Leg News–Final Installment (We Hope So Anyway)

I went to the doctor. I said “Doctor, it hurts when I do this…” He said, “Well, don’t do it then”. Joke stolen from Tommy Cooper.

But I did go to the doctor eventually. It took me five weeks to get a non-routine appointment. The purpose of the consultation was to get a final explanation about whatever it is that’s going on with my thighs.

It seems that a seriously big thigh muscle in my passenger-side leg – my Rectus Femoris, apparently, has a tendon rupture at the knee and is retreating in an uphill direction and is now cuddling itself at the top of my leg, just a bit to the left and down a bit from the naughty parts.

This explains why the pain was in the knee and the lump higher up. Apparently, the doctors expect the muscle to shrink upwards even more over time and, as it’s not being used any more, to begin to reduce in size.

Other muscles at each side are helping out whilst there’s a vacancy in the Rectus Femoris department.

The leg appear to be working at almost, but not quite, 100% and so, the docs are saying that it should be left alone although a repair is possible.

There is a space where the muscle has left and this seems OK too… 

As there’s no change to my ability to walk up hills and over longish distances, I’m not going to do anything about it.

And that’s that. If it’s not broken, it’s not mine.

Not Penyghent–The Nettles and Snot Expedition

Some peeps may or may not remember that a visit to the summit of Penyghent is a rite of passage for childer of the knipeclan at, roughly, the age of six or seven or eight. This stems from when my Uncle Eric, late postmaster for the West Riding cotton town of Earby, in the  early 1960’s took my brother up the hill and not me. I was quite unchuffed about this at the time and this has caused this rite of passage to develop amongst my own children and, later, grand-children. So far, five junior souls have been up the steep but short side and back down again. Sadly, the two sheep, Reeves and Mortimer, are no longer there. They used to beg scoff from the kids and became almost legendary…

And now, it was Tommy’s turn to go to the Windy Hill. When they start asking if they can “go up the mountain” , it’s usually time to go. Tommy’s main skill at the moment seems to be the production of huge amounts of claggy nostril snot and the ability to get a bit stuck in forests of nettles from which he has to be physically lifted – at arms length….

So we went to Orcaber farm near Austwick and camped the previous night, breakfasting the next morning at Ye Olde Naked Man caafe in Settle (top notch breakfast and service by the way). Just a note about some other camp[sites in the locality – the Stainforth Site and a site near Clapham had no vacancies for single nights that night. But they would have us if we booked for two nights. The got nowt. There’s patches of grass growing where our tents should have been. I really hate this sort of thing. Orcaber Farm got our money and they got bugger-all.  Tsk…..

After brekkies we drove up Silverdale to Dale Head for the traditional start to the walk. Here, the drizzle and mizzle was seen to be descending and within minutes of parking the knipemobile on some slippery grass, the landscape disappeared completely in driving clag and the rain set in. We could wait. Or we could go somewhere else. A car full of lively and substantially fed sprogs is a contra-indication to waiting anywhere at all for any length of time and so, we left.

Instead, we went to Attermire and explored the caves and crags they have around there. This provided a full half-day’s muddy and occasionally dark and spidery entertainment. Jubilee Cave is probably the best for a muddy crawl since it provides a through-trip with a bit of a squeeze at the end. And there’s two caves there for the price of just the one. Other discovered caves proved less challenging and Victoria Cave is huge and has dire Elf-And-Safety warnings and barriers to dissuade exploration. Its a bit sad, really.

The weather brightened up for a time and we toyed with the idea of returning to Penyghent, but as the day wore on the cloud-caps returned to the hills and it started to drizzle again. And it was a bit cold. Not the best conditions for a kids’ trip up a hill.

We celebrated with ice-creams from Kirkby Stephen on the way home.

Maybe Tommy will conquer Penyghent next year. We need a plan which has more time in the immediate locality. I understand that camping may be possible at the pub at Helwith Bridge….

Coniston Fells Ding-Dong

It was time for another visit to The Bro’s for a trundle in the Lakes and today’s targets were to be three Synges (don’t ask, just look it up!) amongst the Coniston Fells.  So, we went to Coniston, which is quite handy for the Coniston Fells as it happens. We parked at the top of the road to Walna Scar and wandered over the easy path towards The Bell.

The Bell was, of course, our first target. It has an interesting side, sporting a sporting scrambly ridge direct to the summit for sports and a path-for-wimps-and-piemen round the back. We went round the back, obviously. Its a crackling little hill and will probably repay another visit with an attempt to scramble up the other side..if/when feeling sporty enough maybe.. It was on the summit of The Bell that a wasp found the little gap between my trousers and my base-layer and gave me a little sting. And, yes, it does still itch three days later… – to quote Alf Wainwright who also once got stung by a wasp – “Ouch, the little beggar…”

Having scored a bag rather quickly, we began our climb up into the hill-fog of Coniston Old Man who’s summit was occupied by quite a lot of wasps and a few walkers. We lunched a bit out of the way. A few wasps investigating our butties died sudden and brutal deaths.

