SPECTACULAR – No other word does justice to the classic view from Blea Tarn toward the Langdale Pikes looming up in the distance.
The Langdale Pikes
This walk is short, only 3 km, and presents zero navigational issues. What it lacks in distance it compensates for with a wonderfully scenic experience. In my opinion it is best undertaken on days where the hilltops can be seen.
Ordnance Survey Map OL6 The English Lakes (South-Western area) Scale 1:25 000 – 4cm to 1km
Travel by car to Blea Tarn
The car park at Blea Tarn entails some difficult driving up narrow twisting roads, often single track with tiny passing places.
From Ambleside travel west on the Langdale road until you reach the end of the main road at Middle Fell Farm and The Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel (last chance to grab some refreshment). Continue along the narrowing road to Wall End farm where you will realise the next section is a steep, twirling single track (sealed) road soaring up into the sky. Breathe deeply, engage a low gear and proceed with caution.
If you are rubbish at handbrake starts don’t try this … go back to the Old Dungeon Ghyll hotel where there is a sizeable National Trust car park then proceed by Shanks’s pony. Having negotiated the steep snake of a road you will come to a cattle grid where the road flattens out, still narrow but less nerve wracking. After a few minutes you will see the car park on your left.
Note on Car Park – there are no facilities here and for most folk there is no internet connectivity. So trying to pay for parking by phone seldom works and you are advised to pay later in the day when you return to civilisation!
Work around this by joining the National Trust before going, their Trust membership card works in this machine and saves any further anxiety before the walk soothes your soul.
A Tale of 2 Trails and 2 Cattle Grids
The route starts at the small National Trust car park near the tarn. The outward trail from the car park is along the sealed single track road to the cattle grid atop the steep descent into Great Langdale. The return trail southwards and around the west side of the tarn is a wide unsealed stone and gravel track that meanders around the tarn and back to the car park.
Blea Tarn from Lingmoor Fell with Pike O’Blisco towering above
Off we go … having packed your rucksack and camera (vital today), laced up your boots and locked the car we are ready to go. I love starting walks and this one has instant impact. At the entrance to the car park look down to the tarn then off to your right toward the Langdale Pikes.
Short Preliminary Detour – Before sauntering along the road to your right I would like you to take a very short detour to your left.
A few yards down this road is a cattle grid which you need to cross with care. On the other side is the faintest of tracks to the right and a tiny knoll where you can gaze down into Little Langdale with numerous mounds and hillocks on display. The larger mountains rising behind to the south are the Tilberthwaite Fells at the northern end of the Coniston ridge – Wetherlam, Swirl How and Great Carrs.
Road to the left of the car park
Nearby to the west is a lovely heather clad rocky knob, Tarnclose Crag, with wonderful views over the tarn. I’m not sure if it’s possible to scramble up there nowadays.
View from Tarnclose Crag
Back to the Main Walking Event
Totter back over the cattle grid and enjoy the easy road walking past the car park. Old dry stone walls to the left and open fell slopes to the right. Traffic will be light and always respectful, however my strategy is to step into the grass and stand still as vehicles pass.
Beginning of your walk
Take your time along this part of the walk. The steep slopes on your right belong to Lingmoor Fell. My favourite time of year in this area is August when the heather is flowering profusely. Ling (meaning heather) absolutely cloaks many hilltops and Lingmoor is a prizewinner.
The tarn is always visible over the wall to your left and and the Langdales will seem huge the closer you get to Bleatarn House. Despite being on a sealed road it feels wonderful to be up high in open country.
Bleatarn House and beck tumbling down from Lingmoor Fell
From Bleatarn House your attention will be drawn more toward Side Pike dead ahead. There is a steep path leading up to the col between the rocky summit and Lingmoor Fell, with superlative and classic views from the ridge. I have spent many hours scrambling around the rocky top of Side Pike. For now we are aiming for the cattle grid at the end of the visible road where it plunges down to Great Langdale.
Side Pike
Before you reach the cattlegrid, and turning point on this walk, take some time to look back to the tarn and the Tilberthwaite hills beyond.
Arrival at the cattle grid is likely to coincide with visitors and walkers deciding which trail to follow at the crossroads. It’s also a perfect picnic spot with views in every direction.
Tremendous view of The Band leading up to the summit of Bowfell in cloudNear vertical drive down to Great Langdale
Our route is to the left through a gate onto the wide stony track heading back toward the tarn. Easy walking all the way with the rocky slopes of Rakerigg and Blake Rigg on your right for company. Your attention is naturally focused on the upcoming tarn.
Another gate opens into the woodland where it’s possible to get to the water’s edge. Recently several large trees have come down cluttering up the wood. Despite the destruction it’s an opportunity to see up close and personal the scale of large tree roots and limbs. I can’t imagine how scary it would have been as ferocious gales were needed to rip these giant trees out of the ground.
West side woodland and outlet stream from the tarn
Coming out of the trees at a wooden bridge the track swings around the south side of the tarn with a chance to relax and study the extremely satisfying view over the tarn. It’s worth walking down to the shoreline for a unique perspective on the location.
Blea Tarn – The Borrowed Hills by Scott Preston – Side Pike – Langdale Pikes behind
There are several places to extend the walk along the route, most much more strenuous as they involve scaling high peaks. For me this walk is quite sufficient, in fact it can be difficult on a warm and sunny day to toddle back to the car and leave. Needs must, so it’s goodbye from me. Happy Walking
Low Wray Bay is situated between Wray Crag and Watbarrow Point on the Wray Castle Estate, which is managed by the National Trust. The walk that I have chosen is once again an easy stroll (some 4 to 4.5 km) through beautiful countryside, with magnificent views from the western shoreline of Windermere to the surrounding mountains north of Ambleside.
OS Map OL7 THE ENGLISH LAKES south eastern area. 1:25 000 scale and 4cm to 1km
Head to Wray Castle
From Ambleside take the Langdale road, then left to Hawkshead at Brathay and left once again on the Wray road which is quite tricky driving, narrow with limited passing places. From Hawkshead and the south drive toward Near Sawrey and almost immediately take the lane on your left, again a thin lane. Fingers crossed that you don’t meet a Gilbert Brown logging truck! There is also a ferry service in summer, which entails a short walk up to the castle, a very pleasant way to travel to the castle area without all the traffic hassle in the tourist season.
There is a large unsealed car park, Joey’s cafe and toilets. It’s advisable to arrive before 11 am as the car park fills up rapidly nearer to midday.
Wray Castle – Starting Out
Circular walks are fun and flexible.
This short excursion really doesn’t have a boring part and can be extended at many places if you need to stretch your legs.
Lots of advantages to beginning here, most notably a stunning view of the northern reaches of Windermere and the mountains.
Grab a coffee at Joey’s Cafe, wander around the castle perimeter then settle on a bench and gaze beatifically at the views.
Fairfield Horseshoe & Ambleside rainbow
Off we go …
You will no doubt be chomping at the bit to launch off and explore that intoxicating view.
We move off along the exit road for a short distance, passing the house and taking the signposted farm lane dipping downhill on our right.
Right turn here
As you saunter down the lane eyes left to seek out Blelham Tarn in the distance. The fields are still green in autumn and the sun shines as much as it rains, regular as clockwork. So be sure to at least carry a brolly in case speeding showers give you an unexpected drenching.
The seasons in the Lakes
Springtime is delightful, usually warm/mild. However don’t become complacent. Many a glorious sunny day can toss in a curve ball without much warning and suck the blood out of your fingers. Not to mention the hair disaster because you forgot to take a cap!
Autumn is perhaps one of the best times to visit the Lakes as temps are cool but tolerable. Nuff said.
Summer can be deceptively hot with lots of nippy critters jostling for a pint of your blood as you expose juicy arms and legs. In fact horseflies are the worst, you never feel them land, the bite site itches worse than mozzie bites and they can needle you through a t-shirt.
Winter in the Lakes is frustratingly beautiful. I love being out on the trail during winter. Be warned though. It’s cold, it’s wet, it’s windy and a snow shower can ravage your equilibrium in no time flat.
