Howgill Fells – Langdale Knott and The Calf and Bowderdale and Stuff

I thought I’d done all the tops in the Howgills, being a self-styled expert on them… but , no. Suddenly I see, on a scan through hillbagging that I’ve missed a couple – the famous TuMPs Langdale Knott and Bluecaster, although, strictly speaking, Bluecaster is in the main part of the Pennines and not the Howgills. I suspect, but can’t prove that I’ve been up it anyway (Cue clip from Carry On Rambling – “Have You been up it yet Mr Widdle?” , “Ooooh Warden, you are naughty…”)

Hennyway – I determined to go and bag Langdale Knott and have a nice little trundle up some Howgills at the same time. On such a nice day, it would be a pity just to do the one bagging thing.

So, after an outrageously slow drive due to picking Lollipop Lady time to set off and then getting the wrong pump at the petrol station etc etc, the knipemobile was duly parked on the Chieftain Tank Parking Area at the foot of Bowderdale and me and the Dawg set off in high spirits and blue skies and skylarks and stuff for the bagging of Langdale Knott.

This went well. Langdale Knott is a grassy lump with a cracking view of Langdale, which is a long and narrow valley which pierces the inner sanctums (ooer..) of the Howgills and provides many an isolated and quiet camping spot with delicious clean water, flat grass, sunny sheltered spots and ponies. It goes on for miles and miles and it’s well worth a little wander on a nice day.

After Langdale Knott, we blundered up West Fell where we met (for the second time as it happens), a couple from Mickleton who were intent on walk involving really slow progress and then, at Hazelgill Knott, a rejected first-timer TGO challenger, who recognised my 2012 TGO fleece (the nice lime green one). He’d just asked JM to remove him from the reserve list so that he could make plans for his limited supply of annual leave. We all had chats. For a while, I thought I was back in the North-East (you have to stop for long chats in the North east – it’s a rule…)

Later, there was a couple of backpackers (bless em.. sniff…)(buggers had better weather than me and dawn… grrrr…) and then, on The Calf summit (the 24th time for me by the way) (just bragging) – a couple of lads who’d driven up from Skipton and a lass out on a solo walk. Since the Howgills got a reputation for being quiet, it seems that everybody wants to go there. But there’s plenty of room.

The hills were pretty quiet as far as spring-like bird noises are concerned , but I did notice a bunch of skylarks and one solitary meadow-pipit, plus the usual crows and seagulls and junior RAF pilots. The main sign of spring in yer Howgills, though, seems to be frogspawn. There’s loads of the stuff. It’s everywhere. All small puddles of cleanish water have their huge and wobbly lumps of spotty jelly. Most of this is doomed to dry up, I would have thought. Howgill frogs need no lessons in naughty rudies, but do need some instruction on the safe and secure deposition of the spawn.

 

We headed off for Bowderdale which we followed all the way back to the Tank park. This took a Long Time.

Cracking day, though – not a cloud in the sky and the total absence of sheep was a bonus for Bruno who spent the day off the lead. We did spot a few sheep at a distance and the lambing fields around Bowderdale farm had their new arrivals. 

Lambing fields are a no-no as far as me and superdawg are concerned. We take some care to avoid being a bother. I’m thinking that my next trips might be in the Borders where the access framework makes it so much easier to take a route around a field full of orange-bottomed fat-bellied yows at maternity time.

We did 13 miles and 2600 feet of up. And it were all grand!

Thanks to Richard for the spondoolies into the virgin money giving account by the way…  we like money!

I need to give this project a little kick, I think…

God Loves Diversity

In a comment on a blog post, Andrew said that he was a fan of Bruno the Superdawg and hoped for more info. I might well do something on these lines on the final and eventual passing of the Superdawg, but in the meantime, I’d just like to say this:

Bruno is the product of indefinite and undefined breeding. He is, you might say, of mixed race, certainly mixed parentage and he is, quite obviously, quite brown, hence the name.  His parents are unknown, absent and, probably almost feral. He started life with absolutely nothing at all. No hope and underfed. His fate, apparently sealed. He was, in fact, doomed. His only asset was his wagging tail and his temperament and these things saved his life.

Lets not put too fine a point on his lineage. He is a mongrel. A rescue dog. The pits. The bottom of the pile. The vet said we’d have “trouble” with him. But he was wrong.

He’s now thirteen years old and losing the ability to jump over stiles and fences with just the one mighty bound  (he tends to hit a fence half way up and fall off). And he’s either ignoring me a bit more or his hearing is starting to fail a bit. He is, in fact,just like me, getting a bit old and decrepit. He failed to cross a cattle grid  a few days ago, for the first time, holding up a painful paw for soothing afterwards….

And he’s not good in a group – he wants to be at the front and whinges and pulls…. which is why I hardly ever walk with him in a group.

But when there’s just me and him……

Walking West from Tebay or “In At The Deep End”

 

Picking Dawn up at Kirkby Stephen train station is almost routine nowadays – as is a dramatic weather-induced end to the walk’s programme. And so, this was to prove no different .

