DAY ONE:
Tuesday, August 6, 1991
St. Bees to Low Gillerthwaite (19 miles)
The Coast at St. Bees Head
It is hardly
an auspicious start to the expedition. The weather is decidedly glum and
unwelcoming. As we near the Cumbrian foothills in the car I am grasping at each glimpse of
a bright nook in the sky as a harbinger of change for the better. More serious
than the weather is the state of Andy's leg. He has an infection above his ankle, which is
swathed in a bandage, having flared up during last week's intensive
training, for which he and his brand new boots were ill-prepared. His winces
bode ill.
We wend our
way along country lanes in Chris's car, unlikely to get to St. Bees on time for
the anticipated 11am departure. The louring clouds have not yet begun to
discharge their burden as we finally set pack to back and, after a swift photo
call with the Irish Sea at our rear, we bid the Goodlad mother and brother
farewell and begin the first of so many climbs to crest the cliffs of St. Bees
Head.
A breathtaking view is somewhat obscured by the sky's brooding greyness.
Any optimism about the weather is dashed as the rains begin to fall. Waterproofs
are donned, at first affording snug protection, but the rain is to remain so
persistent as to drench us through.
Braving the
sodden wind lashing our faces, we take the occasional panoramic glimpse of the
coastal vista, yet I'm left to reflect on how splendid it would have been if the
weather had been kinder.
The
cliff-edge walk, sometimes perilous given the conditions, goes on and on. We let
out the odd mock (?) squeal of terror as we contemplate the sheer drops to our
left. The rain has penetrated to the skin by the time we've made the five miles
to Sandwith (pronounced "Sannith"). After the cliffs, the far less
appealing sight of the chemical works looms, with its plumes of heavy white
smoke crawling upwards into the bed of low cloud.
Our first
glimpse of sunshine comes some eight miles further on, around Cleator. The first
of Lakeland’s purple hills rises gently before us. This is Dent, harbinger of
the more rugged terrain still to come, yet we are constrained by time
considerations to skirt this introductory peak and keep to the road to Ennerdale
Bridge . The road walking is to be the
drudgery of this tour. It hammers the feet, and the traffic dispels all peace.
By now Andy
is in serious trouble with his leg. Compared to me he's a bit of a plodder at the best of times,
but now his gammy leg is really slowing him down. We finally reach
Ennerdale Bridge at ten to six. We post ourselves outside the Fox and Hounds,
awaiting the pub’s opening at the top of the hour. Andy is visibly and audibly
so distressed that for the first time we find ourselves voicing contingency
plans in the event of him having to drop out. We enjoy a fine steak pie dinner
and set out once more; it gives me strength, but Andy needs more than food
inside him to relieve his discomfort.
Ennerdale
Water is reached, and by now the weather’s moodiness has all but dissipated.
It never stops raining altogether, only now it has become the finest of drizzle,
a “mizzle”, shed perhaps from some errant cloud scudding across the evening
sky. We see a large amorphous shape in the middle of the lake, and speculate on
the existence of an Ennerdale Monster.
This walk by
the water is our first real taste of the wonders Lakeland has to bestow on the
intimate wayfarer. The lake stretches away to our left, with ridges rising
in the distance beyond the far bank, and to the right is delightful, deciduous
woodland, punctuated by the babble of tributary streams that we need to ford
(with no great difficulty) and each of which invites a little lingering
contemplation.
By now Andy
is walking in pain, painfully slowly, and lagging further and further behind.
Dusk is turning swiftly to dark, and every few hundred yards I must pause to let
him get into sight. The red ball of the sun sinks beyond the contours whence we
came, seemingly being swallowed up into Ennerdale’s impassive embrace. This
sunset is a beautiful sight, yet unfortunately, by the time I’ve thought of
capturing it on film, I’ve missed the moment. Still, it’s given Andy a chance to
catch up, and I tell him that I’ll forge ahead to get to the youth hostel and
book us in, seeing as it’s so late. We finally arrive for 9.30 pm, wet and
weary. Andy’s foot is giving him hell. He’ll give it until Longthwaite,
tomorrow’s destination, and if it fails to improve, he’ll have to give it
up.
The youth hostel is quite remarkable: an isolated building with gas-mantle lighting! It’s like a trip back through time. Without even taking a shower we collapse into our bunks – Andy tangibly sore, myself sore at the discovery of my pulped mass of wet maps. The essential difference between me and my walking companion is, I suspect, that I am looking forward to what tomorrow may bring, whereas Andy faces the prospect with dread. I extinguish the gas mantle to bring Day One to a close.