Fully prepared for anything should be your mantra in every season.
Each time I use this lane the huge flock of jackdaws in the area are raucous. On a windy day they love playing in the sky, squabbling and nipping each other as they acrobatically plunge through the void at high speed. Nothing subtle about jackdaws, they will always announce their presence. Also close up they have the most piercing, perhaps menacing, blue eyes.
At the bottom of the lane we approach a small cluster of buildings, farm and cottages. This is Low Wray. My preference is to head to the right behind the barn on a grassy swerve. Left drops you onto the sealed campsite road where you should turn right and walk in front of the buildings.
Take a gander inside the barns if the big doors are open, which they often are. One has a mountainous squished pile of fleeces, doesn’t look as if they will be sent for processing. The properties are old and traditional in appearance. Worth noticing the chimney stacks and windows, many haven’t been modernised and these buildings seem to have been left in a time warp.
Back LaneWisteria, Virginia Creeper and vine clad traditional random slate cottageCorner Shop! – Low Wray
As we emerge from the rear of the buildings you will notice a telephone booth. Doubt that it actually functions as a phone box nowadays, someone had converted it into a miniature library the last time I was there. I love that folk are repurposing these wonderful essentially British icons. I remember many times, as a somewhat wild teenager, running out of money and making reverse charge calls home to ask my Dad to come collect me!
At the phone box you have decisions to make. Take the left or right road at the fork ahead. Both are signposted, and both will get you to the end of the campsite. The right direction being very straightforward. My preference and the one that I am taking you on today is to the left over a cattle grid. In my opinion it is a more interesting walk, slightly longer and a bit twisty with tricky fingerpost choices in places. As long as you ignore all paths to Ambleside and align yourself to follow Wray Castle directions you will survive intact … maybe … probably!
Sign Post confusion … Because the campsite is a sprawling affair with numerous sections and tracks leading every which way it is a good idea to read the signposts carefully. Invariably you should be heading toward the castle. For folk staying on the site, I understand the need for the plethora of signposts, but as a walking visitor it can be confusing.
Having an OS map is essential. I find subbing up for the digital version very helpful when on unknown terrain. Particularly useful is the locator, which will drop a red triangular pointer to indicate your current position. I love paper maps too, map reading consumed me for hours whilst I was planning long distance routes. So please, don’t attempt any of my walks without a map.
Onward choosing the LEFT road
At this juncture is a very peculiar packhorse bridge over Blelham Beck, well worth an inspection. It doesn’t look like a packhorse bridge at first sight, overgrown with grass and wildness, plus an iron gate on top! 20 paces takes you to the top and a chance to stand on history, the don’t make ’em like this any longer.
The road is straightforward with fields on either side. A coppice can be seen ahead which has lovely colour in autumn. Pass the coppice on your left, ignore the track and building to the right, then ponder on the signpost. Our way marker says Wray Castle 1.25 miles, Ferry launch 1 mile and Shop/Reception Pizza/Bike hire. Pizza!! Imagine that, having a slice of Hawaiian pizza on a Lake District walk.
Head toward the stands of silver birch where the road swoops around to the right and you enter the campsite proper with numbered pitches. As you will see shortly this is a rare campsite with Windermere lake access. Pitches are well separated and there is a lovely sense of being in the wild.
Follow the track past a toilet block, ignoring (for now) the long wooden bridge walkway and plod on a little further until you come to a bay at Bee Holme. This is such an idyllic place to relax for a few minutes before reversing to the bridge and crossing over. Once you arrive at the sealed road turn left passing another toilet block before swinging to the right away from the camping area
Bee Holme Bay
Pass through 2 iron gates onto a section of duckboards by the side of the lake and onto the rounded nose of Fisherty How. The views to Ambleside and westward toward the Langdale Pikes is exceptional. From here until you reach the woods at Wray Crag are loads of waterfowl, Canada Geese in particular. If the lake isn’t high you can walk along the gravelly shoreline and sit on lovely rounded boulders to take it all in. This upcoming woodland part of the walk is a place to linger.
More iron gates end this section and you enter the woods of Wray Crag. Take a short detour out to your left with more stunning views up the lake. Many trees here are superb specimens and in autumn the ground is a thick leafy mattress.
Low Wray Bay at last …
You are now in paradise 😇
This part of the walk is utterly delightful. Throughout, until we exit the wood to walk back up to the castle, you will be enthralled under a tree canopy of towering beech and oak. This is how woods should be, fallen branches are left to decompose creating habitat for woodland creatures, fungi, ferns, lichens and moss. It feels natural and perfect. I visit this area often.
Wray Crag protrudes into the lake, with rocky perches and tiny inlets. Inevitably you will see various boats moving up and down the lake, some of the sailing boats and small motorised craft may pass close to the shore. The larger passenger ferries stay toward the middle unless heading to a landing jetty.
Princess of the Lake
Every other tree seems to create a frame ripe for a photograph. At the water’s edge small waves lap and birds seem to flit along with you through the tree tops, singing and scolding as they see fit.
For you twitcher types who take magnificent bird shots I am in awe. Swans are the only birds I have successfully captured on camera, cos they move slowly. Anyone getting pin sharp photos of a kingfisher in action commands ultimate respect.
There is now a short sinuous path before arriving at the landing jetty.
Lots of information boards and helpful waymarkers here. The boat houses are impressive and well worth a look.
At this point you can take a shortcut back up to the car park beside an iron fence.
My preference is to continue ahead and enjoy the woodland which has an endless stream of beautiful scenes … it could be a dream.
In short order we reach an open area by a tiny bay with Watbarrow Point obvious. Make the short scramble up the rocks and spend a little while on this perch.
The views north to Waterhead and south to the islands in the middle of the lake at Bowness on Windermere are stunning. This spot helps to put the scale of Windermere into perspective. There is one heck of a lot of water.
Watbarrow Point
Carefully scrambling down from the rocks we head off once more along the obvious path westward. Up a slope you will notice the exit as we reach another metal gate that leads us out of the wood into a large open field.
Final few trees before we exit the woodland
Looking to the left we will see a popular grassy area beside the lake. Invariably there will be family groups having picnics and children playing.
For us, our attention is up to the right where a grassy path ahead leads to the wide gravelled trail back to the castle.
Plodding up the hill gives time to reflect and realise what a marvellous 4 km walk we have just completed.
Wray Castle
If time permits and the light is right at the of the day walk around to the north side of the castle and sit quietly. Breath in the view and store your memories.
Age waits for nobody. My creaky joints need cajoling with painkillers and all the anti inflammatory foods I can wolf down. Consequently I am restricted to lower level trundles these days and this walk around Brotherswater is one of my favourites at any time of year.
Maybe 4km to 5km this walk offers superb views in all directions and immersion in the proximity of nature. Paths and tracks are easy and waymarked.
So put on your specs, relax in a chair and enjoy the journey as I guide you along step by step. Photos are taken from every season and my thoughts articulated without much editing! Then, should you feel adventurous, go out and give it a twirl, you will have zero regrets.
In the Beginning
Drive to any small lay-by just south of the Brotherswater Inn at Sykeside. Even in the height of holiday season you will often find a parking space. My favourite space is at Caudale Bridge where there is a gate leading directly onto the bridge, where you can take stock whilst looking at the rushing beck hurtling down the fell and under your feet to decide if you have remembered to put your sarnies in the backpack. If you are like me you may have forgotten to change into your walking boots! Go back pdq and fix things
Suitably pacified you can head off immediately into the rough pasture over the bridge, following what amounts to a sheep track. Angle gently up the slope until you come to a flattish area where there has been some kind of building in times of yore. Turn to the west and sigh because this view up Dovedale to Dove Crag and the bracken coated shoulder of High Hartsop Dodd is worth every penny of the entrance fee
High Hartsop Dodd – Dove Crag – Hart Crag from the Kirkstone Pass road
After soaking in the view turn your attention northwards where the thin path crosses a stream on a large flagstone, pausing for a moment to marvel at the pristine clean water tumbling over washed rocks and pebbles. Then walk through the gap in the wall. Once there you can admire the prospect with the Inn, Brotherswater and Place Fell taking centre stage. The lake looks more like a postage stamp from here yet within 30 minutes you could be on the shoreline.
