Somehow I never made it to the Lake District last year – one of only 3 years since 2005 (when I started regularly going) that I didn’t have a Lakes trip. 2020 was due to “you know what”, 2023 was a combination of work and deliberately prioritizing other things, and 2025 it just never seemed to happen in a crazy year dominated by training for, running and trying to recover from a marathon.
So it was weird finding myself back in the Lakes after two years since my last visit. Even more so to be greeted by blue skies, next to no wind and not a drop of rain forecast for several days.
I’d really wanted to do this trip the following week, but an unbelievable weather window opened up and I just had to take it.
I ran a half marathon on the Sunday before the trip, and that was the main reason for wanting ideally to have been doing it later – I wanted a bit more time to recover first. But you don’t turn down such a good weather window, and so I resigned myself to taking it easy the first few days.
I arrived in Keswick and walked up to my campsite. I was staying at Castlerigg Hall campsite, at a height of 200m, sitting on the end of the ridge declining from Bleaberry Fell. Indeed it offered a head start on climbing Walla Crag, but more about that later.
I pitched up on the flattest spot I could find, with a view of Skiddaw from the tent, and a view of Blencathra by not moving very far at all.
After settling in, I decided I would walk over to Castlerigg Stone Circle for sunset, which was an hour’s round trip for not much of a sunset. But I’d done it and it was better than sitting in the tent.
The plan I’d hatched had been to do a circuit, including Walla Crag, from the campsite the next day, but I opted instead to head out on the bus to Buttermere for a walk of the North Western Fells. I desperately wanted to test my legs and get a sense of what I could do on this trip.
The bus was rammed, I got the last seat which was side on behind the driver, and by the time I got to Buttermere I wanted to spew my guts up. Instead, firm unmoving ground beneath me helped steady me, and half an hour in the cafe helped too. Then it was time to start climbing. The plan now was to head up Whiteless Pike, my last visit to which was a camp at the start of a trip of amazing camps in 2016. From there, I’d pick off in succession Wandope, Crag Hill, Gramsoor, Hopegill Head and Grisedale Pike, and various subsidiary summits along the way.
This plan didn’t last long, when I found my body really not wanting to do the work required. It wasn’t my legs per se, nor my respiratory system, it just seemed the whole carcass didn’t want to do it. Progress was slow. I broke my cardinal rule of not stopping for lunch until the first summit was in the bag.
Getting up the extra little bit onto Wandope wasn’t so bad, but I was already worried about the time given the pace I’d been making. I took one look up at Eel Crag and decided not to. And as I drew close to the start of the climb up onto Grasmoor, I changed my mind about that too. Given Grasmoor was the one I really wanted to revisit on this walk, there didn’t seem a lot of point grinding up onto Sand Hill and Hopegill Head either, nor Hobcarton Crag and Grisedale Pike. The idea of simply dropping down from Coledale Hause came to me.
It didn’t take much to decide to do that, and I started descending into the valley. A look at bus times on one of my brief pauses, saw me hurry things along, as if I missed the 4pm (ish) bus it was a 2 hour wait for the next one. I finished off all the steep stuff, the path underfoot became a lot less trippy-uppy, and I broke into a trot.
Crossing the stream and onto the main track from Force Crag Mine, and it was full on trail run mode for the next 4km. A slight miscalculation on path choice when Braithwaite was in sight, found me take the long way by the road, but that was a lot more runnable too. I arrived at the bus stop with about a minute to spare before the bus was due. And of course it was then late.
Back in Keswick I stopped for a cider, then went for a sit-down fish and chips, washed down with more cider, at the Keswickian. It was a slow, tired and ever so slightly tipsy trudge back up the hill to my campsite.
I felt I underperformed on that last walk, but pushing it for the next one wasn’t going to make things better, so I decided to do a straightforward walk from camp, and use the height advantage that starting from 200m gave. An easy enough walk up to Walla Crag, arriving just as a party of schoolkids was leaving. I sat on the rocks at the top and enjoyed the view.
Next I took the bridleway below Bleaberry Fell that brought me out at Ashness Bridge. At one point a fantastic view opened up.
I didn’t linger long at Ashness Bridge, taking just the mandatory photos, before heading down the road to join the lakeside path towards Keswick. I hugged the shore of Derwentwater as closely as I could, detouring a couple of times up to near the road to get around obstacles, before hitting the stony shoreline once more.
I arrived back in Keswick, and ended up in Wetherspoons for a late brunch. A bit of a mooch around the outdoor shops then back to camp.
The next day was parkrun day, also known to some as Saturday, and the plan was to do Keswick parkrun, having now ruled out Whinlatter due to my general feebleness – especially given that Whinlatter is in the top 5 hardest in the UK, out of over 800 events. Nope.
I jogged down to the old station as a warm up, took the usual tourist pictures with the sign, then lined up for the start. Keswick parkrun is one of those out and back along an old railway track, and experience (I’m looking at you Monsal Trail) is that the start can be a bit of a scrum. Not so today, with the run director directing people to go to the start based on expected time – Kenyans and Ethiopians first, then fast runners, then slightly slower runners and so on. I lined up over-confidently at the back of the 25-30 minute wave, which was a bit optimistic but heigh ho.
2.5km of out was basically all uphill with a couple of flattish bits for momentary respite. Turnaround point then the exact opposite – mostly a hurtle downhill to the finish. I felt surprisingly strong given my condition of recent days, but it wasn’t a stunning time.
I had a sit down in the shade to mop the sweat before heading into town for a second breakfast. The plan now was to do nothing for the rest of the day – essentially to rest up before the rigours of what was to come.
Sunday dawned and after extending my stay at the campsite twice, it was finally time to leave and head for a wild camp. The plan was to make this as easy as possible in recognition of my state. This meant the most direct route to my planned camp spot that wasn’t a nightmare to climb. The steadier the better. And where better than a start from Seathwaite.
I got off the bus at Seatoller, and walked along the road to Seathwaite Farm and then onto the Grains Gill path.
Soon I was crossing Stockley Bridge and after a brief flirtation with the idea of going via Sty Head, sense prevailed and I continued on up the other side of Seathwaite Fell. It was slow progress, but I did actually catch someone, who turned out to be Mark, easily identifiable as a YouTuber on a similar mission from his (especially camera) kit. We walked a while together and had a chat before I pushed on.
Water collected from Ruddy Gill, I climbed up to Esk Hause and onward to Great End, spying a flattish spot on the summit plateau, and then a better spot just below that on a shelf overlooking Borrowdale.
The wind waited until I was committed to the pitch and all settled in to increase and it blew steadily until sunset, took a short interval, then resumed until 10pm. I then had a lovely calm and still night.
Overnight, I’d looked at the forecast and saw that some heavy rain was expected in the afternoon, along with generally stronger winds, and I decided that was enough. I hate camping in wind, as no matter how secure the tent, it’s not at all conducive to a good sleep. So it felt like time to fold.
I woke to a noticeably cloudier day, with an inversion visible in the distance over Windermere and creeping into Langdale.
I popped up onto each of the summitty bits for a last look at the views from each, and then it was time to head down.
A brief flirtation with a detour to Sprinkling Tarn resisted, I headed back down Ruddy Gill, and guess who I came across – yes, Mark again. We caught up and exchanged tales of our respective camps, and then I forged ahead – I had a bus to make.
Which I made with seconds to spare – I hadn’t even sat down before the bus pulled away, to whisk me off on the first leg of the journey home.
