DAY
TWO: Wednesday, August 7, 1991
Low Gillerthwaite to Longthwaite (9¾ miles)
Path to Black Sail Hut and Great Gable
As
is to become habitual I rise at seven to repack my rucksack before breakfast.
This is to become a source of good-natured niggling on the part of Andy, who is
invariably roused from his oblivious slumbers by my activity.
There
has been some articulate sleep-talking, presumably from Trevor, who is to become
an on/off walking companion for much of the rest of the trip. Talk at breakfast
is of whether or not to take the High Stile alternative. Trevor, who had paraded
around the dorm in his “Superman” underpants, professes his intention to
take on this Superhuman alternative route.
This
turns out to be a wind-up for the benefit of a few solemn older walkers at the
same breakfast table. Needless to say, Andy’s foot alone banishes all such
contemplation on our part, although I must confess my temptation, especially
considering that we missed the first climb of the excursion yesterday.
As
we walk through Ennerdale Forest the said alternative route rises steeply to our
left. We can see the high ridges through the odd gap in the trees. The buzz of a
chainsaw punctuates our meanderings along the forest trail. Eventually we leave
the forest behind, and Ennerdale Water gradually recedes as we take on our first
major scramble up Loft Beck. We are now amidst Alpinesque scenery, with the
ridge of Great Gable curling before us like a petrified tidal wave, and the
cosiness of Black Sail Hut, that most isolated of Youth Hostels, swallowed up by the
awesome contours of Lakeland in its desolate
prime.
Loft Beck beckons with its gurgling waters. The climb is strenuous with
full pack, but those self-same waters offer the relief of a swill and the
refreshment of an icy slurp or two. I wait at the top for Andy.
The breeze blows chill, despite the sunshine, against a
sweat-drenched t-shirt, but the donning of a warm, woolly jumper soon sets
matters aright, and with a glow in our cheeks and an appetite in our bellies we
can enjoy our packed lunches as we take in the views, to either side of that
“Superman-alternative”, of both Ennerdale Water and Buttermere.
We continue on our way to Honister
Pass, along a high plateau in bright sunshine. The descent is quite steep and
bumpy; the precipitous ridge that dominates the ravine carries the scars of green
slate mining. Across the valley the mine entrances are perceived from afar as tiny
apertures, linked by the vestigial reminder of an impossibly vertical, old
funicular railway track.
We
drop into Seatoller, but not before taking off our boots for a while
and dipping our hot feet into the chill mountain stream. We sit perched on
boulders as a troupe of helmeted outward-bounders trip past, from rock to rock
and in Indian file, heading upstream.
The
feet somewhat soothed, it is the muscles that now need re-cranking to carry us
our last stretch to Longthwaite Youth Hostel.
There
we arrive, via some more pleasant woodland walking, to hit upon a fine-looking
building which overlooks the meandering waters of the River Derwent.
We
freshen up and I await the arrival of Janine, who turns up after I’ve paid her
bill lest she forfeit her bed. It’s by now 6.15 pm and she has that healthy
glow borne of exertion mingled with the delightful obliviousness to the passing
hours that this landscape brings out of you. I am captivated, once more, by her
smile and by her salty exuberance, and in the evening (one blessed with the
promising, roseate glow of the shepherd’s delight) we three take a jar in
quaint Rosthwaite (although Andy can only drink orange squash because of his
antibiotics) and then we two, Janine and I, enjoy a private moment by the
night-shrouded Derwent, barely lit on our way by a none-too penetrative
flashlight.