Brotherswater Inn
As you descend the final field of the fell you will notice the Inn at the end of the path. This Inn holds myriad memories for me over the past 50 years. Sykeside camp site is just nearby and a place that I often used as a base camp many years ago. For such a mountainous area the site is unusually flat and well tended.
The door in the middle of the building used to be the main entrance (now behind the building with a large parking area). Going through that door for a pint after a long day on the fells was exhilarating. Almost always rammed full of climbers and walkers, 2 sheets to the wind and singing on top note. Swing Low Sweet Chariots got the walls vibrating. Worth noting that the air inside was dense with cigarette smoke and condensation trickled down the walls from the heat of folk packed together. Actually it may well have been spilled beer as it was traditional to douse each other with overfull pints in passing.
Nowadays the Inn does a good range of hearty meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner, with lots of outdoor seating and tables. I remember taking my children (4 of them) for Sunday lunch. Hard to believe that my youngest gained his PhD a few years ago and is an acclaimed author! Memories come flooding back every time I pass by the pub.
Onward …
Passing the pub (for now) follow the wall a few hundred yards to the first left turn down to Sykeside Campsite where the next section of path appears
Lots of paths like this have sprouted up over recent times to encourage walkers off the roads. It has to be said that traffic coming down from Kirkstone Pass drive at ridiculous speeds making it perilous to walk in the verges. This path travels alongside of the road in the edge of the fields and is fenced off to prevent livestock getting tangled up with delicate walkers.
The path is narrow, only wide enough for walkers to travel in single file, needing to politely step aside for others if necessary. Now is a good point in my verbiage to explain protocol and good etiquette for walkers.
Walking Protocol
Once you start walking be prepared to say Morning, Hello, Hi, Afternoon and smile at every person you meet. Unlike city streets people actually acknowledge each other on these trails. It isn’t uncommon to strike up a conversation with complete strangers, just because that is what you do.
If you see a grey haired old guy bumbling along with a stick say hello. It could be me!
Most folk are very polite and respect the area, they would be devastated to see you littering or failing to bag that dog muck. It feels like a homogeneous glob of humanity who are simply enjoying the outdoors without taking anything away except photos and memories
Back to the business at hand …
Progress along this section of the walk is pointedly different than the open fellside above the Inn. The path gently weaves around trees and small outcrops of rock, mostly dry underfoot with a few short muddy stretches. Don’t rush this part because the views behind toward Dove Crag are worth a few stops. You will also notice Hartsop Hall appearing across the valley.
The views ahead with glimpses of Place Fell are enticing. Compelling forward momentum here because Brotherswater is close.
The path swings up to the road then immediately dives down to the water, and this is where the real delight begins. Brotherswater is a shallow lake being fed to the south from swift mountain streams and exiting more sedately northwards to feed into Ullswater. The lake isn’t very big however it is hemmed in on the sides by some magnificent hanging woodland and the slopes of Hartsop above How and Hartsop Dodd. These relics of days before much of the Lake District was fell-cleared by the monasteries to provide rough grazing land for sheep are precious. Once we start to head home from Cow Bridge these woods will envelope you and you should hear lots of birdsong. If you are very lucky and have sharp eyes, you may find red squirrels scampering up and down the trees.
Brotherswater
So here it is, your first chance to stand beside the water. Albeit a bit muddy if the lake is high, it still needs a reflective stop to take it in. By now you may be tempted to break out the sarnies, my advice is wait a little while. There are 2 wonderful food stops coming up.
Shuffle a bit closer to the blue patch and breathe in deeply.
Pop your eyes back in the sockets and we’re off again. The water is always close by and the views irrepressible, so pause often, we never hurry on my walks.
There is a very natural feel to this next short section. The path wanders over tree roots and dips down to the water in places, nothing seems out of place here despite the road being a few yards above and to the right. Once your mind is engaged in observation of the surroundings the road noise doesn’t factor, and there is a sense of unification as your soul blends with this exquisite place.
Numerous waterfowl live on the lake, when you see a diving duck notice where it dips down and see if you can spot where it re-emerges. Often quite a distance away
On my most recent walk there I noticed some weird orange buoys drifting along near the far shore. It seemed odd because there was little wind that day. All was revealed on the other side when I met 4 ladies walking down the trail toward me wearing massive sack like overcoats. They had been wild swimming and towed their gear in 2 orange floats as they progressed upstream. Can’t say that I felt tempted to dip my toes in the water, let alone swim. I had a brief chat with them and they reckoned the water was warm and believed everyone should try it …erm … nah
Lunch and Contemplation
As we come out of the wooded area a longish beach appears. Stepping onto the beach it is mandatory to pick up a pebble and throw it in the water, see if you can get a photo of the splash. I have tried this many times over the years and often fail.
This is my fave spot to have a sit down. The massive roots on the tree to the left of the photo are smooth and a perfect height. Also a very good spot to contemplate the view, and consider what a magnificent place the Lake District is. National Parks in many countries around the world have an entrance fee. Because ours is a lived in area it is open to anyone who can get here and considering how vast the number of visitors are each day, it remains, in many areas, as it always has been before the Victorians became adventurous and adopted charabanc coach trips, eventually charabanc fever escalated becoming overstuffed vehicles that arrived in the Lakes. I heard that the visitors had to disembark at the bottom of Kirkstone and walk to the top. The charabanc had to reverse up the hill! For me it is home and has been for much of my adult life. It is a privilege to live and work here and I never take it for granted.
Packing away our lunch it’s time for a dose of reality. Back beside the road for a short distance. Out of the last gate there is a sealed footpath that leads past the turning for Hartsop hamlet and down to Cow Bridge.
Another nostalgia hit at Cow Bridge. Father and his friend Pete rebuilt this wall that runs between the car park and road. I remember him saying how difficult it was because there were nothing but round boulders. I have to say it’s a remarkably neat and tidy dry stone wall that should last for many years to come. Well done Pops!
The car park is now a pay and display. Back in the day before parking fees were introduced I always enjoyed putting a few quid into the honesty box at the entrance.
Over the bridge, stopping to look down into the crystal clear water, it’s time to head home as it were. Before going through the gate have a read of the info boards and signs. Even a quick sit on the ‘made to last’ Victoria Regina 1897 metal bench is permissible.
Trending South like a flock of geese …
It’s immediately clear that we are now on a different type of walking track. None of the skimpy sheep trods and swerving around trees, this is unadulterated farm lane material. Consequently you can walk along with your eyes wide open because you are very unlikely to be tripped up by a tree root. Nevertheless as the walk goes on there is a steep banking down to the lake, so don’t slip there unless you have packed your swimming trunks.
The embryonic Goldrill Beck slithers quietly northwards on your left. For some quirky reason (maybe I think of the north as being up in the UK) it seems bizarre to have streams flowing northwards. Here you are likely to see numerous waterfowl splashing around, the ubiquitous mallards are always entertaining.
A number of years ago whilst ambling up this trail I noticed a grebe or merganser (can’t remember which species) towing some weed behind it as it swam upstream. Puzzled me how it was still moving effortlessly with such a handicap. The closer it swam the more bizarre things appeared. The bird then paddled across to the far bank as a few small clumps fell off the trailing weed. Then to defy logic the clumps began to swim … chicks!! Of course I was thrilled to see it wasn’t a mass of tangled weed. The chicks proceeded to pop up into the feathers of the parent bird and travelled majestically upstream like a load tourists on a lake steamer. Until … without so much as a peep, the parent dived, obviously spotting a tasty morsel underwater. All the chicks remained on the surface and scampered off to the far river bank to wait until the parent reappeared to load them up again.
Brock Crag over Goldrill Beck
Brock Crag – The Knott (distant) – Gray Crag – Hartsop Dodd over Goldrill Beck
At this point you can slip down to a long pebbly beach. Standing on the stone, front of pic, offers excellent views across the river to the superb reed beds and the hills towering over Hartsop. The bracken in mid autumn with the still verdant green fields creating a patchwork quilt.
