Well, that was an experience. My first proper day's mountain walking alone ever, not hindered by less fit and/or reckless sensible family members. I can definitely say I exploited the lack of both restrictions. Last year I did St Sunday Crag alone in an afternoon, which was absurd. The thought of ruining a great walk by going at a ludicrous pace has haunted me ever since, and I was determined to do it at a proper speed now. And I did start off relatively leisurely, circling round the foot of a hillside on a nice track. A short, gruelling haul then brought me above some crags, with the usual wonderful views of Patterdale and Ullswater behind me. Climbed gradually up the side of a steep hillside with Grisedale, another narrow, pretty and largely deserted valley, to the right. Sadly by now I could see the cloud on the mountain tops ahead was sometimes lifting, sometimes dropping but not, overall, going anywhere. And as I made the final ascent up to St Sunday Crag it stooped to embrace me like a lover. All I could do at the top was try to remember the fantastic views I'd glimpsed all too briefly the previous year. The plan then was to carry along the summit ridge to, finally, get up Fairfield. I then made a discovery, however. Walking alone through mountain clouds freaks me out. It's a completely irrational fear. The path was clear enough. I just hated not seeing what was on either side of it. Even though the choice was between fairly steep drops and very steep drops, and even though it was, in fact, a simply enough task to avoid actually dropping down any of them. At one point I got so spooked that I turned back for a minute. The cloud then lifted again, however, I saw into the void beyond (fairly steep drops, for the record) and could continue. Nonetheless, I decided to sod Fairfield once again and descended a precipitous little path to Grisedale Tarn.
The sensible option now would have been to make a leisurely stroll down the other side of Grisedale. Instead I opted for an absurdly ambitious circular route, beginning with a peak with the suitably ridiculous name of Dollywagon Pike. Climbed up to it via a steep, zig-zagging path. Fairfield remained stubbornly in the mists but the mountain on the far side of Grisedale Tarn made an impressive sight. A party of loudly shouting urchins were in the distance, a helicopter inexplicably carrying two large cylinders in a net went overhead, but thankfully both soon vanished into the valley beyond. Down came the cloud again as soon as I got some height and I started to feel put upon. But it continued ascending and descending, sometimes allowing an impressive vista of that far valley and the mountains beyond. Dollywagon, High Crag and Nethermost Pike all came and went fairly quickly. I didn't technically climb any of them, the path passing just below the summits. Even I, though, am not daft enough to scramble over shale and rock, risking a plummet down the cliffs on the far side, just to add three names to a list.
And then came Helvellyn. It's odd climbing Helvellyn this way. In the normal ascent from Patterdale, you're slogging up for hours and it's looming above you the whole time. Here it suddenly leaps out at you, announcing itself with the demonic line of jagged rocks which is Striding Edge. Ate lunch close to that ridge, telling myself that there was no way on earth I was going down on it. The final climb up to the summit was short and the scene up there familiar. A trig column, a sheep and a hell of a lot of cloud. Shortly afterwards, my irritation turned to panic again. I'd intended going down by Swirral Edge but couldn't work out where it began. Though there was a cairn, I couldn't see what lay beyond it. As with Monday, it could just have been another warning/evil cairn. Then the cloud abruptly lifted again. And it was glorious. The views were amazing. Striding Edge and the sheer cliffs beneath Helvellyn's summit were on one side; a row of mountains basking in an unearthly light rose up on the other. More practically, I could see where I should be going – or so I thought. Trekked down what felt like Swirral Edge, a passable but impressively narrow ridge which gradually broadened out as it descended. But the path then stopped running parallel to Striding Edge and started climbing another hill, neither of which were according to the map. A bunch of jokers on top of that hill reassured me that I was on the right route. However, after spying an abandoned old dam across the stream below and deciding the puddle beneath Helvellyn's flanks was in no way the Red Tarn, I realised I was in fact coming down into the wrong valley. After another few moments of panic, I assured myself I'd still get into Glenridding, just down the road from Patterdale. My impressive navigation continued after I'd zig-zagged to the foot of the valley. I followed an old industrial track for a while, then decided I needed to be on the other side of the stream. This required a scramble down to the water, some perilous leaps from stone to stone, another scramble up the far side. Consulting the map again, I noticed there was a perfectly good footbridge further on. Oh, and my original path would have served perfectly well anyway. Hey ho. Glenridding valley, incidentally, is less picturesque and more interesting than most in these parts. This is due to parts of it having been quarried to fuck at various times in history, leaving gaping wounds in the cliffs. There was a very odd little settlement too; a sprawl of buildings which resembled an old mining village, except that they were all new and pristine. I somehow made it to Glenridding itself without getting lost again, winding through woods and past a pleasant looking campsite. Was about to start tramping along the road to Patterdale when, luckily, dad's car drove past and stopped and I piled in gratefully. To paraphrase Harry Pearson: a walk with everything except full-frontal nudity.
