In June this year, I completed my decade-long quest to walk all of Alfred Wainwright's 214 Lake District Fells. It has been a truly life-giving experience. I have loved every minute, every step, every fell (even Mungrisedale Common!).
You might expect me to feel a sense of accomplishment. To be honest, though, the dominant emotion is melancholy, or at least wistfulness. Though I will certainly walk many of these fells many more times, experiencing them in different seasons and through different routes, I will never again climb them for the first time, with the unique sense of thrill and anticipation that a first time brings.
After all, it was never about ‘bagging fells’ for me. I initially decided to walk the Wainwrights as an excuse and a motivation to explore the Lake District, particularly the far-flung corners which I would have otherwise neglected. As I got to know the place, my hillwalking hobby soon developed into a passionate love affair. It now feels as if the honeymoon is over. We will be partners for life, with many more adventures to share, but the relationship will be more mature, more familiar.
When the subject of my fellwalking conquest comes up in conversation, there is one question I am asked nearly every time: 'which one was your favourite?'. It's also a question that I've also asked myself many times - and it's one I've struggled to answer.
There are a number of reasons why the question is so difficult. For one, my perceptions of a given fell are shaped not by the fell itself in some objective sense, but rather by the particular experiences that I had while walking it - and these in turn are shaped by various contingent factors, such as the route I took, my mood at the time, and not least the weather. What's more, these experiences exist in the universe of memory, which is notoriously fickle, mischievously intermingling with the universe of imagination.
I even think that the name of a given fell can influence our perceptions of it. I doubt Helvellyn and Great Gable would be as popular if it were not for their epic names, whereas visitors are probably deterred from Barf or Grike before they’ve even put down the map. Personally, my favourite place in the Lake District happens to bear my favourite name in the Lake District. (With apologies to the reader, I’m not going to disclose which place it is, as its allure lies to great extent in its obscurity; but I will at least tell you that it isn’t a fell.)
There's also the fact that a 'fell' is an artificial concept, and an ambiguous one at that. In Lakeland, a single mountain will often contain multiple fells, particularly on the long ridges beloved by fellwalkers. Someone might say that Helvellyn is their favourite fell - but does that include Nethermost Pike and Dollywagon Pike, which are really just different segments of the same massif? Even Wainwright admitted that the definition of a fell is more or less arbitrary; compare Shipman Knotts, which he did include, and Iron Crag, which he didn’t. In part, it seems to depend on what has been given a name on the map. This is certainly evident in Wainwright’s selection; compare the indistinct Burnbank Fell, which he did include, and the unnamed but prominent summit above nearby Carling Knott, which he didn’t.
In compiling my list of favourite fells – for I could never settle on a single favourite - I've tried to let these two sets of problems cancel each other out. My perception of a fell is shaped by my experiences of that fell, and the definition of a fell is intrinsically arbitrary. So, for the purposes of this exercise, I have defined a fell based on my experiences. As an example, I would treat Whin Rigg and Ilgill Head as a single fell, since they are separated by only a trivial depression and nearly always walked together. To respect the noble traditions of fellwalking and the even nobler traditions of the local inhabitants - and not forgetting the memory of Wainwright himself - I am happy to refer to these fells separately as a matter of course; but in the realm of experience and memory they are no more separable for me than the twin summits of Mellbreak.
I like to think that Wainwright would have approved of this approach, as it’s actually quite similar to his own. The patron saint of fellwalking could have used a systematic method, for example defining a fell as any summit above a certain height, perhaps delineated from other fells by some minimum level of declivity. He was an accountant, after all. But instead, he called something a fell if it 'felt' like a fell. This is a principle which should resonate with any true fellwalker. Note, however, that my list of favourite fells is not fully commensurable with Wainwright's own list of "best" fells, which he reveals at the end of Book Seven of his Pictorial Guides. His is a list of the fells which most distinctively possess "the attributes of a mountain" - a criterion which excludes his favourite fell, Haystacks. Mine is simply a list of favourites.
A final caveat about my list is that it betrays a distinct northern bias. I am unapologetic about this. My favourite fell groups, corresponding to Wainwright’s guidebooks, are the Far Eastern Fells, the North Western Fells, and the Northern Fells, in that order. By and large, these are not the fells which attract the holiday-makers, the thrill-seekers, or the Internet-pleasers. That isn’t necessarily why I like them, but I do think there’s a connection: these fells offer a certain sense of solitude, which I crave and seek out but which others seem to find unappealing. More prosaically, I tend to prefer walking on turf than on rock – a matter on which I differ from Wainwright – and this preference is more readily satisfied in the north than it is in the south.