Also looking ahead southwards toward Kirkstone invites an exploration. It needs to be stated here that once you get to the end of this beach it is better to retrace your steps to this rock in the water and get back on the main track. The shoreline at the end of the beach becomes very tangled and difficult to navigate for some distance.
Back on Track – Sauntering down the side of the lake is perfect. The deciduous woodland forms an intricate branch tunnel, glimpses of the lake and surrounding mountains are fascinating. The steep slopes on your right encompass a full range of native trees, ferns and mosses. Soak it all in and listen out for flocks of geese migrating south just before winter kicks in. Luck be on your side if they decide to zoom down and skid across the surface of the water for a pit stop on their journey.
As you emerge from the trees the scene becomes more open with fields ahead and the perfect picnic spot beside the water sitting on springy turf. If you have delayed nosh gratification this is the place to fuel up and rest for a while.
Final Lap
Wandering off toward Hartsop Hall we find drystone field walls and plenty of sheep grazing peacefully. At the very tip of Brotherswater a spit of land (possibly man made) always has waterfowl resting and preening. A pair of resident swans, mallards and cormorants were in residence in this photo, far enough away to feel secure from the visitors who have begun appearing in numbers as we get closer to the campsite.
Through the final gate we approach the farm which is circumnavigated before we head out on a sealed farm road to Sykeside camping area.
Some new mountains are showing as we come to the Hall. From this low angle the hills look mightily impressive. The valley floor is flat and the ridges start without much preamble. We are also seeing more people wandering around.
Middle Dodd – High Hartsop Dodd
Hartsop Hall is a superb old building owned by the National Trust. Constructed in the 16th century and Grade 1 listed. It’s a working farm with a large flock of mostly Swaledale sheep ranging around the 3,000 acres. I always enjoy being here because there are several options for walkers. Northwards to Brotherswater you have just travelled around. West to Dovedale, which I consider to be the most magical valley and another path going south over to Caiston Beck before branching up Kirkstone Beck then up to Kirkstone Pass.
Kirkstone Beck and Middle Dodd
Hartsop Hall
Finally we move through the campsite, loads of folk enjoying themselves, happy smiling faces. You can’t blame anyone for wanting to stay on this site, it’s ideal for exploring the area. If you do stay there look up to the towering slopes of Hartsop Dodd to the east early in the morning. I have seen red deer grazing there many times.
A few hundred metres more past the shop/reception building we trundle up the slope to the Brotherswater Inn. Difficult not to stop there for a cold drink before scooting back through the rough fields on the east side of the Kirkstone Pass road to your vehicle.
That folks is it. I have certainly enjoyed writing this blog, and my hope is that you have enjoyed reading. Keep smiling, see you again very soon. John
Over the years I have spent many a day solo walking the hills. During the early climbs my aim was to get as high as possible as quickly as possible, then savour the ridges and vast space of the mountain tops. To do that I needed to get into a walking rhythm and I was very mindful of where I was placing my feet, a stumble in those days was grounds for divorce. So I would think about the structure of my body, how it was in balance, despite carrying a heavy backpack, and judged the nature of each piece of earth. I learnt how to gauge and traverse steep slopes on different stones, grass, scree, boulders by paying close attention to my legs and particularly to my feet. My boots became an extension of my body. My first pair of walking boots were Scarpa Monte Rosas and they were wonderful, double skin leather that moulded to the shape of my feet.
Once my mind was feeling connected to the terrain I moved almost effortlessly. Being able to spring from rock to rock and push hard uphill became natural and I would enter a flow state where every part of my body was functioning to a high degree of precision. Sometimes whilst immersed in this flow state I would stop and be quite stunned how far and high I had travelled. Enthusiastically I would look forward to further progression, eager to see beyond the summit.
Nowadays I have to be slow, ankle joints wrecked with osteoarthritis. Thankfully I can still walk carefully, perhaps even more carefully because I can’t afford to fall. This means spending more time looking down than up as I progress, and guess what. It’s bloody marvellous! I see so much more of the land I am covering, and stop over and over just to look at some colourful rocks, or tiny flowers, grass seeds and animal tracks. Truth be told I take just as much delight in every step now as I did in my heyday each time I ticked off another summit.
Walking is my joy and I hope that anyone who becomes unable to walk far can find some connection in these blogs.
Traditionally, Yorkshire men may be considered dour blokes, stoic to a fault, unpredictable, aggressive, arrogantly dogmatic. Take a few moments to visualise a Yorkshire man.
Ken walling with his grandson Luke in fields near Patterdale, The Lake District, Cumbria, UK
My mind sees a man with shirt sleeves rolled up revealing muscular, hairy forearms. Broad shoulders, tussled dark hair with 2 day stubble, a chiselled face. He is wearing heavy corduroy trousers pinned at the waist with a sturdy leather belt, his booted stance casual yet alert, he seems to have grown out of the earth. His most redeeming features are the brooding eyebrows that shelter a piercing, inquisitive gaze. You may feel attracted toward this kind of person, yet realise it’s wise to tread cautiously in case a heavy boot swings swiftly to displace your front teeth.
Lakeland wallers made best use of boulders. These walls were originally built circa 150 years ago. Near Stonethwaite, Lake District, Cumbria, UK
It may seem that Yorkshiremen care little for the human race, yet many are incredibly sensitive who understand nature in a deeply instinctive way. They see no need to be demonstrative. To sit and talk with these men is an experience to be treasured. They are wise keepers of our heritage.
Ken is one such man.
The arrangement with Ken was simple. Each Saturday I would toss a chipping hammer, string line, tape measure and A-frame into the car boot, collect him in Windermere then drive over Kirkstone Pass to Patterdale. We had secured an ESA (Environmentally Sensitive Area) contract to rebuild derelict field walls, 650 metres worth of field wall. The pay was nominal, the real reward enormous, restoring dry stone walls.
Lots of Dog-Eds Mid Section random dry stone wall Windermere, Cumbria, UK
Dialogue was easy. ‘Morning.’ ‘Morning.’ ‘Ya’ll right?’ ‘Yep’ ‘Let’s go then.’
Ken taught me to build walls using limestone on field walls near Caldbeck, John Peel country. Limestone is so pleasant to handle, easy to shape, looks good and smells good. Our contract at Patterdale was entirely different, more complex.
The stone at Patterdale was a mixture of old quarry slate, river boulders and field clearings. These walls were constructed circa 150 years ago. ESA work requires total re-use of existing stone. Weathered slate in particular can become friable and shatters easily. This entails a high degree of delicacy that isn’t apparent with new walls where fresh slate, usually hand selected at the quarry, is used.
Foundations – Beginning at one end of the existing wall we would demolish a ‘day section’ right down to the foundation and begin walling. Some of the foundation stones were immense, with no need to replace. On other sections, that had suffered significant movement, we would have to excavate the foundation stones by hand, re-trench and relay the boulders. Like all structures, a solid foundation is essential and can’t be skipped. More walls crumble quickly because of shoddy foundations than anything else. Once a wall has been built it begins to settle. If the base isn’t solid the wall will buckle and belly outward as it settles. Over time this weak section will collapse.
Once the foundations were in place Ken would go to the sunny side of the wall in order to work with his back to the sun. Being the novice, I would have to work facing the sun, not a problem on a cloudy day, but squint factor on a sunny day is extreme. There was never any discussion about this, we merely assumed our side and got on with walling.
Recycled slate and random dry stone wall Kirkstone Pass Road, Windermere, Cumbria, UK
Stone Selection and Dog ‘Eds – Stone selection is a delight. If you have fiddled with a jigsaw puzzle, you will comprehend how difficult it can be to find the right pieces. Every stone has a place. With experience the eye can tell if a stone is ‘right’, in the early days stone selection is the greatest skill to learn.
Walling in the Patterdale valley was harder than any walling I have ever done. 50% of stones were ‘dog-eds’. The term is descriptive and derived from the shape of the stones, Dog Heads.