We set off, as per routine, with a swift nosh of butties and ham broth at Junction 38 services (very nice too…) and wandered Westwards over the Lune and under the west Coast mainline and M6 to Roundthwaite where we started on the gentle climb into the hinterland in almost warm sunshine. A good start.

Soon, intending only a short walk at the start of the trip, we were spotting camping spots and it was only early afternoon where we came across what was possibly the last sheltered spot before the the path started on up the ridge. So, despite the early hour, we camped at a nice and dry spot by Burn Gill. This was an excellent idea and it was nice to sit and brew inside the greenhouse-like confines of the the akto with a nice view and a chocolate biscuit…

Only one person passed during the afternoon – a runner with his two dogs and after that we had the place to ourselves.

A bit later, I had a little trundle up to Jeffrey’s Mount – a 378 metre lump overlooking the Lune valley but appearing from the fells around to be connected directly with the Howgill Fells. I wandered along the ridge a bit and then came down to camp. Dawn explored up by the beck whilst I was on my little stravaig. Quite good fun so far.

The night was warm and I kept the tent door open and watched the sky late into the night but in the morning, we had been smothered by clag.

We set off for a bit more of the Westerly direction, following a bridleway, which we lost, and we arrived on the ridge in a different place to where we first thought or intended – but we made the map fit my fantasy about where we were. That’s proper navigation, that is. We forged along the obvious ridge to another hill with a cairn, which turned out to be Wintersceugh, 464 metres – the only top on the ridge with a cairn marked on the map.

More claggy ridge followed – over an unnamed hill and then Winash at 471 metres and then , whilst Dawn sheltered behind a wall, I bagged Pipers Hill at 485 metres. (They’re getting higher, see?)

More expert navigating followed where we took an obvious path instead of doing the obvious and following the wall along the ridge – and ending up several hundred yards from our target layby on the M6 and having to do circuitous manoeuvres through evil boggy tussocks and heather to avoid some very spiky barbed wire fences. We got there eventually, ruffled but unbowed and proceeded further West, having conversations with a Kendal Wainwright Outlier bagger (bless ‘im) and two Radio hams who were radio hamming from Wainwrights. They told us it was going to rain, starting at 3:00 pm and he’d managed to contact a bloke in Leeds and one in Bangor. The bit about the rain was prophetic to say the least.

Dropping down to Crookdale beck, we soon found a spot by the beck and settled in for a wet and stormy night during which the rain slashed down in sheets from about teatime onwards and various shades of hurricane tried to remove our tentpegs, sneakily weighed down by boulders and rubble from the beck. It was a fractious night, but we had a plan for the next day, involving a lightly equipped assault on the nearby tops, including Grey Crag and Great Yarside, leaving the tents in situ. This was to be done in spring-like sunshine with light breezes and the slightly-bored peep peep of the local plovers.

But this was not to be. The morning dawned grey and mizzly and the rain mizzled greyly all day, sometimes with heavy bursts and sometimes almost stopping, but generally drifting across the landscape in damp sheets. This was the stuff that gets you really really wet. Nobody enjoys damp sheets, innit?  We moved not at all. The day passed in eating, drinking, brewing, reading and snoozing. I passed some time away by counting my limbs or having short dreams about having my brakes done.  I also  formed a Plan B for the next day when it would all be much much better.

At dark, the wind picked up again and the rain took on a heavier sort of mood. The tent lurched around and was sometimes hit by hard and sudden gusts whilst all the time being generously sprayed.  At about nine o’clock, on a draughty trip to service Mr Bladder,  I noticed that the beck had risen by about a foot, but had a way to go before it would be a problem. With each hour passing, the beck got noisier. And it ultimately got itself into a more worrying mood completely. If anything goes wrong with anything at all, it’s usually at 3:00 am for some reason and I had a little bet that this would be the time when we’d have to leave. In the dark and storm, this wasn’t likely to be an easy option.

At half three or so, I went out for another look and found myself on an island. Dawn’s tent appeared to have a new branch of Crookdale beck disappearing under the back and coming out from under the front. She’d packed all her stuff at this point and I decided to do the same. We would take the tents down at first light and head for Tebay. Dawn’s tent soon became untenantable and was filling up with water, so she joined me in the akto and, a couple of hours later, we bailed out – quite literally for Dawn as her tent floor was now under a foot or so of water. Final packing was quick and we left our island by a short but deep paddle. The main river was roaring and showing some quite big waves (!) It was still chucking it down. There are no pictures of this bit because the camera was tucked up in a dry bag in my pack along with all other electronics.

And so, we crossed back over Whatshaw Common and followed the vague line of a bridleway into Bretherdale, where it stopped raining and the sun came out. It was too late, though, even though Bretherdale is very nice, we had no time for it and we soon came to a riverside path back to Tebay.

Next time, we’re going to go for even more exciting weather. I’m thinking electrical storms including very close shaves involving huge bolts of lightening. Or maybe it will be too hot.

We take many lessons from this episode – and one of them involves recognising the absolute futility of taking any notice of the Countryfile weather forecast for the week ahead. Sunshine and showers does not normally involve 38 straight hours of continuous rain, I wouldn’t have thought.

