go through a lot to get to a beer festival but it's always worth it.