The path over to Swirl How over Brim Fell is easy to follow in the fog, as is the steep descent to Swirl Haws, the pass between Swirl How and Wetherlam. We avoided the summit of Wetherlam by turning sharp right for the top of Black Sails, where the fog cleared for a bit.

And then, the descent of the South ridge of Black Sails is a romp and a delight, with a narrow path weaving an interesting and complex way through small crags and around nobbly..er… nobbles, one of which had an odd little cairn and turned out to be Synge target number two –Erin Crag. The easy downhill romp continued to a final nobble overlooking the Coppermines Valley – Kennel Crag.

Our return was via Levers Water where, apparently, an old bloke with a beard had just finished a dip (outrageous!) and then by the Boulder Valley back to the knipemobile which was exactly where we’d left it.

Lots of contours on this walk – 3200 feet of them and in just 8 miles. LTD’s tally of new bags were these: The Bell, Coniston Old Man, Brim Fell, Little How Crags, Great How Crags, Swirl How, Black Sails, Erin Crag and Kennel Crag, bringing his grand total up to 365 hills according to the www.hill-bagging.co.uk website. He’s doing quite well, I think.

 

Three Late Summer Days in the Berwyn Mountains

Having seen off the Hewitts a couple of years ago, I seem to have a need to turn my attention to Nutalls and all my remaining undone Nuttalls are in Wales, except Pillar Rock. Now many people have completed the Nuttalls except Pillar Rock and, it seems, I may be heading for the same status.

Three such Nuttalls – Moel Yr Erwig (Round Hill of the Garden Insects), Godor North Top and Godor itself lie within the Berwyn Mountains and email discussions with Dawn produced a plan with a rough, that is to say, approximate route and an invitation to JJ to come along too. We like aproximate routes. Allows for flexibility. Hides the fact that we’re a bit lost.

So thats what we did.

We began with a rendez-vous at the ticket barrier on Chester station, a journey to Ruabon , wherever that is, and a short bus trip to Llangollen where Dawn bought me a pie. And it was a Very Good Pie too.

We heaved ourselves up some really steep stuff onto a heathery moor where, after some exploration, we found a lovely, home-engineered water-source and a flat bit of grass amongst the purple where tents Could Not Be Detected from the nearby path. The sun set. All was well.

In the morning we plodded off over Vivod Mountain along the North Berwyn Way and this made the going easy when it would otherwise have been quite tough. On we plodded to Moel Fferna 630m and then South into the heathery and tussocky wild bit containing a couple of Deweys and then, ultimately, as morale began to suffer, into the lumpy high heart of the Berwyns.

The sun beat down. The natives were absent. There was nobody else around.  Only the bootprints of Martin Banfield gave any indication that anyone at all had been there before us. (He had, by a couple of hours, apparently)

On over Cadair Bronwen and Cadair Berwyn we went, where we met an Ulsterman and his little dog waiting for the sun to set (bless ‘is cotton skeggies). Here, something slightly odd may have happened which I will gloss over and, maybe leave to others to detail. It wasn’t my idea, though and it just goes to show just how easily lead I am.

Dawn decided that a leap over the crags of Cadair Berwyn would probably be OK, and so (see above ref being easily lead), me and LTD and JJ followed her down the excessive steepnesses to our second camp by the heathery and midge – infested but beautiful shores of Llyn Lluncaws, set in a large corrie. My pronunciation – Thlinn Thluncowss was confirmed as “near enough” later by a farmer interested in putting his fences back up.

The midges eventually backed off and a cool and starry night followed, ultimately misting over, which I noticed during a rare and sleepless moment involving a visit by Mr Bladder and some barefoot stumbling about in the heather.

Wednesday’s dawn was dull, therefore, but not cold – so I had the dip I’d planned – not an ideal tarn for a dip as it has a rough, slippery and stony bottom giving way to squealchy mud and water weeds. The water is clear and clean and has fish and beetles, so it seems OK. Squelchy can be quite nice between the toes, though, I have to say.

And then we bagged the three Nutalls (see above) These were very Pennine, in fact, and quite boggy and tough going, but with very little climbing in-between. Lead now by JJ,  we followed a thin path down the hill and out of the Open Access area to find a couple of vehicles and two men involved in mending the fences on private land. We sent our diplomatic service department (JJ) in to negotiate and grace was give for us to continue down to the road. The meeting was friendly and the farmer advised that we wouldn;t get to Vivod Mountain today.