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So, following Wainwright, here are my top six Lake District fells, in order of preference:
1) High Street. My first love. My first ever fell-walk was with my father, climbing Caudale Moor and Thornthwaite Crag from Kirkstone Pass. It whetted my appetite for fellwalking, which, though it has become more subtle and refined, remains as voracious as ever.
In naming High Street as my favourite fell, I am stretching my subjective approach to its max, for it’s really the whole Far Eastern family that I adore; indeed, the summit which bears the name is not really distinct from the rest of the range. Yet the excellence of High Street lies precisely in its extensiveness. As an old Roman Road, it really is a 'High Street' - once you're up there, you can walk for miles and miles on a highway in the sky. It feels like you are in a different dimension in both the external world and the internal world - indeed, the two worlds seem to merge into one. The descent is always a heartbreaking experience, assuaged only by the knowledge that, as my great-grandmother told me shortly before passing to the place where all mountains are made into roads, “this is not good bye, it is only so long”.
Something else I love about High Street is that it seems to be at home in gloomy weather. There is something wonderfully formidable about it, so while it's fantastic on a blissful summer day, it's even more enchanting in mist and moody clouds - particularly the views over towards Haweswater, a place which has an almost gothic atmosphere. To me, this side of the range also feels the most ancient of any place in the Lake District. Walking up Gatescarth Pass or across the Corpse Road, I feel like I’m following in millennia of footsteps - which, to be sure, I am.
I'd also give special mention to the northern side of High Street, graced with the likes of Beda Fell, Steel Knotts, and Place Fell (I would add Hallin Fell, but I think that would be stretching the ‘High Street’ rubric to the point of absurdity). Indeed, if I was forced to pick one fell from the High Street massif, it would be Beda Fell. Graceful and understated, quiet and friendly, it epitomises what I love about this little corner of the Lake District. There is a special blessing on this area - particularly the eastern shore of Ullswater, running from the unspoiled village of Patterdale (named after St. Patrick) to the secluded valley of Martindale (named after St. Martin). The path here tracks the foot of Place Fell, which once provided refuge to persecuted Quakers. About twenty years ago, my grandfather fell on this path and was saved by his backpack, which miraculously cushioned his head. Decades later, only a mile or so down the way, I had one of the most vivid experiences of the presence of God in all my life. Standing on the shore near Howtown after a long walk on High Street, I was spontaneously overcome by love, peace, and joy to the point of tears - an overwhelming awareness of the goodness of creation and my place within it.
And Hartsop - how could I forget Hartsop. This solitary hamlet is probably my favourite place to start a walk, whether it’s up High Street or westward to the Fairfield range. Hartsop is a fellwalker’s Heaven; it feels like a ghost town, except that the ghosts are angels. In Hartsop, I feel like I am resting in the shadow of the Almighty, surrounded by the mountains that give me my strength.
2) Blencathra. The home of my soul. In one sense, Blencathra is the 'guardian of the north' - its southern face is proud and noble, with its five fingers and its distinctive 'saddleback' ridge. The northern side, however, gives way to the rolling, grassy hills of the unfrequented Northern Fells - a quiet, empty place, full of secrets and mysteries, ideal for letting your mind and legs roam free. There are countless ways to climb Blencathra - including the well-trodden ridges of Hall’s Fell and Sharp Edge as well as the lesser-known slopes of Bannerdale Crags and Souther Fell – each of which has its own personality. The view down St. John’s in the Vale is imprinted in my mind like a dream which never ends. Blencathra is just so multi-faceted - for me, it's the fell that has it all. (Technically, of course, Blencathra isn’t a fell at all, but rather the place where multiple fells meet - a case which perhaps validates my poetic licence in defining fells).
