In my last post, I described my six favourite fells in the Lake District (plus six runners-up). Now I'd like to describe my six favourite paths (plus six runners-up).
It is of course impossible to separate a path from a fell. If I was starting from scratch, my favourite paths would likely mirror my favourite fells. A prime example is High Street, my all-time favourite fell, which, by no coincidence, is named after its main path. To avoid repetition, I've therefore chosen paths which offer something different from the fell-top experience. This also gives me the opportunity to celebrate a more diverse range of places, and thus to counteract the regrettable bias that 'fell-bagging' can bring. It pains me to imagine, for example, how many hasty summiteers must have bedgrudgingly hauled themselves to the northwest corner of the Lake District to tick Low Fell, Darling Fell, and Fellbarrow off their lists without tasting the heavenly delights of the Old Mosser Road.
A final caveat is needed before I get to the list. In my opinion, the Cumbria Way is the creme de la creme of Lakeland paths; but it is in truth a string of paths which together cross the entire District, forming a sort of Prime Meridian. It would have been greedy to treat the entire distance as one path, and most unfair to its smaller rivals. In any case, I have already commended certain sections of the Way in my previous post (most notably the Borrowdale section between Grange and Stonethwaite - although I will take this opportunity to mention it again) while conversely there are one or two sections that I have not walked (most notably the long stretch from Coniston to Ulverston - evidence, I think, of the fell-bagging bias aforementioned). I have therefore chosen to split up the route into a number of sections. These are essentially arbitrary; the section that I have chosen as my favourite path, while lying on the Cumbria Way, is relatively short and well-defined, whereas the others are more ambiguous.
Hair-splitting aside, here are my six favourite paths, broadly in order of preference:
1) Langstrath. The enchanted valley. The path starts in the Jaws of Borrowdale, where the beauty is almost too much to bear. The magnificent facade of Eagle Crag stands like a gatekeeper to a secret world, beckoning the walker's soul while repelling her worries and frustrations. From the very start, the walker is struck by a sense of the magical - a sense which only increases as she is pulled further and further into the valley, magnetically and mesmerically, the path becoming rougher underfoot, the slopes on either side becoming steeper. She who perseveres to the end is rewarded with the crown of life that is Angle Tarn. Once a mere pawn in this brutal world, she is now a queen, having reached the place where Earth becomes Heaven.
2) The Old Mosser Road. The ancient way. Nestled in a hidden corner of the Lake District, this path is a vestige of a bygone age, when the world still moved to the original rhythms of creation. The walker feels lighter here in all respects - physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Her feet are at home here; she almost has to stop them from running ahead of her, as if they were children in a fairground. She feels, too, that she is alone with the entire universe - that all of the illusions and delusions of the modern world have given way to what is true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, and worthy of praise. Just knowing that a place like this exists is enough to assure her that not at all is lost, and that one day everything will once again be as it should be.
3) Torver Lonning. A Via Dolorosa. I once saw a photo of a pool of water surrounded by a steep quarry, fed by a waterfall that seemed to come straight out of the rock. I immediately recognised the image from a dream; or perhaps the image, as otherworldly as it was, went straight to the part of my mind where forgotten dreams abide. In any case, when I finally visited the location, what made the strongest impression was not the pool, the waterfall, or the quarry, as liminal and entrancing as they were; rather it was the path that I followed to get there.
Walking along the unnamed bridleway from Torver to Banishead Quarry, which I have affectionately called 'Torver Lonning', feels like walking through somebody's soul. The path begins with glimpses of paradise, as if a ray of Heaven is glimmering through the clouds of this mortal life, or as if the immanent Earth is beginning to give birth. Once the walker emerges from the sheltered byway onto the open fell, her epiphany is interrupted by the destructiveness of man: deep scars in the ground and ugly piles of slate, abandoned as carelessly as they were formed, strip her of her innocence. Yet as she wanders mournfully across the apocalyptic wasteland, she finds in it a sort of hope, elusive but alive; and when she reaches the waterfall, which emerges miraculously from the rock to turn the largest of the rock pits into a pool of water, she knows that all things will be made beautiful in their time. Walking back along the lane, nestled quaintly between the grazing fields, her visions of Heaven are all the more joyful. (Local tradition has it that the waterfall is the doing of a few mischevious lads, who removed the stones which held back the stream. I think that fits the narrative rather well.)