The mixture of dog-eds and slate was an awkward one, picture round balancing on flat, or vice versa. It doesn’t work without very careful placement. I wasted many fillers trying to balance these stones. Ken just plonked them down, the dog-eds remained firm.
As he worked Ken would whistle, a tuneless aggravating sussing. In and out, keeping pace with his breathing. Relentless.
‘Give us a break Ken. Your whistling is driving me mental!’
‘Seeessuurrrr sususu suuuuuuser.’
‘I can’t concentrate. Why don’t you go for a sanger?’
‘Suss suss sut…seh suh suh suh suh seh.’
Occasionally he would whistle on a rising tack, then simmer quietly whilst breathing in. Over and over and over.
I never saw him smile. He worked, methodically, carefully, never over extending himself.
Stone Placement – Stone selection and placement is the highlight of walling. Every stone has a place. Skilled wallers can identify the next stone, pick it up smoothly, flick it around in the hand, perhaps make a quick chip with the hammer, then clunk it into place. No further adjustment required.
The sound that a stone makes when placed is critical. Something akin to the difference between a bass drum and a snare drum. When a stone has a solid clunk it is placed correctly, when it has a chinky clinky sound it will need adjustment.
My favourite placement is with two hands on a medium sized stone. When sited there will be no movement at all and no requirement for a backfiller. I used to live for those moments!
Coursing – A ‘course’ is a layer of roughly similar sized stones. It isn’t essential, but most dry stone walls have the larger stones lower down. A well coursed wall will be indestructible.
Until I became more skilled Ken would often be a course or two ahead of me, this was a distinct advantage to him. If he had oddly shaped stones he could push them across toward my side then I would need to fit my stones around his.
‘Ken, you will need to slow down a bit until I get this next course up.’
‘Stop buggering about, you work like an old man!’ End of conversation.
Intake Wall End Lake District, Cumbria, UK
Point made I would plow on whilst Ken ambled over to the car, proceed to lean against it and ‘take stock’. Ken was always ‘taking stock’. He would briefly ‘weigh up the situation’ then act. I would be expected to read his mind and get on with the job.
A hill farmer in that area had up to 20 working dogs. He never trained dogs individually, when pups were old enough they would travel with an experienced dog and learn on the job. During this formative stage I was Ken’s dog, it was up to my powers of observation to copy what he did, he made no allowance for my inferior walling skills.
Ken sighed often in the early days because I was such a numpty waller. When he sighed I knew I wasn’t up to speed, or I had used the wrong stone. He never once told me off, just allowed my part of the wall to fall down. He would then slowly step through the gap, pick up a few stones, place them quickly, step back through the gap and continue walling from his side. No words were ever exchanged during these lessons.
Fillers – When walls were first built gangs of men would wall constantly. Many would sleep near the wall to maximise their return. They were paid by the yard, skilled wallers would use little fill, it was time consuming to pack a wall, and the old adage ‘time is money’ was never more appropriate.
Some sections of wall had almost no fillers. It would have been helpful to bring in a few tons of fill, but we weren’t allowed, so re-cycling was the order of the day.
Consequently a wall with few fillers took more skill with stone placement because we couldn’t backfill the gaps. It was pure chance who got the most fillers. However, Ken never came to my side of the wall to use my fillers. He always made do with his lot. When you’re a Yorkshireman, that is what you do.
Ken loved these empty walls, it was the ultimate challenge to his unerring stone selecting skills.
‘No reason why we can’t rebuild this wall with the stone on the ground. The original wallers did.’
‘There aren’t enough fillers here Ken. I can’t finish this without more fillers.’ My peeved comments would go unheeded.
He was correct of course. Over time I became more skillful at preserving the fillers and only used them sparingly.
Ubiquitous Foxgloves Dry Stone Walls Lake District, Cumbria, UK
Through Stones – Most field walls have two rows of ‘throughs’. One about knee high and another approximately belly button level. Dry stone walls taper toward the top, so the lower ‘through’ stones can be double the size of the higher layer. This means that the lower ‘throughs’ are seriously heavy, requiring two men to manoeuvre the stone into place. I have split my finger many times during this operation.
Weak walls can stem from insufficient good ‘throughs’. These stones tie the whole wall together. Ken always insisted that the ‘throughs’ were placed on a perfectly level line.
Top Stones – Final pieces in the walling jigsaw, and some of the most important.
On fully collapsed walls it was difficult to filter topstones from walling stone. An experienced waller can tell by the mould and lichens, even the shape of a stone can be sufficient to set it to one side for use as a topstone.
Ken was a specialist at ‘capping out’. It took more than 2 years for me to be allowed this honour. Capping out requires a very sure eye and steady placement because the final courses consist of the smallest stones, easily dislodged if the topstone has to be jiggled around.
Ultimate Satisfaction – To step back and admire a well constructed wall is to reach the pinnacle. It does require the palm of a hand to be drawn down the wall before leaving. It is a ritual that remains embedded in my mind as I think of Ken proudly surveying a finished wall. He never left a wall without giving it a pat on the head.
Ken was 83 the last time I walled with him. He now can’t manage walling, but his legacy remains and will be seen by thousands of people for up to 150 years to come. Indeed, if you drive from Hartsop to Patterdale you will pass two of his roadside walls, and several of his field walls.
A solitary truck whizzes past and startles Flora, she isn’t a timid dog, but the sudden noise and powerful waft of air causes her to skitter. As if he could hear me I shout after the departing truck. ‘No need for that! Inconsiderate so-and-so. You could have given us a wider berth!’
Mud, mud, glorious mud. Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood. Particularly in Winter!
The weather has been icy for several days. Cabin fever, like throwing darts left handed, an issue that can’t be fixed unless you switch back to your normal pattern of behaviour. Dog walking helps to dissipate the frustration, but my agitation is obvious.
No other life forms are walking the streets today, even the main road is quiet. Biting cold has muted the world. A torpid steel grey sky presses upon us, urging abandonment of our walking project. Extreme cold weather is the worst case scenario for my business, it debilitates and destroys confidence. It feels as if the ice will never leave.
Bosley, primed and ready 🙂
Bosley stands on his snow patched lawn, blue jacket tucked in neatly like a kindly soldier on parade. His face says.
‘Look at me John I am ready for a tour of duty. Let’s hit the beach heads.’
Ms Lockett is always grateful if we stop by and take Boz along, she has become progressively less able to promenade him since suffering a mild stroke. (Bosley – Lockett – 07801873600) are the details on the tag dangling from Bosley’s collar.
Ms Lockett is a throwback to the hippie era, free love and all that guff. She is often working in her garden, mauve scarf tied around her head, baggy cargo pants, black Doc Martin’s and a moth eaten, grey sweater. What she lacks in trendy clothing she compensates for credibly with gardening prowess. Delightful perennial borders to drool over, even at this time of year they possess oodles of interest .
As I open the gate Bosley trots over, always amiable. Flora is subjected to the once over. He inspects chin-nose-sniff your ear-neck routine. Flora laps it up. He then gives her backside a good inspection. I have to laugh because he has the appearance of Dr Bosley doing rounds at the clinic.
‘Hold still Flora, I need to take your temperature’.
Ms Lockett waves from the kitchen window, opens it and hands me Bosley’s lead. Without delay we’re off. All three of us finally brim full of renewed enthusiasm. I resemble an Alaskan with a pair of straining huskies. ‘Mush! Mush!’
Deer snicket in hedge.
Once we arrive at the unsealed lane I allow the dogs to run free, only an occasional tractor trundles down here, they are safe to roam. As soon as we arrive at a small natural woodland they push through the deer snickets in the hedge to gambol around in the tangle of ferns, leaf litter and broken branches. If I were to go in there and run around with my head a couple of feet off the ground my eyes would be gouged from their sockets in minutes. Imagine catching yourself on barbed wire.
Cattle grid.
The dogs randomly explore the area until we encounter a cattle grid where Boz takes over. He finds a squeeze between the brambles and gate post then surges away at greyhound speed. Flora gets some help from me to cross the grid before chasing after him furiously.