A long and hot road-plod followed during which I seem to have lost my walking pole. We used the tarmac route for ease and speed and to get close enough to Llangollen for a morning’s trek the next day.  We did manage to rehydrate somewhat at The Hand in Llanarmon Dyffryn Ceiriog, a small village containing more pubs than most villages of the same size (i.e. two)

By this time I was feeling the heat quite a bit and LTD was determined to catch a pheasant or two. Or three and he was lurching after each bird that squawked and exploded off through the hedges.  So we had an argument. It was a draw. We were both banjaxed.

Following the Upper Ceiriog Way, we crossed more moorland and just before we hit the second road, some rough, gorsey woodland with a small stream presented itself. So thats where we stayed, half hidden in the gorse and visited by many spiders and some ants. LTD slept for 12 hours almost without moving at all.

Thursday was warm again, but with a darkened sky and we passed over the moor where we’d had our first night and then back into Llangollen where egg and chips/sausage and chips and tea and more tea was enjoyed at the Station.

And that, folks, was that.

We did about 33 miles.

 

A Descent of Brewery Shaft at Nenthead

Its been a while since I had a lead-mine trip and so I was gruntled to bits to get an invitation from Brian to descend into the depths of the North Pennines at Nenthead. Brian’s pal Hugo came along too and might have contributed a few pictures , as has Brian. My pics weren’t very good at all since I knew there’s be lots of water down there, and so, took a cheapo camera inside an aquapac bag… so they were a bit dark. The spirit was willing but the flash was weak.

The occasion was the 120th anniversary of Vieille Montagne’s involvement in the Nenthead mines, including the development of the Brewery Shaft for compressing air and generating electricity.  The name comes from the Alston Brewery Company who owened the land before the London Lead Company bought it for the driving of the shaft.

The shaft itself is in a small and nonedescript stone hut with a small shed attached and has been capped with a steel grid and equipped with a series of lights which, when an appropriate button will light up one-by one at the speed of a falling Pieman but without the screaming. Thus the 100 metre depth (this is huge by the way) of the shaft will be revealed.

On this occasion, a winch had been installed and a small trapdoor opened in the grid over one side of this huge (3 metre diameter) and yawning pit and, on the cable of the winch was a small seat into which the petrified might be clipped with carabiners and cowstails and sent off slowly down into the normally dark, but now well-lit  and dripping hole.

The descent took three minutes. This is a long time. I had been advised that if the seat began to sway I should fend off the walls of the shaft very very gently so that any swaying might be dampened and not increased. I’m afraid I didn't do this very well at all and soon I was bashing off the walls of the shaft, with all it’s huge pipes and ironwork and spinning as well. And it was still a long way down.
But I arrived without huge drama and was extricated from the ropework and chains and stuff by a lass in a waterproof cape. I had to climb down a bit of aluminium ladder and some loose rubble to get into the bottom of the shaft.


Here’s where I waited, resisting the beckoning attentions of a dark and shadowy figure who said he was a guide as I had to wait for Brian and Hugo. I did have a look in the underground workshop nearby and looked at the Pelton turbine, compressors and the pelton electricity generator – and the anvil and other untidynesses.

Brian arrived, followed six minutes later by Hugo and we all splashed off to find the waterwheel. This was located along a walking passage which was flooded roughly up to the hips. Luckily, my recent plunges into the North Sea had acclimatised my naughty parts to cold water, so it wasn’t so bad for me. The lad who went before us did a lot of gasping and whingeing, though. The waterwheel is huge and intact and quite impressive. We returned whence we’d come. And it was time to get back on to the little chair on the wire and go back up.

There was a little wait whilst more visitors arrived. The ascent, though, I have to say was just as scary as the descent. This was mainly because whilst I did assure the Lady In The Cape that I was comfy and ready to go, in point of fact, after a few feet, I discovered that I was actually teetering on the edge of the chair and reluctant to move much in case I set the bloody thing swaying again. So I clung on and developed various cramps. It’s a long way up. It takes ages.
Good though. And I got to wear the Not-A-Onesie I bought at Bernie’s in Ingleton for the purpose for which it was made. It kept me toasty.

Thanks to Brian for fixing this up – we do like to scare ourselves witless every now and then, even if we are much too old for this kind of thing, and to young Hugo for the company. And to Brian for the oxtail soup and dumplings afterwards. And to Mrs Pieman for the transport and the Indian takeway (I had Kashmiri Chicken) whilst the knipemobile is on a waiting list…

Click the link below for a scary video

https://youtu.be/RUY7C4Qp04I

Here’s a link to lots of faxaninfo about the Brewery Shaft info about the brewery shaft