Cat Bells 22.9.07

Cat Bells is the ‘easy’ fell. The one for the kids and the grannies. It’s a piece of cake. Surely everyone knows that?

Looking at the pictures I had my suspicions that Cat Bells was far from the innocuous little stroll that it’s often made out to be. Indeed, it looked distinctly steep in places, requiring a good deal of hard work and (for ‘scaredy-heights’ like me) some test of nerve.

This was the first of our two walks with Ranger Bob. We constituted a motley crew of walkers from various parts of the country, with varying amounts of walking experience, some of whom had been on Bob’s walks before and some of whom were experiencing that privilege for the first time. Most of the group had met up the previous evening, resulting in the consumption of Chinese food, followed a strictly respectable amount of local ale, wine and spirits.

The next morning we managed to round ourselves up in good time, and set off towards our goal for the day. There were early hazards to negotiate. The first of these was the sandwich shop in Keswick. 100 yards into our grand walk, we came to an abrupt stop, as many of our group needed to buy something for lunch. The rest of us congregated on the pavement, causing a disgraceful obstruction, which drew affronted looks from one elderly gent who had clearly presumed that walking down the street at 10am would not involve something akin to a military operation.

Further obstacles were encountered on the streets through the town centre, which were already packed with shoppers and tourists. Somehow the group stayed intact to reach the outskirts of Keswick, and it was inconceivable that the hill would have anything more difficult or awkward to throw at us. And so we set off to stroll up our ‘piece of cake’.

The next part of the walk took us down rural lanes, over a wobbly suspension bridge (one of our number commenting that ‘You wouldn’t get my mother across here’) and through wooded tracks until we emerged at the foot of Cat Bells.

‘Ooh’ and ‘Hmm’ were some of the less enthusiastic responses on seeing the steep zigzag of the path before us. We embarked on a slow ascent; as it was warm, sunny and Saturday, Cat Bells was heaving with pedestrian traffic. There was a queue going up the initial slope, and at the first bend in the zigzag, walkers were jockeying for position or trying to squeeze past those going in the opposite direction. Ah, the splendid isolation of the mountains!

After a couple more climb-stop-climbs the traffic eased, and our group began to spread out as everyone tackled the ascent at their own pace. And with fabulous views over Derwent Water with Walla Crag, Blencathra and Skiddaw beyond, there was plenty to distract us from the climb.

There were also some rocky sections barring the path, where decorum had to be abandoned in favour of pragmatism and all fours. Where was that ‘piece of cake’ now? This had suddenly become tricky and testing. A scramble demanding care, concentration and, occasionally, an obscene amount of suppleness of limbs. Oh, those dastardly guidebooks with their ‘this-is-so-easy-your-grandchildren-could-do-it-with-their-eyes-closed’ assurances.

Scramble we had to, and scramble we did. Eventually, the hard work was rewarded as the smooth summit of Cat Bells was reached. A bit of useless trivia here: apparently the name ‘Cat Bells’ is derived from ‘cat bields’ meaning a place where cats took shelter. Back in them days, wild cats were a common presence in Cumbria. There is also a ‘mart bields’ just beyond the summit, showing that martens also populated the area once. And ‘Keswick’ originally meant ‘cheese arm’. Anyway, I really should get a life …

On the summit it was like being in a popular city park during a warm summer lunchtime. People were sprawled all over the grassy slopes taking their refreshment. Some were sitting on the level ground near the path; some perched on the steeper slopes to enjoy the view; others sought out shelter from the obligatory wind that blows across every fell top.

We settled down for lunch in a spot with both shelter and views, and watched a woman hurl herself head-first downhill to catch a bottle of water which had seemingly been unable to resist the lure of Derwent Water far below us. The woman caught the bottle with ease, prompting one man nearby to ask if she played rugby and whether she fancied turning out for the England World Cup team. In the meantime, all of the group had made it safely to the top. Just the descent to negotiate now.

After a while sitting down, the chill of the wind began to take effect, so it was time to head downhill. The descent was much less interesting than the climb. The path was essentially a stony staircase, and trees soon shielded Derwent Water from view. The wind dropped though, and it was time to discard a couple of layers in the increasing warmth.

