Everything is big in Bigland. As you can see from the photo above, even yours truly can become really really big, although why there was very little effect on superdawg is a mystery.
After having had a really good sleep and eaten all my breakfast this morning (this makes you big and strong by the way, according to my Mum who, now I think about it wasn’t very big, but was quite strong…), I loaded the Dawg into the knipemobile and headed off to somewhere quite near Ulverston. As the old OS map has it “Here be Bigland” where everything is BIG.
Some of Bigland contains a Wainwright Outlier – one Bigland Barrow, disappointingly short of one huge wheelbarrow, but containing a large herd of small cows (belted Galloways) – who appeared docile and uninterested in Bruno, which was nice; a large tarn or lake and a concrete bunker thing on legs.
Next was the vairy pawsh Bigland Hall, where the Very Tall go to ride about on horses, shoot things, do fishing and get rat-arsed at night. Just next to Bigland Hall is a small but perfectly formed HuMP – one Grassgarth Heights. Now Grassgarth Heights is easily reached from the Cumbria Coastal Path except that it is well defended by lots of signs indicating that the presence of The Public is Not Wanted. Nevertheless, somehow, I suddenly found myself on the summit of this Grassgarth Heights. It has a very nice view of Bigland Hall. I expect the Big people were having a snooze or something as they didn’t notice me and the dog up the hill. Maybe Grassgarth is not, in fact their hill at all, but somebody else’s; somebody who doesn’t want Big People up their sheep pastures. I don’t know.
I returned to the car which was exactly where I left it, and went to Lindale – a small village a few miles away on the other side of a huge traffic-calming measure aka some temporary traffic lights protecting a tree-pruning ceremony. These lights took a full half an hour to pass. This in turn reduced my intended bag of hills from four for the day to three.
Hill Three was outside Bigland, in More Normal land. And it was called Dixon Heights – another Wainwright Outlier listed in his book as Newton Fell (South). It has a ruined pile of rubble on the top, some ponies and a heron, fishing hopefully in a small pond which, I would like to bet, has no fish. I hoped to point this out to Mr Heron, but he flew off.
I am now back at home and have returned to my usual dimensions. Thank you for enquiring.
I like the name “Dixon” by the way. Dixon’s ice cream van used to visit our street when I were but a sprog, nearly twenty years ago now [koff] The driver (presumably Mr Dixon) had a hand bell. You had to find your mum with her purse for a tanner for a cone…. and the ice cream ran down your arm to soothe the itchy scab on your elbow and if you didn;t concentrate, the dog snaffled the whole thing from your hand. Anyway, Dixon Height is a fab place for half an hour’s break for those driving a long way to get to Wasdale or somewhere like that. Fab place, actually….