Back to the Back O' Skidda

 

Morning View From The Tabernacle

Some readers who are particularly attentive or otherwise psychic will suspect by now that in May I will be setting off on the TGO Challenge. (my 20th should I complete it.)  Those who don't know what this is are advised that a Google search will provide a huuuuuge amount of detail. 

Anyway, as it involves walking about 200 miles with a stupidly heavy weight on the back will appreciate that a) It's probably a good idea to train a bit and b) Its not very long to go.

Ringo mentioned that we'd not been backpacking for a bit and that wouldn't it be better if we had a little trip somewhere quite soon. For the training.

So we did.

First camp sheltered from a nithering breeze

Ringo the dingo - seems to be in a good mood

Snow Storm on High Pike doesn't distract Ringo from the serious business of marking his territory

We went around the back of Skiddaw - an relatively quiet area of the Lake District, where in midweek March little notice would be taken of some discreet camping and some indiscreet snoring. 

I'm not going to delve into any statistics about how far it was or how much uphill we did on the grounds that the extremely low numbers would be an embarrassment to an energetic full-o-beans pooch like Ringo, although, honesty wouldn't bother me at all. I expect we could have covered more distance given any kind of plan or being determined and not lazy.

But we set off hopefully and marched with chins held high in a British sort of way and gave up in the face of a mini blizzard and a rather lovely camping spot in what turned out to be a lovely suntrap once the evil spiky shower of tiny lumps of wind-driven hard snow had drifted off towards Denmark. We didn't feel guilty at all and soon snuggled into our warm bags with the radio, hot food, kibble and winalot (dog) and some rough whisky to while away the 12 or so hours of chilly darkness. and, since we're being lazy, also the following five hours of morning sunshine. It took that long for the ice on the tent to melt.

Lingy Hut in the distance

Ringo says he's never been to Carrock Fell - well, tough...

Sunshine draws us off the hill

Blizzards returned as we eventually climbed on to the tops, taking brief shelter in Lingy Hut. We were tempted to stay, but as we'd only been walking for about an hour, this was taking lassitude one step too far. We were putting far too much effort in being lazy - so we plodded on. Showers cam and showers went, each one stingingly painful (or painfully stinging). At some point in the afternoon, maybe 90 minutes before sunset, and in yet the fiercest squall of the day, and surrounded by bumpy tussocks, whilst sheltering in a peat hag, Ringo mentioned that the bit of grass we were on would just about take a small tent and that we were next to the beck for water AND that he hadn't eaten for over an hour and was pining for his winalot and a lovely Mini Jumbone.

So we put up the tent and snuggled in once more. the pitch was a little tilted, though and this lead top a certain amount of sliding towards the door and the tent taking on a jaunty angle.

Ringo is an excellent tent dog, despite his farm-dog border collie heritage. In fact he's really lazy once he gets into his woofbag. He refuses to join in with the celebration of a midnight visit from Mr Bladder, especially if the weather is on the grim side.  Once he's in, he waits for dawn.

We had our tea, finished the whisky and read the book until the headlight batteries failed.

And in the sunny morning, with ice on the tent we looked out to see the nearby hills beautiful and white.

So we buggerred off.

The pitch was a little tilted.