3) Castle Crag. An old favourite. Castle Crag was the first fell I climbed using Wainwright's books as a guide, and for that reason alone it holds a special place in my heart. The views both ways - down towards the 'Jaws of Borrowdale' and up towards Derwent Water and Skiddaw - are sublime. Indeed, I often find that the best views are found on the lower fells, even if they don't give you quite the same ‘sense of space’ as the higher summits. I like to include Castle Crag in a meandering ramble, perhaps taking in the quaint villages of Rosthwaite and Stonethwaite, the hidden gems of Watendlath and Dock Tarn, or the picture-perfect postcards of Surprise View, Ashness Bridge, and Lodore Falls. Indeed, the best part about this fell is where it's situated: in the middle of Borrowdale, which itself lies in the middle of the Lake District, containing the square mile of countryside which Wainwright considered to be the most beautiful in all of England. It’s a simple, happy place, sheltered from the world’s hurries and worries.
4) Whiteless Pike. Fellwalking at its best. In my humble opinion, purely in terms of quality of walking, the North Western Fells are the pick of the litter. They seem to be made for walking - and nowhere is this more true than Whiteless Pike, which offers, in my humble opinion, the finest ridge walk in Lakeland. The summit also overlooks Loweswater, Buttermere, and Crummock Water, which, in my humble opinion, are the most magnificent lakes in the District. Crummock in particular is a family favourite; there is something vibrant and vigorous about the place, as if it were the beating heart of all of Lakeland.
5) Helm Crag. A memory of Eden. For me, this fell evokes a special nostalgia, stemming from childhood holidays in Grasmere - spending time with grandparents, playing in the rain with my little sister, and, of course, eating (and, better yet, smelling) Sarah Nelson’s gingerbread. I am also a lover of Wordsworth’s poetry, and this is a place I tend to associate with him. Of course, Wordsworth lived in several places around Grasmere, but I think the association also derives from his awareness of a benevolent ‘spirit’ which dwells in the Lake District - a creative muse, a guardian angel, a healing balm. Helm Crag is affectionately known as the Lion and the Lamb due to the appearance of a certain rock formation near the summit. In Grasmere, and on Helm Crag, I feel the presence of the Lion who revealed himself as a Lamb perhaps more than anywhere else in the District. It is as if I am walking in the Garden in the cool of the day, with the Creator Himself somewhere near - perhaps in the ground, perhaps in the air, perhaps everywhere. To quote Wordsworth’s contemporary William Blake in his poem The Lamb:
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
...
Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek and he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
6) Great End and Seathwaite Fell. A house with many mansions. My most treasured memory of the Lake District is of an impromptu swim in Sprinkling Tarn, between Great End and Seathwaite Fell, after camping near Glaramara. The blessed water cleansed me from a night in the wild and cooled me under a scorching sun, all before the world had woken up. As for the fell itself, the view northwards is similar to that from Castle Crag, only more expansive, and the surrounding area is a veritable playground. The path from Seathwaite, particularly on the western side of Taylorgill Force up to Styhead Tarn and following onto the Corridor Route, is especially outstanding. I also love the neighbouring Esk Hause, a cornerstone of so many great adventures.
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There are so many other great fells, and to be honest I'd love to include all of the 214 on my list (plus a few more!). By way of compromise, here are six honourable mentions, again in order of preference:
7) Low Fell. A tribute to small things. Low it may be, but the view to the lake which shares its name is lovely - one of the loveliest in the Lake District, according to Wainwright, and for me perhaps the loveliest. As if that were not enough, the fell is also in reach of what are perhaps the loveliest paths (the track between Mosser and Loweswater and the Corpse Road on the southern shore) and the loveliest stretch of countryside (the Lorton Vale).
8) Mellbreak. A world in miniature. To the north, one of the most exhilarating paths in Lakeland; to the south, one of the most idyllic waterfalls; to the west, one of the most magical lakes; and to the east, one of the most lonesome valleys.
9) Wetherlam. A bottomless treasure trove. Surrounded by fascinating quarries and immaculate ridge walks, there is always something new to discover on Wetherlam.
10) Pillar. A rock of salvation. The direct ascent from Ennerdale is almost spooky in its otherworldliness, fearsome in its wildness. Meanwhile the descent via Black Sail feels like a homecoming ceremony, extravagant and celebratory.
11) Fairfield. A crossroads in the clouds. Fairfield presents the walker with infinite possibilities, each better than the last.
12) Ilgill Head and Whin Rigg. A valley lifted up. For someone who generally prefers walking on soil and grass, this long, broad plateau, invisible from the lake below, offers a way to enjoy the exquisite beauty of Wasdale without enduring the sharp rocks and treacherous scree of the surrounding fells.
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In future posts, I aim to continue this memoir by describing my favourite paths, my favourite views, my favourite bodies of water, and my favourite places.
