A Race Around Baldersdale

This one took a bit of doing…. I think I did two reccies before finally deciding on the route. The I did another reccy a few days ago, in the company of superdawg in deep but thawing snow and finally, we did the County walk on Sunday. Nine of us set off, including me and the stewards Janet and Steve…. but, after all those earlier patrols, I abandoned the route half way round and announced a march up the road to finish it off.

It was, in fact, howling when we arrived. Warm, but howling. Once again, I was a bit surprised that anybody turned up, but six maniacs walkers did, so we set off directly into the teeth of an Atlantic gale which sprayed us gently but generously until lunchtime, when it stopped for lunch.

Basically, we battered up the Pennine Way to Race Yate, where the huge snowdrift , so much enjoyed by Bruno a few days before, had all but disappeared. After this, we turned left and had a brisk walk down Race Yate Rigg, pushed along by an enthusiastic tail wind, and then a plodge through the juncus to West Loups’s where, since the red flag was not flying on the firing range, we took shelter in the ruins (after first examining a very nice cup and ring marked rock, helpfully covered over with stone flags by Ranger Neville, apparently)

At West Loups’s both the troops and the storm had a ceasefire and we had just a little period of warm sunshine to dry things out just a little bit..

The wind blustered on and soon the driving drizzle returned too and as we turned the corner to West Briscoe we were hit by a fierce headwind that had sneakily turned from a Southerly to a Westerly.   This was starting to be hard work, and  the stinging rain just a bit painful and so, I decided not to fight with the mud and the exposed shores of the reservoirs, but to keep to the hard surface and return by the road. I think this shortened the route a little bit…. but not much… I think it was probably quite a bit easier. I think I detected some relief amongst the customers who’s four quid for being pushed around for five hours whilst being sluiced with cold water was starting to run out.

It seems, from chatter, that several of today’s walkers intend to come on Wednesday’s walk at Stanhope. The weather forecast looks, at first sight, horribly familiar.  But there’s a cafe half way and, I daresay, that if we throw money at them, they’ll produce hot tea and cakes. or whatever…

Most of the pics are from the reccies – I need to get a new camera before the TGO. This one is declaring independence and insists on turning itself on and off and not storing absolutely everything that I snap. Which is a bugger. (technical photography term, try not to worry about it…)

Bruno enjoyed the reccies, though – specially the snowy ones.

In the meantime, I’m off to the Lakes.

This is the map of the one of the reccies the final version goes  a bit East of West Briscoe

 

The Herring Road –The Way of the Silver Darlings

The “silver darlings” refers not to the effete softies from over the Pennines who engaged in this jaunt, but to the silvery-hued shoals of herring who, all smoked and dried were packed into baskets and carried by fishwives across the moors from Dunbar to Lauder for sale to the farmers and good people of Lauderdale as part of their winter food supply. Strictly speaking, I suppose you could say that we went kipperless and in the wrong direction and only 25% female – except that people going West to East would, of course, be kipperless having sold all of their kippers.

Apparently, some Lauderdale locals were so desperate to get their hands on a nice smoked herring, that they went and collected their own from the port at Dunbar. And later, demand for herring became so high that carts were used and the road became braided into several different routes and the one that remains is just that – one of several.

And so it came to pass that Me, Judith, JJ and Alan met up in the distinctly unfishy Thirlstane castle campsite at Lauder, erected our tabernacles in the shade of some forestry and went off to raid the Toun for scoff and beer, returning, reasonably soused a bit later to find frozen tents which didn’t thaw out till well after breakfast. (Brekkies supplied by the cafe at the leisure centre and very nice it was too…)

We were supposed to be following Girthgate and the Lothian Edge to Dunbar, but  mutiny from whingeing  troops seemed to indicate that this was considered Too Hard and a Plan B was to be pulled out of the Plans drawer. In 2007 ish , on a previous pre-TGO training walk, me and Becky had walked the Herring Road which is a day shorter than the totally kippered Plan A, and so this was to be our walk. According to the sign in Lauder, it’s 28 miles. I think it’s probably 29, but never mind. There’s definitely something fishy about the distances on the many Rights of Way signposts.

And so, devilishly early in the blindingly sunny  morning, around lunchtime, we set off in a general Easterly/North-Easterly direction past the manorial pile of Thirlstane castle and on up into the sporadic snows of the Lammermuir Hills. Magnificent views of the Cairngorm-like lumps of the Cheviots were had. The snow was deep and soft in places and we were lucky to have Alan in the front, charging off making boot-sized holes in the snow ideal for the team to follow.
We lunched briefly by the bridge over the Lythe Water (cracking camping spot, but too near to Lauder to be useful). Here, pies were served by JJ.

