Daunderish re-unification took place at some flattened grass overlooking ancient Norse farming settlement of Rosthwaite where, it was noticed by senior daunderers armed with maps, that there was a pub. This was probably going to be significant.
But, for now, the number of Daunderers was back to it’s original 14. That is to say, no extras had been recruited and, even more significantly, nobody had yet died.
The seeds of Schism Version 2:2 had been sown, though. Some participants in yesterday’s foolish heroics in the wind-blasted crag-girt high summits and over-affectionate groupings of contours were expressing doubts about whether they could do it again today.
Others, from the more sedate, I should say, sensible, calmer, decrepit senior citizens were already rejecting the dribbling lust for ascent expressed by our more athletic members and were almost openly discussing beer, chips, early pitching of tents and the avoidance of anything remotely resembling a slope.
At Seatoller, just by the bus-stop, the group once more rent itself asunder in a similar way to which members of the PLP might do every few weeks. A left-leaning group headed for Glaramara whilst a right-thinking selection headed for the heady pleasures of the Riverside bar at Rosthwaite. Foolishly, me and the Lad, seduced by stirring tales of derring-do and the promise of a walk which would be only marginally harder than our TGO chally Day 1 and about the same as TGO chally Day 2, went for Glaramara option along with five blokes.
Happily, the sun beat down in the way it often hardly ever does in an English April and we slugged and heaved our sweaty way up the long ridge to the final scramble to the very top of Glaramara at an almost nose-bleeding altitude of about 780 metres.
The walk was a pretty standard tour of Glaramara, although visiting only three of it’s many tops plus Allen Crags, with a descent of the very lovely Langstrath via the very lovely but insidiously filthy Angle Tarn and down to the campsite at Stonethwaite. Additional mileage was added with a little limp along to the Riverside Bar – a bar which accepts dogs, many of whom entered into random barking competitions. Its always handy, I find, to have a loyal companion who is always available and willing to help out with the tidying-up of any dropped chips or wayward splashes of gravy. I meantersay, food waste attracts mice, so this is really a public health service, according to LTD.
Thus, we achieved a daily mileage of some 14 miles with 3500 feet of ascent. More macho estimations of distance and ascent were available at the time, but were wrong.
And in the morning, Schism 3 occurred after a bit of a ramble along the Cumbria Way. This was caused when one part of the Daunder, heading off at some speed towards Braithwaite, ignored an open tea-room whilst others of a more relaxed attitude had bacon buns and tea. Later, whilst Flash Daunderers similarly ignored a bar, those with more creaky knees and who had had hot and salty bacon made to ensure their survival by having a bit of a relax in the sun with a nice, cool beer at the Swinside Inn. Others had lunch too. It makes me choke with pride and emotion to witness such dedication as this. (sniff…)
Eventually, everybody turned up at Braithwaite and went home.
We’d done (that is to say, me and the Lad had done) 30 miles and 6600 of the Queen’s Imperial Feet of Up. Others had done other things. Hopefully, everybody was happy with whatever they’d done.
Thanks to Messrs Sloman, Lambert and