Walking along the unnamed bridleway from Torver to Banishead Quarry, which I have affectionately called 'Torver Lonning', feels like walking through somebody's soul. The path begins with glimpses of paradise, as if a ray of Heaven is glimmering through the clouds of this mortal life, or as if the immanent Earth is beginning to give birth. Once the walker emerges from the sheltered byway onto the open fell, her epiphany is interrupted by the destructiveness of man: deep scars in the ground and ugly piles of slate, abandoned as carelessly as they were formed, strip her of her innocence. Yet as she wanders mournfully across the apocalyptic wasteland, she finds in it a sort of hope, elusive but alive; and when she reaches the waterfall, which emerges miraculously from the rock to turn the largest of the rock pits into a pool of water, she knows that all things will be made beautiful in their time. Walking back along the lane, nestled quaintly between the grazing fields, her visions of Heaven are all the more joyful. (Local tradition has it that the waterfall is the doing of a few mischevious lads, who removed the stones which held back the stream. I think that fits the narrative rather well.)
4) Nanny Lane and Robin Lane. A crown of splendour. Both of these paths connect the bustling town of Ambleside with the quiet village of Troutbeck. Together, they form a sensational circuit which combines iconic views of the Langdale Pikes with the restful falls of Stockghyll Force. At the centre lies Wansfell Pike, a grandfather watching gladly as his children's children play around him; they are an hour older each time they run past, and so he cherishes every hour, knowing that they will disappear when the clock strikes twelve. A humble, ordinary fell, this wise old man is nonetheless glorious when adorned with its beloved paths.
5) The Glencoyne path. Out of sight, but always in my mind. Three parallel valleys run westwards from southern shore of Ullswater: Grisedale, Glenridding, and Glencoyne. The first two begin respectively in the popular towns of Patterdale and Glenridding, and both lead to the equally popular summit of Helvellyn. They are accordingly frequented by all and sundry - and justifiably so, for the towns and mountains, as well as well as the valleys themselves, are among the finest in the District.
The third valley, however, while equally worthy of admiration, neither starts nor finishes in any place of note; indeed, other than a narrow outlet running onto Sticks Pass, it practicaly turns around on itself. In other words, the only reason to walk in Glencoyne, in contrast to the other two valleys, is to visit the valley itself - which consequently remains 'Seldom Seen', as a row of old mining cottages near the mouth of the valley are named. Fortunately, though, the path seems to have been designed with this purpose in mind: whereas most paths follow either the valley floor or the summit ridge, the one here runs along a contour some half way up either side of the valley, virtually invisible from above or below. The result is a journey like no other. As the walker circumnavigates the hidden passage, she feels that she is involved in a dangerous mission, the success of which depends on her remaining undetected.
The third valley, however, while equally worthy of admiration, neither starts nor finishes in any place of note; indeed, other than a narrow outlet running onto Sticks Pass, it practicaly turns around on itself. In other words, the only reason to walk in Glencoyne, in contrast to the other two valleys, is to visit the valley itself - which consequently remains 'Seldom Seen', as a row of old mining cottages near the mouth of the valley are named. Fortunately, though, the path seems to have been designed with this purpose in mind: whereas most paths follow either the valley floor or the summit ridge, the one here runs along a contour some half way up either side of the valley, virtually invisible from above or below. The result is a journey like no other. As the walker circumnavigates the hidden passage, she feels that she is involved in a dangerous mission, the success of which depends on her remaining undetected.
6) The northern section of the Cumbria Way. A way in the wilderness. As eulogised in my last post, the Northern Fells possess a unique mystique, a sort of holy sorrow which assures you that there is something to be found, something to be created, even in the midst of meaninglessness. The paths here wind their way between the fells to form a sort of deserted museum, eerie in its emptiness but soothing in its silence. I once witnessed a foxhunt on the slopes of Little Calva - an age-old tradition which has changed little since the days of John Peel, the legendary foxhunter who lived in nearby Caldbeck. It was an ethereal experience; dashing down the fellside on either side of me, neither the huntsmen nor the hounds seemed to notice that I was there, as if I, or they, were ghosts.
And now for my six painstakingly chosen runners-up:
7) The Cumbria Way between Elterwater and Tarn Hows. The grand tour. In my last post, I opined that the smaller fells often provide the most pleasant views. Something similar is true of bodies of water: what Eltermere, Tarn Hows, and Yew Tree Tarn lack in size, they make up for in beauty. For a full day out, the walker can return via Little Langdale, passing the equally adorable Blea Tarn and Little Langdale Tarn. If she is feeling particularly energetic, she can begin the walk in Grasmere, reaching Elterwater via Allan Bank - a veritable stairway to Heaven which must have inspired Wordworth, who lived in the estate at the bottom of the Bank. Overall, this section of the Cumbria Way is a sample of the finest scenery that the Lake District has to offer, especially when the recommended supplements are included. Especially prominent are the Langdale Pikes, which are pictured in numerous frames - fells, valleys, tarns - each of which seems to have been arranged for a postcard, a wedding photo, or simply a treat for the loyal walker, who has come to be satisfied with much less grandeur and who is therefore able to appreciate the full richness of the experience.