Content that they are happy exploring the shoreline I negotiate the frozen ground with intense concentration . Usually soft and easy walking, the abysmal cold has created a treacherous icy surface under my vibram boots. I have to bunch my toes up, as if that will prevent me tumbling . From a distance I must resemble a drunk after a couple of Special Brews.
Ahead a heron lifts up into the air, it’s ultra smooth wing beats a joy to behold. I pause, motionless to absorb the chilly ambiance. I watch contentedly, the dogs away in the distance, occasionally dipping out of sight as they negotiate the muddy channels.
I listen, the air placid, a fragment of intense calm. Trance inducing moments pass, a raven croaks high up on the crag to return me from my meditation. An odd rushing noise is upon me that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, a flock of estuary birds zoom overhead, low enough to make me duck down. Distant curlews call as they rise into the air and adjust their feeding station.
Boz – ready to play.
‘Yap, yap.’ ‘OOff’, the dogs are digging in the salty mud like possessed demons.
Unadulterated joy to watch them play together. I recall holding similar emotions when my children were small, they would come down here and play for hours in the warm weather. A microcosm filled with fantasy and innocence.
I hop, slide and splatter my way carefully, moving closer to the dogs. They have been out on the hard, silty mud for some time. For no reason in particular I call them to me, one sharp ‘shhhwheet’ and Flora pricks her ears, looks for me and kerlonks a direct line in my direction, she skilfully negotiates the ditches and half frozen brackish puddles. Panting happily she anchors up with scratchy skids, eyes on fire – isn’t it amazing how precious delight in the eye of any creature is hugely uplifting.
Bosley dallies a while, adding some finishing touches to the hole they were digging. Satisfied, he tosses his head and sets off toward us in similar cavalier fashion. He doesn’t hesitate at a large ditch, takes a preposterous flying leap and disappears. Imagine Scooby Doo skydiving. Ears up in the air and legs splayed. Muddy waters splash upward, the eagle has landed.
In no time at all Boz hauls himself up this side of the slimy ditch. It’s obvious that he’s struggling with the slope, front paws dug into the turf, hind legs flailing to make a purchase. His determination wins the day, he gallops over the intervening ground, enthusiasm undiminished. He rocks up, plastered head to tail-tip in mud, chocolate sauce with hints of black treacle. I have to keep backing away, arms in the air to avoid being covered in the atrocious mess. He thinks I am playing so launches himself at me. I jump to one side, my feet crush through the thin icy surface of another puddle and I slip to the deck. Boz jumps on top of me, literally laughing into my face, paws pounding on my jacket.
I roll onto my side in an attempt to push myself out of the muck. Both dogs now hoot like impudent teenagers and bounce around me, a chaotic scene.
It’s futile, but I shout. ‘Stop Bosley. Gerrof me!’ For further effect I add. ‘Flora, where are your brains girl? I am a wizened old man, freakin’ well let me get up!’
Urggh. Icy water has seeped over a boot top and filled one boot, my mittens are soaked through, without overtrousers my jeans are saggy bags of stinking mud, even my hair is satched and matted with gunk. ‘Bosley you are an absolute monster!’
Flooded shoreline at Humphrey Head. Perfect playground for dogs.
Thankfully I carry my phone in a dry inside pocket. I manage to get a call through to a friend who drives a 4WD work vehicle. He doesn’t hesitate to come down to the shore and pick us up.
As we wait near the end of the lane I pull the dogs to me, sit with knees bent, one dog under each arm, tucked in and keeping me warm. Our body heat is creating a cloud of steam in the chilly air. I have treats for the dogs and a chocolate bar for myself, small comfort.
I love it when dogs sit like this. They are content enough, Bosley gives my cheek a very warm choppy nudge that smells of doggie treat as if to say. ‘It’ll be reet mate. You did your best.’
Bosley keeping warm.
When Mark arrives we tumble into the cabin. He has the heater turned up full blast and a flask of piping hot coffee. Oh my, what a luxury. Bosley has been wearing his jacket all the time and it now has to come off. Mark is barely able to drive as he chortles at my demise. Bosley’s dog jacket is a filthy mess. Can’t imagine what I am going to say to Ms Lockett.
Winter is an endurance test, but moments like this can help to lighten the load.
Have to thank Ms Lockett for lending us Bosley. We had a fabulous time 🙂
Flora must be chasing an imaginary rabbit. She twists and lollops, nose to the frosty ground, ears pyoing randomly, jack-in-a-box puppets as she scoots around the muddy saltwater pools.
Karrimor KSB Event, a wonderful general purpose walking boot.
Winter is being perverse today, it has provided glorious sunshine with sub-zero temperatures. Whenever the ground is frozen solid we are unable to earn a crust from meaningful contract gardening. After dawdling away a few hours keeping warm in front of the fire I decide to take Flora for a walk, down to Humphrey Head. Primary reason – test out my new walking boots.
The boots have been sitting in the original box for almost six months. Hillwalking used to be my lifeblood, but I abandoned regular distance walking when my last pair of boots began leaking at the instep. It’s time to return to the fray.
To add a twist I decide to use my camera to capture the walk through the eyes of Flora. She views things from a completely different layer to me.
We drive the van to the end of the lane and park up. Flora bursts out and gallops around whilst I fit my new boots. The air has an arctic intensity, so my mitten/fingerless gloves are going to be vital as I operate the camera.
Best policy is carefully watch what Flora does, then follow in her pawprints and photograph the places she visits. Clearly this isn’t going to be easy, she moves rapidly from one tuft of grass to another, stopping briefly to sniff then bobble off to something else.
She is fascinated by the pools of water, rushes and leaps with great agility. Her tongue is already flapping, more grin than fatigue.
Flora at full pelt.
Instantly I realise that I can’t access most places she has visited, the ground is a treacherous mix of ice and brackish saltwater, the ice breaks easily under my weight, sloppy mud is ankle deep.
There are no sheep on the shoreline today and no other walkers so I decide to let her run free. Still she comes back frequently seeking a little reassurance. Every time she comes back she touches me slightly, often with her nose, occasionally a simple flick of the tail which patters on my legs.
I stop constantly to photograph. Flora lobs up, eyes glittering with delight, front end and shoulders dip to the ground, rear up in the air. She wants to play, we always play.
All doglovers understand this stance, it says.
‘Stick…get me a stick.’
Her tail wags and quivers rapidly, held high in the air. She bounces on both paws at the same time, issuing gentle ‘uff’ ‘uff’ noises.
I look at her with a degree of sympathy. She is confused by this lethargic start to proceedings. Usually I have my wellies on and we both gallivant over the springy turf, jumping across the small ponds until we reach the shoreline where she opens up and stretches her legs. She runs in giant circles depending on where the watermark is. When the tide is well out she will run for a hundred yards, turn like she has suddenly seen the devil and race back full pelt. Where do they gather such energy?
We walk away from the soggy shore toward the lane and encounter the first obstacle. Probably an 8 on the doggie scale of difficulty. A cattlegrid. This one is tricky because it also has brambles fully up to the edges of the grid. I observe as she ponders the situation. She looks at me, a glob of slobber flippers off the end of her tongue onto my sleeve.
She looks at me twice, gathers herself in the lunge mode, but decides it is too far. Second choice she puts a paw on the first couple of slats, doesn’t like it at all. I am about to help when I imagine she says.
‘Stuff this messing around,’ and leaps up onto the wall beside the cattle grid then with one more bound is on the other side. She doesn’t stop to take applause, just continues with her adventure.
A little way down the lane she disappears off to the right through a hole in the hedging. I see her mooching around in the small wood. She darts out again through another hole, does a quick 360 and whips back in via the next small tunnel. Clearly she is entertained.
Next a kissing gate which has a high degree of doggie difficulty. In fact this is a 10. She knows what this type of gate involves so waits for me to open it. Through the gate she hurtles up the hill.
My boots are not giving me any problem. I have always found that ill fitting boots only take a mile or two before nagging at the foot. These feel like a pair of slippers, a second skin.
