Walking With The Wind At My Back: Part Three

I’m continuing a series on the Coast to Coast walk that my father and I did, with one of his friends, Ernie and two other friends who drove us. This is part three. Here is part one and here is part two

Patterdale to Kirby Stephen

The next day, out of Patterdale was, I think, the best of the lot. Perhaps it was that we had been inspired by the glories of Helvellyn and the excitement of Striding Edge. Most likely it was because, after three full days of walking the clinker in our legs was settling and we were into our stride. Oh the cliches; oh the puns. At least it wasn’t Oh the legs.

This was the first night that I remember us staying with other walkers all, exclusively, doing the Coast to Coast. And the snobbery. There were the Under-our-own-steamers who looked down on the rest of us, much like those who do all their own DIY or knit their own personalities do. There were the We’re-doing-it-in-sections-when-the-time-allowers who emitted a sort of righteous smugness born of having such busy lives. Like people who tell you they fall just into the next tax bracket or buy Albanians toilets because they can. And the Ones who were Doing-it-East-To-westers who loved to tell you it was into the prevailing wind and so required 31.74% more energy that those of us who were going west to east and who at some point on the walk would certainly self-beatify and possibly immolate with the heat of their own fabulousness.

And then there were we three who were like those who always manage to be the ones, on a picnic, who sit on a dog turd. We had, whisper it in case the style police hear you, ‘help’. Our packs were being ferried. We were just ‘walking’. We had an out if something went wrong. We clearly spent our days stealing from blind beggars and selling other people’s children for egregious medical experimentation.

Quite honestly, after three days of toil we didn’t really give a fuck and having bought the rest of the hostel a pint, neither did they. So much for principles.

Perhaps I should digress here, and briefly reference beer. I’m teetotal and have been since 1989. This walk therefore fell into the sober years. The same could not be said of the senior faculty. However all of us were from the Deep South and for those of you who are not familiar with the socio-cultural antipathy between those of the North (self proclaimed as hardy, worthy, honourable and straight talking) and we Southern Few (reckoned by those true bloods of these Shires as lily-livered, effete, slipper-wearing, duplicitous quislings) you might not realise that one of the many areas of contention lay in what comprised the ‘right’ way to serve beer. ‘Beer’ in this context meaning ale.

The honest toiling northerner takes his pint in a glass sleeve with a good head on it, sufficient to cover his manly tache in a creamy froth; meanwhile the sneaky snarky softy from the South receives his pint in a fancydan handled mug with pretty little windows and with little or no head thus rendering his facile excuse for a top lip merely moist.

To this point, my comrades had been polite but rather less than impressed with the beer on offer as we strode west. However in the pub in Patterdale they discovered Jennings Brewery and to say there was a degree of illicit enjoyment would underplay the way they took to their drinks. From then on, until we crossed the Penines and left Jennings behind they were happy Brothers in arms.

The climb, that morning was pretty tough, though the weather was sublime.  Cool, a few fluffy clouds, the hint of maybe a shower later. But what made it special was that the light enhanced the views. We could see for miles.

We passed Angletarn and headed for High Street (over 2700 feet) and the long straight Roman Road the followed the ridge line. We could look back at St Sunday Crags and Helvellyn and think ‘been there, done that’. And ahead we had Kidsty Pike, a snatch below High Street But oh what a view.

And as we sat and they had coffee and I swore at my crap flask that had leaked again albeit into a polythene bag, blow me if a Golden Eagle didn’t rise past us on the thermals, one beady eye seemingly watching us for any sign of distress. The unblinking raptor is both terrifying and beautiful.

Looking toward High Street

Things could only go downhill from here, literally and metaphorically and, if the up had been glorious and soul fulfilling the down was utter shite. We could see our destination, the reservoir of Hawswater but the path just drops. For knees more used to desks and barstools, this was a cruel way to discover how genetically unsound were our cartilages. Dad coined the expression ‘a knee-popper’ for such a slope and it has stuck in my family. It perfectly describes that appalling sensation that accompanies such a descent, the certainty you have that at any moment the patella will break free of its sinuous morings and burst out of your knees like a small round alien exploding from John Hurt’s gut.

But this was a good day. Once we were down the going was delightfully flat and often wooded. We didn’t see much woodland again until near the end. We followed Haweswater  to the dam and then the Beck. The day became hot – Ernie, our third man coined the expression Hitler Weather which neither Dad nor I had heard used before. It seemed at odds with the day and rather gratuitous but it turned out to, indeed, be a thing. 

Our end was now in prospect. We had time for a quick nosey around Shap Abbey – a ruin – before we crossed the main road the A6 and the railway south before we reached our youth hostel for the night. Of those who left Patterdale that morning we were the first to reach Shap and thus had the choice of rooms, the hottest showers. We also possessed a minibus and thus could ferry our tired fellow travellers to the pub.  It’s funny how that, more than anything, can break down prejudice. Hey ho.


