A Proper Walk
“When you wake up in the morning, Pooh,” said Piglet at last, “what’s the first thing you say to yourself?” “What’s for breakfast?” said Pooh. “What do you say, Piglet?” “I say, I wonder what’s going to happen exciting today?” said Piglet. Pooh nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the same thing,” he said.”
(AA Milne)
Sometime last year, we did a proper walk in the Pilgrim Land of Cumbria…
I spent a few days hiking by near Ullswater, carrying a backpack my grandad gave me. And I visited him, on his own now a great deal, marvelling at photos of when he and my nana walked the same hills. Pilgrimage here means treading where they did, and there doesn’t seem to be anywhere they didn’t walk, many years ago. And it means memories of my childhood near Penrith, mossy grass, trickling streams, lichened rocks, the smell of bracken. And it means paying attention to the path, like always, to what’s ahead, and underfoot, and behind, and within.
So, this first proper pilgrim walk I made, long and hard and beautiful, was new and unknown, and also held by hills that whispered of home.
There’s a nice National trust carpark and cafe at Aira Force that allows overnight stays, with toilets, friendly staff appearing in the morning, and a scattering of vans when I visited. This was back before I made good blinds for the van, so there was a nightly, farcical, battle with my curtains, that fell down when I turned my back, like an immersive game of whack a mole, with the added effect of Robin barking at things in the darkness that I couldn’t see… But, apart from one weird guy parked nearby, it was a peaceful night, and I woke to a misty morning that would clear into a warm day. Before we set off, a small girl belonging to a neighbouring van wanted to meet Robin. The mum and I compared campervan ideas, and she suggested a place to visit in the Peaks, and their neighbourliness entirely made up for the man, and the curtains. I drove to Glenridding, and began.
I didn’t know it was a day when a triathlon was taking place, so as well as a few fellow walkers, I passed people set up on deckchairs, ready to watch, and many runners, who’d either been up and down already, or who overtook me on my slightly breathless way up the steepest part of the path. The bonus was that I was pretty sure I was on the right path. I always get surprised, looking back, at how far you seems to move in a small time on a walk like this, how the land and path stretch away and away, and you’re standing on a spot that was far off, looking at where you were. Avoiding any deep and cheesy lessons about this, I will only say, it was beautiful, and looking back often meant a handy chance to catch my breath.
The day was hotter than I thought, and I was kicking myself for deciding not bring my swimming costume, and considering what combination of underwear might be OK to wear, given the number of runners around. But in fact, when I arrived, Red Tarn was in shade, and fed by freezing tiny streams flowing straight from Helvellyn, so a paddle made me decide firmly against getting in.
We had a picnic, and a rest, and listened to the echoes of voices from the mountain ridge above, and felt the welcome of small stones and soft ground, before setting off again.
The journey back felt less appealing than the way up, and I decided to take a different path down. For a while, the way was a clear path, going on and on with layered fells and vastness and photogenic sheep.
But the day was wearing on, and the walk began to be a lonely one. What was ahead was hidden by the next hill, and the next hill. I often doubted I’d taken the right turn, and was aware of how far there was still to go. Again, let’s swerve profound and spiritual things to say about it, but as the clouds grew and the wind picked up, I walked a little faster, and wished I would pass a few other walkers, the mountain now seeming as deserted as it had been busy that morning. I reasoned that as long as I was headed down, I must get somewhere.
And then, over a wall, the lake appeared, it’s beauty taking my breath away. As I started to descend, Ullswater lay below me, complete with a tiny windsurfer. That morning, I hadn’t known I would be here, almost didn’t come this way - but now I was here. As well as tired, and still a little unsure of the path, in this moment, I was glad.
Before long, we were moving quickly down, and the lake was getting closer, the land beneath my feet still reminding me of the paths I walked as a child, the land I knew, the chalky stone paths, and close cropped grass, sheep poo and heather.
And like many walks, I managed great photos of Robin, and selfie fails of me.
The path grew wider and clearer, though with tired legs, the steep parts a little precarious. My legs ached, and my heart was full to burst with these rich rolling mountains, this land of my mother and grandparents, that holds me as I walk.
And so, a half-Cumbrian pilgrim, and a shattered pup, and an old but sturdy backpack, safely arrived back from our day’s journey. Back, but, like any walk, back is always somewhere a tiny bit different. New paths and the company of mountains of and water on our feet and the land underfoot now part of our story.
Lured by a little winding path,
I quitted soon the public road,
A smooth and tempting path it was,
By sheep and shepherds trod.
Eastward, toward the lofty hills,
This pathway led me on
Until I reached a stately Rock,
With velvet moss o'ergrown.
With russet oak and tufts of fern
Its top was richly garlanded;
Its sides adorned with eglantine
Bedropp'd with hips of glossy red.
There, too, in many a sheltered chink
The foxglove's broad leaves flourished fair,
And silver birch whose purple twigs
Bend to the softest breathing air.
From Grasmere - A Fragment
by Dorothy Wordsworth