We reach a wind tilted hawthorn, I have to put Flora on the lead, there are sheep in the next field. She doesn’t complain, still able to travel a good sniffing distance. Now she is closer I scrutinise what she finds interesting. To my palette it is disgusting, she seeks out and sniffs at pooh, sheep droppings, old cow pats and rabbit droppings. Don’t you dare pick any up! Urk.
Unfortunately we have to make a swift return to the van. The incoming tide is looking very full today. It bothers me that the van may end up in the sea, so we walk back. Flora stops her play mode and begins to walk in step with me. I wonder what she is thinking at this stage. She doesn’t know why I have turned back peremptorily.
Back at the van she skips up onto the passenger seat whilst I sort my boots out. Sighs, curls up on the double seat, adjusts her chops a couple of times and promptly hits the snooze button.
Tomorrow is forecast even colder, so I will be going back earlier in the day to get right over the top of Humphrey Head to rest in the sun on a sheltered rocky beach as the tide comes around the headland.
Humphrey Head on the north shore of Morecambe Bay.
Capturing the world through the eyes of a dog is pretty dang difficult. Flora is so smart that she could probably take the photos herself.
Words erupt from deep within my core. Frequently it seems that a tsunami has been generated, the emotions are sucked up and ride atop an enormous dynamic word inferno, desperate to be released.
Often I am compelled to write, it is a way to share powerful unarticulated thoughts. In my life I am driven by emotions (who isn’t?) that occasionally overwhelm my reality. My brain fizzes with such intensity that I have to smash the words down without delay.
Despite limited artistic knowledge I totally empathise with the moment when great artists found inspiration. When I read of them rushing headlong down to the Mediterranean to live in the glorious light which empowered the likes of Van Gogh to paint I nod, I comprehend. In my own small way, when I am gardening and the word-volcano strikes I have to down tools and write. The end product is immaterial, what matters is giving life to the words.
More to the point I would love to time travel with the artist, be the fly on the wall as creative juices crashed out onto canvas. See their total commitment, oblivious to the world as they fulfilled a primal urge. I wonder if it came as a surprise when the work was finished and they stepped back, out of their compulsion, to view the result. I bet they didn’t need to change a thing. I understand the torment if the compulsion struck and they were unable to feed the gannets.
How magical to have been a paint brush in the hands of Van Gogh.
How stimulating to have been ink in the quill of Shakespeare.
How glorious to be the twirling incense in an ancient Himalayan monastery.
Personally, as the intensity fades I remember who I am, I feel the tension in my hands ooze away and I notice the scraps of notepaper, covered in riddles and rhyme, strewn around like feathers from a plucked swan. Those words are me, amazing.
Once published, I realise that YOU are reading these words and that YOU are surely also driven with equally strong desires and primal urges. I realise that YOU are the fly on the wall of my emotional heart.
Robert is working on the top perennial border, maybe 15 yards away but on the other side of a hawthorn hedge. Earlier we had trimmed the hedge, Robert swirled the hedgetrimmer as if it was a light sabre, thrashing blades moulded the hedge into shape. We are tarting up the top border in a full blooded attempt to impress our new clients.
‘How are you getting on with the weeding up there Rob?’
Silence, followed by scuffling noises and a slight clearing of his throat.
I wait for him to say something. Nada.
Louder this time, ‘Rob! We need to be moving onto the mowing soon. Have you nearly finished?’
He is obviously working, his yellow gorilla bucket is being scutched over the ground, he kicks it a little and I hear him ‘twickling’ the soil with his fork. Twickling is our top secret ploy to make our borders stand out from the rest. Obviously I can’t give away the trade secret but it is vital to get the correct depth into the soil before twickling commences. Too deep and it looks like a turned veggie bed, too shallow and it looks bobbly, scratched and scruffy. There is also the sideways ‘clod slap’ that is vital for an even finish. No point taking these terms, ‘twickling’ and ‘clod slap,’ to the RHS for clarification, they are copyrighted to http://www.topgrowth.co.uk and available for hire purchase if anyone is dopey enough to ask.
Because Rob still doesn’t answer me I decide to walk up the steps to the top border and check on what he is doing. Often these kind of silences mean one of the lads is having a fag, or texting the girlfriend and doesn’t want to be disturbed. Normally they skulk off behind a building or into the bushes. They know I don’t like them using mobile phones on the job, and smoking is almost a hanging offence unless they are on a break.
SAS style I quietly step up and have my eyes on alert as they come level with the top border. I look across to where he is working then stand still to watch. He is twickling away undeniably content. In fact he is working furiously, twickle – clod slap, clod slap (try to say that when you have quaffed a few G&Ts) – twickle, twickle – clod slap – bend down pick up some weeds…repeat process. I notice that he isn’t wearing his gloves either. Strange. Rob has always worn his gloves, indeed insisted that he wear them.
I love this guy. He is with us every day 🙂
Only last week we had the following conversation.
‘John, I have to wear my gloves. The girlfriend doesn’t like me to have rough skin and muck in my nails.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t feel smaller weeds with gloves on Rob? If the ground is really bad, use the gloves, otherwise don’t wear them. The more you feel the weeds and plants, the better
gardener you will become.’
Grinning at me. ‘OK John. Whatever you say. I will not wear the gloves to weed after today, me and Mandy are going to have dinner at her parent’s place tonight.’ He always grins at me when he wants his own way. I know he will still wear his gloves the next day.
Rob is the sort of lad who comes to work in khaki Chinos, a Wrangler shirt and a pair of weird boots with no laces. He never passes the van mirror without taking a look at himself and preening. He loves to be around the gardens, is extremely pleasant and polite but doesn’t understand the work ethic. If he is left on his own he will take it easy. Whenever I go off somewhere he applies, ‘out-of- sight, time-for-a-fag’ policy
So what the heck has changed today? He still hasn’t seen me, so I sit on one of the steps and observe him through the sparse leaves of a hydrangea bush.
He finishes twickling, and moves his gorilla bucket to another part of the border. Squats on his heels and begins to weed. I notice that he is working very carefully, not missing a weed and knocking off the excess soil before tossing it into the bin. I feel a surge of pleasure because in the past he has barely bothered to knock excess dirt off and we have constantly had discussions about how the garden is going to disappear in a few years if he doesn’t put most of the soil back.
WTF is he doing now? I chuckle to myself, how bizarre.
Rob is playing air guitar as he kneels and bobbing his head like he is in a mosh pit. Still he works on. He pulls out some larger weeds and taps out a rhythm on the side of the bin … tosses them in … fishes them out again and inspects the tiny blue flowers, probing with his fingertips. Taps them several times more on the rim of the bucket before lobbing them. I also notice his lips are moving and I can hear a strange tone deaf mumble with accompanying head waggle. A kind of cross between Buddhist mantra and an impression of a chainsaw.
Intrigued I decide not to disturb him. For a while he works away then suddenly jumps up, takes the garden fork and uses it to play air guitar again, but more vigorously. At this I just can’t stop myself any longer and burst into a honking belly laugh, but he doesn’t hear me. His right foot is stomping and he uses the handle of the fork as a fret. Oh my goodness. I hoot out loud.
He does a twirl raises his imaginary guitar up above his head with both arms and then sweeps it down to the ground, embedding the tines in the lawn up to the hilt. His body is bowed at the waist, he holds this posture for a few moments clearly spent before straightening up slowly, hands hang limply by his side, head still bent downward resting on his chest.
Rob raises his head, slowly lifts his eyes to the sky, and then the horror strikes him full force. His body becomes rigid and his eyes pop out of the sockets on stalks as he notices me sitting on the step. In an instant colour flushes right up through his cheeks, his baby blue eyes are sparkling and he grins in embarrassment. We both start to laugh, it’s infectious and establishes a more friendly atmosphere for him to put down an explanation.
He flicks something out of his right ear and says. ‘Oh shoot John. I am really sorry but it was one of my favourite tunes and I couldn’t stop myself. Sorry if I have made a fool of myself.’
He adds. ‘I was doing such a good job on the border, come over here and let me show you. I reckon you will be chuffed to bits.’
I shake my head and walk over to him. There is an earpiece dangling over his shoulder and another lodged in his left ear. The cables are stuffed inside his sweater, a slight bulge where his shirt pocket sits.