There’s also the point about not kipping close to a big beck I suppose….. but we went for the shelter from the gale and the flat green bit with no tussocks, only expecting a night of rain at the most. Not the sort of thing to wash you away and kill you. Coldly…

Dawn’s tent now has a shallow end and a deep end by the way, and there’s a sign warning against running, jumping and petting. On Tuesdays, she’s leading ladies’ aquarobics and on Thursday nights there’s the kayak club. 

In spite of (or , more probably because of…) all these excitements, though, I had a whale of a time. I think we did about twenty miles altogether.

Monster Bike and Hike the Great Glen for Maggie’s Centres

 

Right, this me off on another camping/walking and sheltering from a huge storm trip with Dawn (I hope you’re not planning any significant walking whilst we’re doing this cos our record of attracting really duff weather recently has been second to none and you wouldn’t want to get as wet as us, now would you?)

In the meantime, I’m more than gruntled, almost over-chuffed, in fact to let you know about this Monster Bike and Hike up an enormous number of miles up the Great Glen – 31 miles on a bike, then either 9, 23 or 41 miles on foot…  (gasp!). This is, of course, ideal for anybody who wants to bag the Great Glen Way in one huge lump.

The cause is Maggie’s centres.

This is a direct quote from their website, for anybody interested in what they do:

How Maggie’s can help

Maggie’s offers free practical, emotional and social support to people with cancer and their families and friends. Help is offered freely to anyone with any type of cancer. Simply drop-in at any time - you’re always welcome.

So, that pretty much explains what it’s all about.

There are 14 Maggie’s centres around the UK with a further 5 planned or in development.

Some pics from a previous Monster Bike and Hike:

Here’s their website

Maggie's Centres website

and here’s the Monster Bike and Hike website for all the fax and info on registration and so on and so on – just click the link and all is explained.

Maggie's Monster Bike and Hike

I’ll leave this with you and head out into yet another Atlantic storm. How wet will we get? Will I lose my rice pudding (I lost my rice pudding up the Moffat Hills by the way) and will my car lights still be on when I get back from the Shap fells?

 

Gear Giveaway Group Grabs Grisedale Pike.

Richard Jennings organised this event in support of the Calvert Trust. The idea was that, several dog  owners who sometimes write messages on this walkers forum have a walk up Grisedale Pike then gather together in the pub and give Richard and partner, Donna Jennings, bits of their spare gear. This then gets sold and the proceeds go to the Calvert Trust. Quite a neat idea, I expect you’ll agree… ( I wish I’d thought of this for Mind..dhuhhh…)

And so, me and superdawg got up well before the Crook starlings had thumped the “sleep” button on the DB radio alarms and turned over to snuggle back down in our privet hedge for another hour of dreamysnoozysnorytimes; in utter darkness, in fact and scooted off in the general direction of Braithwaite via the A66 at Bowes which was, in fact, predictably and enjoyably empty. So I got there half an hour earlier than planned without setting off any speed cameras and parked, for three quid in the school playground. (Reasonable, that, for the Lakes…)

At Braithwaite the sun shone (a bit) and various dogs turned up at the starting point at the Royal Oak with their owners.   Several stray owners turned up without any dogs at all. So, there were fifteen(ish) walkers and six (ish) dogs for the closely packed contours and sloppy snow and scree up to the top of Grisedale Pike. I didn’t actively count the numbers.

The group got a bit strung out on the climb up the Pike, and Bruno, who was determined to be at the front, as usual, had to be restrained on his lead, otherwise I would have lost sight of him… and thee were sheep… So he had a proper whine and a moan about it and pulled me up the hill. So it wasn’t all bad  . Later, in the forest, where the group was more tightly formed, he had a good run at the front of the pack with several other dogs. They all seemed to get on remarkably well…

Just before we did  get to the top,though,  the weather, which had been fairly benign, spoiled itself and some nearby tops disappeared in hillfog and a lively breeze gave us a bit of a battering till we scuttered off towards Whinlatter. Conditions weren’t ideal for a relaxed lunch gazing at the view, and in fact, it could have been described as “grim” so we left in the general direction of Hobcarton End and Whinlatter.

A few  had dropped out on the climb, but some replacements were recruited on Hobcarton End – which was declared to be a “Birkett” and which I grabbed greedily. I later found out that about 20 years ago, I’d been this way before….  so any smugness only lasted till I got home.

Later, after a bit of the Whinlatter jungle, complete with leeches, drums and Burmese mud, we gathered in the Royal oak for the passing of contributions. There seemed to be a fair amount of quality stuff, so Calvert’s should be in for some reasonable spondoolies. There’s another, similar event planned for late summer, I understand.
The Calvert Trust provides Outdoor activities and holidays for disabled people and has centres in the Lakes, Kielder and Exmoor. For more info and to make direct donations click Here
And it was nice to meet several peeps (and their dogs) from thee walkersforum – individuals who had just been user names and photo’s up to now.
I think we did about 8 miles.
More charity stuff tomorrow, then I’m off on another windy backpacking trip with Dawn. I have a new and replenished supply of dehydrated rice pudding for this, so there’s no need for anybody to worry…