The was now much deep and soft snow to be battered through and once again, Alan didn’t seem to notice it. I followed, gratefully. We ploughed on , up to the moor tops and along to Twin Law. Here, there was a notebook in a tin and some sweeties. JJ wrote something in the book and I ate the sweeties…
Not too long later, we joined a new road, complete with wind farm construction traffic and found a slightly bumpy and/or soggy area of gently tilted tussocks around Twinlaw Ford across the Watch Water, which was full with snowmelt, but still clear and clean.

A cold night followed during which one of my socks froze and a large quantity of my whisky supply mysteriously disappeared. Bla Band provided the menu.
Then it was morning – a grey a mizzly one. We rejoined the road, going astray a bit after missing a turnoff hidden under snow. the fact that the road wasn’t marked on the map didn’t help much. But it was just a short and  temporary misplacement and , after crossing the Dye Water we were back on track. My impression was that there was a bit more snow here and it was deeper and softer… Alan soldiered on in front… and soon we’d crossed the 400 metre ridge and were brewing up by the Kilpallet Burn.

WE only had 8 miles to do that day, so, by half two-ish we were camped by the Writerspath Burn on the lower slopes of Spartleton, surrounded by electricity pylons on one side and a dangerously loaded snowslope on the other (I found a small avalanche had happened just by the path whilst attending to a visit from Mr Bladder. Me and Becky had camped in the now soggy and ruinous sheepfold by the same burn six years earlier.

The night was less cold, but it snowed in the early hours and the early morning scene was desolate. We had eleven miles left to Dunbar and soon, after yet another snowy plod, we were navigationally tangled in the Chrystal Rigg wind farm – some 80 turbines and service roads built helpfully on a peat bog. None of the roads appeared on my map, nor on Alan’s GPS thingy. And the forestry marked on our maps had been felled and shifted away. Some guesswork was employed and, after further snowy struggles, we emerged over the brow of a hill to a view of the Firth of Forth and the far Lomond hills – a jewel of a view.

The likeness of this walk to a TGO Challenge lies in the final few miles of lane walking – firstly on quiet and deserted roads, then a commuter village and finally the A1 roundabout and estates and street of Dunbar.
We noshed in the Cafe Central , collected the knipemobile and some keys and repaired to our bothy for the night. I won’t say exactly where this is, since the opportunity to use it will probably never arise again and it would only make you seethe with jealousy and frustration for you to pine for the luxuries of a coal fire, central heating, electric lighting and cooking, hot showers, en-suite and soft beds – and a strange stick that made rain noises….  And it was free.  We left it as we found it, apart from the extra bottles in the recycling….

But what of the Herring Road?  Its a fine moorland route with a history. Fit and determined walkers would do it in a day. Fairly fit hikers would do it in two days, except that there’s no accommodation on the route, so you’d have to camp – and the camping spots are unevenly spaced.  A high camp on Twin law in summer could be nice, although you’d have to carry water for a fair distance. But the windfarms…..   Bits of the landscape have been permanently altered and, frankly, wrecked. Somebody should be ashamed about this.

But we like Dunbar and we like Lauder. The people are friendly and there’s food and drink to be had…
I might do Plan A later in the year….
Other blog posts about this are here:
Judith’s Tales of Herring-Do
Alan’s lauder to dunbar herring road part 1   lauder to dunbar part 2
John’s JJ's Kippery tail...er..tale..

Interlude - The Boy with Tape on His Face

There will now be another one of those short gaps. This time, I'm off to Dunbar in the morning to catch a train to Edinburgh and thence a bus to Lauder (I said LAUDER!) where several spaces are booked on the campsite.

This is a TGO challenge training walk which should take three, or possibly four days. We have scoff for four, but we're hoping for three.

"Us" includes me, John , Alan and Judith - potentially a spectacularly well blogged route, should we arrive at the other end.
Due to deep snow cover (we think) our first intended route of some 70km over the moors to Dunbar seems over-ambitious and so, its more likely that we'll plod the Herring Road, with possible added loops to Dunbar.

Survivors will be taken back to Lauder and shot... apols... returned to their car for the fleshpots of Cheshire.

In the meantime, wish us luck and enjoy this short clip of a boy with tape on his face.

I mean, what could go wrong......?

Helvellyn – Where’s me Crampons?

I caught Bruno studying one of those Outdoor Leisure map things. “You’re to old and fat to be able to go up a proper hill nowadays” he says (He’s in a strop for getting the blame for scoffing one of the grandkids white chocolate Easter eggs when all along….) “Why don’t you blow the cobwebs off that unused ice axe and dig the crampons out of that drawer full of odd socks and go out and see if you can still deal with a few contours?” He said.

And so it came to pass that the knipemobile was parked on a hardened snowdrift just to the right of the King’s Head at Thirlspot, a spot picked explicitly for the bagging of Brown Crags – a Birkett sticking out of the side of Helvellyn/White Side like a little pimple. I’d brought the ice axe and the khatooola spikey things (not really used in much anger as yet) and my trusty old crampons just in case the khatoolas couldn’t cope and we stumbled off up the slippery snow towards Fisher Gill. I put the khatoolas on quite early. The snow was hard and icy and the evidence of other people’s slips was all around.