The monotony was only broken by a couple of hyperactive boys (see, Cat Bells really is the kids’ fell) who were flinging themselves along the path with scant regard for anyone else who might wish to avoid falling and breaking their neck. I found myself feeling rather old as I grumbled that children should not be brought onto hills and mountains until they have been taught how to behave properly in such an environment. We didn’t act like that when I was young …

Once we reached the valley floor we followed the track along the western banks of Derwent Water, passing families basking in the sunshine and dogs hurtling into the lake to retrieve a stick before shaking themselves dry on the shore. The walk was seemingly cut short when we came to a ferry point where there was a sign informing us that our original destination, the point further on at Hawes End, was out of order.

We sat down to wait for our watery transport to arrive and watched a group of teenagers learning to sail. Most were making a good effort of it, though there were a couple of boats that resembled a metronome, such was the regularity with which they capsized, righted themselves and then capsized in the opposite direction. It was slapstick worthy of the finest 1930s black-and-white comedy.

Just as the ferry finally approached us, the rest of the group strolled serenely into view (Ruth, Sue and I having gone on ahead after lunch). At last! We would be able to rest our weary limbs and travel back to Keswick in fine style. Er, no, actually we couldn’t. The boat was packed. A few people got off, and a few of our group got on. But the remainder now had to choose whether to wait for the next ferry or walk back to our base.

The walk back took less time than expected, and was all easy going as it was on the flat. The suspension bridge was still wobbling, the town centre was still heaving, and on the horizon, Cat Bells still looked too steep to be a hill for the very old and very young. Those guidebooks have a lot to answer for.

Matt Smethurst

Castlerigg & Latrigg 23.9.07

This walk was originally titled ‘Walla Crag’ but the weather saw to it that we didn’t make it to the top of the cliff. Sunday spectacularly failed to live up to its name.

The group had survived Saturday’s walk up Cat Bells and the curry that followed in the evening (Cat Bells was a comfortable affair, but the curry was a close run thing). One or two members had either left or joined the group after Saturday, and it was a cheerfully stoic bunch who marched off beneath a sky spouting copious amounts of rain, and promising much more to come.

We went out of Keswick in the opposite direction to yesterday’s walk, and followed easy paths on the flat, until we reached the renowned promontory of Friar’s Crag on the banks of Derwent Water. Despite its fame as a viewpoint, there was little to see today, as the fells across the water looked out apologetically from behind the cascading wall of the damp stuff coming from above. Still, the clouds made for a moody and dramatic backdrop. Anyway, who wants to come to the Lakes and see blue sky?

The rain meant that we shied away from the path along the top of Walla Crag, and we took a diagonal path that climbed gradually through the woods. As recompense for missing out on Walla Crag, Bob directed us towards Castlerigg stone circle, one of Cumbria’s most famous ancient monuments, and held sacred by druids.

Now, you could be forgiven for thinking that September 23^rd is of little significance to druids (of course, everyone has an intimate knowledge of important dates in the druid calendar). And you’d be correct. September 21^st is the important date, being the autumn equinox, when we can no longer bask in the comfort of the days being longer than the nights. However, the 21^st was on Friday, and it seems even the druids can’t get time off work, so they had put back their ceremony at Castlerigg until the Sunday.

I don’t know quite what I’d expected. A mass of fifty or so figures clad in white, perhaps? A great gathering of sacrificial offerings? I’m no expert on the druids, but it was a great disappointment to me to see five people, dressed in ordinary clothes, simply passing round a drink in their small circle. The only slightly exotic feature was that they were drinking from a fancy horn. A few of our group also commented that it looked like the drink in the horn was whisky. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of interest in converting to Druidism …

After our lunch (which featured a timely heavy downpour) we moved away from the circle and back down the valley towards Keswick. Bob was itching for a bit more action, and suggested we could go up Latrigg before heading back into town. Those who were either weary of limb or had to make an early start for home took the direct route back, and the remainder of us pushed ourselves up the side of Latrigg.

Admittedly, it was hardly the most strenuous of climbs, and the reward was out of all proportion with the small effort, as we were given outstanding views over Keswick, Derwent Water and the fells around the lake. The hill seemed to be a magnet for many local runners, who made us feel very unenergetic as they passed us on the way down.

Before we had time to say ‘waterproof leggings’ we found ourselves back in Keswick, our adventure at its end. Good old British restraint prevented us from sobbing in our devastation that it was all over, and instead it was cheery farewells and promises to see each other again, walking boots ‘n’ all, at some point in the future. Bob breathed a sigh of relief that we’d all made it back safely and we made our separate ways back to our cars, tired and wet, but very very satisified.

Matt Smethurst