My primary instinct is to tell him off for time wasting. However, to be fair, when I look at what he has achieved it is nigh on amazing compared to what he normally accomplishes. Not only has he done a very good job, it is one that we can both be proud of, and I tell him so.
‘Great work Bonzo. You have excelled yourself there.’
Rob smiles easily. ‘It was like you said the other day, I got into the groove and things started to flow. You are right, when the juice starts to flow everything is easy and feels balanced. I took off the gloves because I could feel what I was doing, it all just came together like magic.’
He adds, ‘I kind of zoned out. It was like I wasn’t here, but I was, you know what I mean? I needed to touch the soil and the garden, it was sort of percolating into me and I just understood it all so well.’
His eyebrows arch. ‘If I didn’t know different I would have said I was stoned. Jya know what I’m on about John?’
‘I know what you are on about lad. I know.’
‘At the same time I was right into my music. Everything was crystal clear.’ He stops to consider the magnitude of it all.
He explains what an mp3 player is and how the tunes can be downloaded from the internet. Not only that he says that he has hundreds of tunes stored on his device, so seldom gets bored with the songs. He also insists that listening makes him happier and that he enjoys his work more.
How can I argue with that?
As we stand there I am aware of a strange susurration, rather like the noise coming from a freely rotating wheel on an upturned bike. I ask him if he can hear it. He listens, head cocked to one side and says. ‘No. Can’t hear owt strange John. Where is it coming from?’
I can’t pinpoint the noise, it is random. Now it has stopped. We walk back to the van to get the mowing gear out. I keep hearing the noises, but Rob seems unperturbed. I ponder tinnitus, I know my Uncle Ken suffers from the condition and complains of a ringing in his ears. Perhaps I have a dose.
Rob gets a strimmer out of the van and puts it on the floor, I take a fuel can and as I bend down to fill the stimmer I realise the noise is coming from his earpieces, the music is obviously still playing. I am tempted to ask him for a listen, but the thought of shoving his earpieces into my ears prevents that thought verbalising.
He asks if he can continue to use the mp3. I am unsure but can’t fathom a reason to refuse. This day is to be an epiphany for Rob, and an ear opener for me.
In future days he worked wonderfully well as long as he was submersed in House, Garage, Trance, Dance, Hip Hop and a crazy bunch of other tunes that are alien to me, but nectar to the essence of Rob. He became a wonderful gardener and has now set up on his own.
It takes all sorts, but if you find a peaceful way forward, embrace it because it may be the precious jewel that propels you on to greater achievement and lasting happiness.
John
PostScript – shortly after this event Rob encouraged and convinced me to get an mp3 player, a tiddly ipod shuffle (in pink!!). I now look forward to using my mp3 when I am working alone. I can listen for hours ensconced in dual pleasure domes, gardening and Nicole Scherzinger. What more can a bloke ask for?
The cane bins were frequently empty so we had time to nap, some nights we slept for 3 or 4 hours.
The night shift for some workers was ideal, it gave them a significant pay bonus and the chance to work in cooler conditions. However, I really disliked night work, I found sleeping during the daytime virtually impossible and quickly built up a sleep deficit. It left me feeling incredibly grubby and tetchy, unable to enjoy any free time during the day.
It had only been 4 weeks since we moved into our new home, a third part of an interesting stilted Queenslander home in Cairns. Already the cycling to and from the sugar mill had been replaced by a ride/share arrangement with a co-worker. Unfortunately our shifts swung out of sync as we both took any overtime available. This left me having to cadge a lift with others, use the infrequent bus service or hitch-hike. Some days as I got back to the house mid morning or lunch time I was beside myself with fatique and strung out on caffeine overload. It just wasn’t working for me.
To compound things the bedroom was incredibly stuffy during the daytime. I would open the front door and the small bedroom window to get some relief. The mattress was an old foam affair that made me sweat even more. When I got back from the mill I would shower, drink a load of fluid, cram some food in my mouth and crash. Sleep came instantly but was fleeting and fitful, my body against the foam mattress would sweat, sometimes my hair was soaked when I woke up. My only means of feeling better was to get out onto the verandah with a sleeping bag. The fresher air was helpful, but sleep was more difficult to achieve because of all the activity around me.
One third of the house was occupied by an unemployed couple who fought frequently. They had little money and were living on the edge. During the daytime it was more peaceful, but as the afternoon wore on their friends would turn up in utes with dogs barking. The noise level would surge as a turntable was filled with vinyl.
In the other third were the Aboriginal family we met when we moved in. Grandpa, Mum, Dad, his brother and three children. They were incredibly friendly and well organised. The kids went off to school with Mum each morning, the 2 young men were away working on a Tableland cattle station which left Grandpa in the house during the daytime. He would potter around the place from early morning, I don’t think that he did anything constructive, but he was always on the move. I could hear him plodding around, moving things and scraping chairs on the wooden floor. What was he doing?
Persistent activity during the daytime was tweaked to the max from mid-day onwards as Grandpa instigated his daily grogfest. Sometimes when I was sleeping out on the porch I would wake with an inexplicable eerie feeling and realise that he was sitting by me on the door step. He always had a stubbie in one hand, a smoke in the other and a ripped cardboard case beside him. As soon as I opened my eyes he would offer me a bottle. My sleep addled state only allowed me to smile inanely, shake my head and scream like a banshee deep down in my core. Eyes would swing in their sockets like scorched castanets. He would grin and take another swig as he lolled against the weatherboard. This was my cue to go inside and seek some solace there, back to the heat and sultry murk that was my depleted oxygen cell. By this stage my brain would be jiggling inside my skull, sleep, oh please let me have some sleep.
Dream after dream would be disturbed by Grandpa as he sculled the beer, or the young folk hooting raucously on the other side of the building. When the sun swung around to where Grandpa was sitting he would move under the house. His hammock set up so that he could still see things on the street. When the alcohol had stewed his senses he would begin to sing, it sounded like some dreary ancient warrior tune that young Aboriginals sang as they endured agonies of their teeth being smashed out with sticks during rite of passage! With his hand he would tap out a monotonous beat on a stilt that supported the house.
Eventually I struggled to differentiate between dream and reality, couldn’t tell if I was awake in Hell or slithering in and out of a nightmare. It had to stop, I was incapable of doing simple things such as going grocery shopping without feeling miserable and clumsy. On night shift week I would barely eat so I started to lose condition.
Temporary relief was provided by wearing wax earplugs. Being wax they were able to be molded into a perfect fit in my ear and excluded practically all external noise. Once the plugs were in place my body temperature seemed to go up which made the sweating worse. Perhaps the ears also act as body temperature regulators? In time the earplugs slid out and I would waken in a haze and have to jam them back in. I gave up with these after the second round of night shift because they were too much hassle in the intense humidity of Cairns.
Leonie was generally sympathetic, but understandably fed up of me being spaced out. We could do very little in our spare time when I was on night shift because I needed to put my head down and sleep whenever the opportunity arose. Our solution was genius. We decided to pool our money and buy a campervan, it didn’t matter about the condition as long as it drove, it would be somewhere for me to sleep after a nightshift. If I was struggling to sleep I could always get in a campervan and drive off to a quiet location for a few hours kip.
We scoured the local papers and found a VW campervan for sale in Edmonton at $550. The advert said it was driveable but needed some work, I could fix it. We had enough money so called from a nearby payphone and arranged to go over to Edmonton. It was an ancient split screen van with a crack across the passengers window. The tyres were worn down and the valences were rusted up but it started immediately. We were mobile. Score!
In a plume of black smoke we drove away like royalty. After dropping Leonie at the house I pushed a light blanket and pillow into the back and set off straight away to the mill for the next ration of night shift. In the car park I slept like a log for 2 hours. It was bliss. From then on the sleep issue ceased to be a problem for me and I was able to work as many hours as possible to build up some funds.
I have never worked a night shift since finishing at the sugar mill and have massive respect to anyone who does. You are made of much sterner stuff than me. Most creatures thrive by sleeping from sundown til dawn, I subscribe to that ethos entirely.
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