The snow was a bit patchy, mainly consisting of a huge and steep patch and some pretty drifts in the gill. We battered upwards, turning off near the top to bag Brown Crags. A Birkett with a very nice view.

Onwards and upwards and we hit the main snowline at about 650 metres. At this point, Bruno went a bit daft again and started charging about and chasing little snowballs that rolled down the hill. There was much windslab, but luckily not to deep and, maybe, not too steep and we were soon (well, fairly soon anyway) at the top of White Side where we joined a bit of a throng destined for Helvellyn. Bruno charged about all day, which accounts for why he’s now been asleep for six hours…

The top of Helvellyn has a huuuuge cornice and lots of icy snow and the khatoolas coped nicely with ice and even more nicely with hard snow. So I didn’t use the crampons which were still strapped to the back of the pack.

I lunched in the shelter with a chap from Mungrisdale and a bloke who had just climbed up the East face from the tarn. (see scary pic of him about to top out) But my bum was cold (I’ve been having trouble with this particular pair of undies in the elastic department, which isn’t very elastic just now and some of the more upholstered parts of the pieman anatomy used for sitting on were getting quite chilled. So I left.

Me and the Dawg descended the steep and icy snow of Browncove Crags, down to Helvellyn Gill, where, due to the sunshine blazing off the snow, it got quite hot (It felt hot, but it was only about 6C) So I stopped to take a layer off. This is where I discovered the loss of my beloved crampons – still in the shelter and seen by a chap who caught me up. Bugger. Bruno had curled up asleep at this point, a sign which I took to mean that a re-ascent of Helvellyn was out of the question. (This is just an excuse by the way, I couldn’t have climbed back up again….)  Luckily, the khatoolas coped with everything.

For those intent on high level TGO Challenges, and given that the amount of snow we have at the moment is unlikely to disappear completely by early May – a pair of khatoolas in the pocket would seem to be a safe and relatively lightweight solution.

Apart from the tragic and careless loss of my crampons, though, this was a superb day to be up The Lakes. The dog was right. The route wasn’t long, though – just 6 miles and 3000 feet of up.

Gregg’s Hut Overnight and a Visit from the County Council

In our final bid for actually doing something over the recent snowy period, me and Brian decided to spend the night in a bothy together with a couple of bottles of something warm and comforting – specially distilled at around 40% proof..

We parked prettily  just after dark, quite near the George and Dragon in Garrigill and, after a few reviving snifters and a bag of smoky bacon in the pub (its a long drive from Crook through all those snowdrifts), we set off hopefully into the night by the light of a couple of petzls and weighed down by huge supplies of coal, sticks and food. An attempt to reach the Shepherd’s Hut was thwarted by some horrendously deep undrifted snow which at one point threatened to tip us into an icy beck, and a “slight” navigational error, which saw us, instead, approaching the darkened shape of Gregg’s Hut at around 1:00 am. We were never worried, obviously…

Luckily, nobody was in residence, so we lit the fire, warmed up a bit of lamb stew wot I’d brought, and had a  few convivial early morning hours beside the glowing stove with Radio 2 on the DAB before turning in for the night. We forgot all about changing our clocks….

And so, ridiculously early in the morning, whilst still filling my sleeping bag with condensation and during a specially rivetting visit from Kylie, the outer door was heard to open and an authoritative and quite “official” voice called out the immortal words “Hello, is there anybody there….?”

And, of course, there was – Us.. Instructions to the callers to go forth and multiply as quietly as possible were met with a rather assertive approach, however…   It seems, from the two chaps from Cumbria County Council Finance Department, all dressed in North face and briefcases, that we owed them £3.42 + vat Council tax for our night in Gregg’s Hut, it having been registered, with effect from 1 April 2013 as a “hostel”. We were lucky, apparently, that they didn’t charge us for the room we hadn’t occupied. Had we been on benefits, we’d have had to pay for that as well… but as there were two of us for two rooms,.. the only question was, which one of us was the tenant and which one was the lodger. We decided that I was the tenant.

Brian hadn’t any change, so I paid by debit card, having protested but been informed that I had to pay up since this was now “the law”. The chap from the Finance Department was a little weedy bloke with a Hitlerish moustache and Meindl boots, but his “colleague” was quite large, not very friendly and only appeared to have one ear, which made his balaclava  a bit lob-sided. This, however, together with the fact that he spoke not at all, plus the squint,  and the sneer, only added to his sinister appearance.

So we coughed up. We did get a receipt.

Has anybody else heard about this before? Its bloody ridiculous… Who do I write to?

No pics for the trip – camera trouble….

Incidentally, how long has Greg’s hut had two “G’s” – not that I’m specially bothered. I am the Pieman after all….