Patterdale to Shap had been 16 miles and a fair bit of up and down. The next day, to Kirby Stephen was 22 miles but with few climbs. The Lake District was behind us – early on we crossed the M6, a horrifyingly noisy invader of so much beauty. It is perhaps only from a bridge above a motorway that you really appreciate how crap so much long distance driving is. Why do drivers insist on being so close to the vehicle in front? I can see us now, staring down in rapt disbelief at the many articulated lorries looming like metal dragons over some scurrying family salon, as if it was just so much prey. If the Eagle was nature’s raptor then, to us, Tesco’s ten wheeler was man’s equivalent.

Not so much legs as Doric columns… and those self same pink socks. I hope I washed them?

The day passed somewhat introspectively. We felt we had been spoilt, like being offered the petit fours and dessert before the starter. By going straight into the Lakes and crossing some of the stunning northern peaks we had enjoyed both the grandest of England’s outdoors and some perfect weather. Crossing the M6 therefore felt like a watershed and not in a good way. The countryside was nice. Oddendale and Smardale would, in the normal course, be delightful but as a counterpoint. Meah, not so much. There was a lot to see: Robin Hood’s grave (it’s not, it’s just called that)  and a monument to Black Dub (seemingly in the middle of nowhere there’s this large monument to a time when King Charles II stopped for a drink on his way to fight the Scots, as you do). But these were small fayre, after the feast.

It was a longish old day and we were grateful to be staying in a B&B in Kirby Stephen with a sweet family who cooked us a dinner as well as the most humungeous breakfast. It was very welcome, because the weather had changed and suddenly it was, in the dialect of the locals, reet parky. Still ahead we had the Pennines to cross and the Dales to reach. Onwards, Oh Hand Picked Elite…

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published several books: a four book series following Harry Spittle as he grows from hapless student to hapless partner in a London law firm; four others in different genres; a book of poetry; four anthologies of short fiction; and a memoir of my mother. I have several more in the pipeline. I have been blogging regularly since 2014, on topic as diverse as: poetry based on famous poems; memories from my life; my garden; my dog; a whole variety of short fiction; my attempts at baking and food; travel and the consequent disasters; theatre, film and book reviews; and the occasional thought piece. Mostly it is whatever takes my fancy. I avoid politics, mostly, and religion, always. I don't mean to upset anyone but if I do, well, sorry and I suggest you go elsewhere. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
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19 Responses to Walking With The Wind At My Back: Part Three

  1. I love the local lingo, plus the extremely-local family terms, for what you encountered. Your descriptions of people are also always so amusing. 😀

    In all, you’ve made me want to hike more.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Mary Smith says:

    Wonderful though h reading about your walking makes me feel rather feeble!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I like the way your group knows how to stop any warfare before it begins. And such a good description of the raptor!!

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Thanks for taking us along. Loved the Doric column comment.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. George says:

    As a southerner who’s lived in the North for thirty-three years, I must confess I was a fast convert to the northern way of serving beer, and have to remind myself there’s not something wrong with it if I go for a pint when down visiting my mum and dad.

    You’re stoking a back-burner desire to do the Coast to Coast. I know that part of the Lakes route quite well. Angle Tarn is beautiful and High Street from Haweswater was my first ever fell walk (though by the parallel Riggindale Edge ridge).

    Fantastic that you saw the Eagle. Eddy, as he was known locally, although back then, it might have been the female. She died around 2005 I think, but Eddy survived until about three years ago. He’s not been spotted since so sadly, England’s last nesting Golden Eagle must finally have cocked his talons.

    I meant to ask, given the shortfalls of the anorak and flask, how were the pink socks holding up?


    • TanGental says:

      You know, some sort of taste censor has blocked any memories of those socks though when my wife saw the pictures she did sigh in a rather knowing ‘not them’ sort of way. Worryingly I do seem to have worn them a lot. I hope them were regularly washed…

      Liked by 2 people

    • TanGental says:

      Oh and the coast to coast was truly life enhancing. The flat bit around Catterick was dull but for the rest it was one special treat after another.

      Liked by 1 person

  6. “knit their own personalities”–ha! Fine, crafty personality on display in this piece, as always. Well done!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Pingback: Walking With The Wind At My Back: Part Four | TanGental

  8. restlessjo says:

    A good friend’s older sister has lived in Shap for many years. It’s a lovely part of the world. But no, never easy on the knees. The pubs are some recompense, though. Lovely views, Geoff! 🙂 🙂 Thanks for sharing.

    Liked by 1 person

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