8) Boredale Hause. A pilgim's progress. In my last post, I elaborated on the special blessing that lies on the Howtown-Glenridding path. To avoid unnecessary repetition while also paying tribute where it is most definitely due, I'm focusing here on the nearby mountain pass between Patterdale and Boredale. The situation of this little jewel is incomparable: nestled between Place Fell, Beda Fell, and Angletarn Pikes, with Patterdale in one direction and Hartsop in the other, every way from Boredale Hause is the right way, every choice the best choice. The remains of an old chapel are still evident here, and the walker senses that the divine presence still lingers, waiting for the day when the ancient ruins will be rebuilt, the lost foundations raised up, the streets of habitation restored. Indeed, she feels that the chapel is more holy than it ever was, for it points to the place where God truly dwells: the whole world, which even now is being made new.
9) Tom's Lonning. The shepherd's fold. In a beautifully tragic poem fit for a ballad, Wordsworth tells the story of the shepherd (Michael) whose name is still preserved in the starting point of this path (Michael's Nook). At one level, the poem is a lament for the fragile bonds and sacred traditions which have been passed down for generations, only to be cast aside by the forces of industry. Yet, in its essence, the poem is a hopeful celebration of landscape and culture, which in this part of the world remain inseparable. If the walker follows the path to Alcock Tarn, she eventually comes to the immaculate Corpse Road between Grasmere and Rydal, which escapes my list only because of its constant popularity. To borrow some of Wainwright's endearing cynicism, there are too many actual corpses on this path - "dull folk", in Wainwright's words, who seek mere amusement and never bother to lift their eyes to the hills. Our walker now wishes she was back in Tom's Lonning, following the brook and wondering who Tom was. Wordworth's advice remains as sound as ever:
"IF from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude..."
Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude..."
10) The Loweswater Corpse Road. The land of the living. I'd like to balance out my tongue-in-cheek comment regarding the Rydal Corpse Road by paying tribute to another corpse road (the name given to the paths which villagers once used to take their dead to the nearest churchyard). The path which skirts the fellside above the southern shore of Loweswater is a prime example of my earlier statement, hard truth for the snobbish hillbagger, that there's more to the Lake District than just the summits. Burnbank Fell and Carling Knott are relatively unremarkable; in fact they are arguably among the dullest of all the Lakeland Fells. Yet the road which tracks their contours is replete with interest; indeed it is among the most delightful in all of Lakeland. The view down the 'three lakes' - Loweswater, Crummock Water, and Buttermere - is so precious that it would be worth a stop even if one's wife was in labour or his house on fire. Near the end of the path - for it should always be walked west-to-east, incidentally the opposite direction than the corpses would be carried - the route cuts up into the valley before crossing the beck and emerging near High Nook Farm. Completing the journey, the walker senses that she has indeed passed from one life to the next.
11) Garburn Pass. The paths of righteousness. In my paean to High Street, I lacked the space to mention the holy trinity of Froswick, Yoke, and Ill Bell, which together afford what is arguably the quintessential ridge walk. When the walker descends, she expects that her elation with decline with her elevation. But it does not, for Garburn Pass cushions her fall, making her feel that she is still walking in the sky. If it is still too soon to return to reality, the road will gently lead her straight onto Sallows and Sour Howes, two unexpectedly gratifying Wainwrights which pack a larger punch than their names or altitudes would suggest. Only when she is ready will Garburn set her down in Kentmere or Troutbeck. When she regains consciousness, the breathtaking ridge will undoubtedly dominate her memories; and yet, for a reason which she cannot quite identify, it is Garburn which has captured her heart.
12) The Old Coach Road. A highway of holiness. Some paths are good because they afford good views, or otherwise allow the walker to access the goodness of the place in which they happen to be situated. Other paths are good because they are physically conducive to the act of walking. The Old Coach Road, which connects the motorised valley of St. John's in the Vale to the sleepy hamlet of Dockray, is a case in point. To be sure, there are views to be had, but one would not walk this path primarily for the views. More likely, she would choose the Old Coach Road if she wanted to let her legs 'off the lead' without having to worry about them. Since the road is made to facilitate wheel-based locomotion, the walker's feet, accustomed to much more challenging terrain, are rather spoiled. If she desires, the walker can indulge in over four miles of luxury, which, given the broadness and evenness of the road, not even the mountain bikes can disturb.
