Climbing Up, Climbing Down : Grasmere to Patterdale

“Climb [the mountain] so you can see the world, not so the world can see you.”
 
David McCullough Jr.

 

A Slow Morning in Grasmere

 

Some days are slow because there is time to be slow. Other days are slow because your body refuses to move any faster.  This morning was one of the latter.

 

After several days back on trail, our bodies were beginning to feel the effort of hiking Wainwright’s Coast to Coast. The previous day had brought the steep climb up Lining Crag, the damage to Sean’s backpack, the long descent into Grasmere, and then a night spent trying to repair his gear by hand in a hotel room. By the time Sean woke around 6 AM, I had only just finished sewing two new panels into his old backpack and reinforcing the torn side as best I could.  Which was no proof that anything I had done would actually hold up.

 

It had been a long, warm, mostly sleepless night. The room had been stifling, other guests had been banging doors, and people had paced the halls late into the evening. Combined with the hours of sewing and worrying over whether the pack would survive, it did not make for a restful recovery.

 

The first order of the day was therefore simple: a warm shower, a good breakfast, and to drink a lot of coffee.

 

Before breakfast, we folded our dry hand washed laundry, inspected the repairs, and tried to decide whether our hasty work would hold. There was no way to know until Sean carried it loaded up again. Today would be a test - not only of the pack, but of our ability to keep going while knowing that one of our most important pieces of gear was now fragile and uncertain.

 

At 7:30 AM we went down for breakfast, which turned out to be a buffet. Predictably, within five minutes we had managed to be in the way of several people and were rudely pushed aside at the coffee machine by guests who seemed mystified why we were waiting as our cups were filled. We started with yogurt and then ordered vegetarian breakfasts, while around us people moved rapidly back and forth from the buffet, piling plates high before setting out for the day.

 

I am not sure I have ever seen so many people eat so much before a hike.  The sheer size of a Full English Breakfast let alone someone having two or three of them is staggering to behold.

 

Rather than linger or strive to get a more something more substantial than our bowl of oatmeal with fruit we left breakfast early and walked through Grasmere without our packs. It felt wonderful to move through town unburdened for a little while. We wandered through Wordsworth’s Daffodil Garden and the churchyard, watching the morning come alive with birds. There were tits, European Robins, sparrows, Chaffinches, and blackbirds with yellow beaks moving through the trees and hedges. A European Goldfinch perched near the top of a yew in a nearby graveyard, and over the water two small birds caught insects in a bouncing flight that made them look almost like stones skipping above the surface.

 

Afterward we returned to Trespass Outfitters to buy additional backpack strapping, hoping it might help us reinforce Sean’s pack further if the repairs began to fail.

 

By 9 AM we hoped that most hikers had already set off and so were back at the hotel, where we packed up, checked out, and ready to return to the Coast to Coast. We prayed - not entirely metaphorically - that the repairs would hold.

 

Leaving Grasmere

 

From the hotel we followed local parks and pathways for a kilometre or two, returning to the Coast to Coast near Goody Bridge. The rising sun was turning the hills above Grasmere gold, reminding us that, beautiful as the town was, the only way forward was up.  Which is a tough way to start a day.

 

The route began gently enough, following lanes bordered by drystone walls and blooming Queen Anne’s lace. We passed renovated homes, crossed the busy A591, and continued upward along a lane that became steadily steeper as it climbed away from town. Before long, the surface shifted from lane to rocky track, and the scent of wild garlic or spring onions hung in the air, just as it had the day before.

 

We eventually reached a wooden bridge and an area of pens or enclosures for sheep, and here we met two Americans who had become familiar to us on the trail. They were the sort of hikers who repeatedly reminded everyone that they had a schedule, needed to keep up the pace, and showcased how many miles they regularly covered. There is of course, nothing wrong with having a schedule.  On long trails, logistics matter. But there is a particular kind of anxiety that sometimes develops around pace, one that seems to turn every walker ahead into an obstacle rather than a fellow traveller.

 

A large organized group of Korean hikers soon arrived behind us. They were travelling together, moving in a coordinated way, and wearing medical masks, long sun shirts, and face coverings against the weather and UV light. Several other hikers nearby began referring to them with dismissive nicknames, frustrated by the possibility of being stuck behind a slower or more tightly packed group on the narrow climb.

 

I understood the practical concern. Being caught behind a large group on a narrow mountain path can be difficult, especially when the trail offers few opportunities to pass. But I also felt uncomfortable with how quickly annoyance became a label. What we were seeing was not especially mysterious: a group of people hiking together, taking many photographs, pausing often, moving quickly in bursts, and occupying more space on the trail than a pair of walkers would. In other words, they were doing what many groups do.

 

Still, the atmosphere shifted. The pace-focused hikers broke off their conversation, said they needed to get moving, and jogged away with their heads down, presumably making their miles in good time.

 

We let everyone move ahead happy to let the trail and everyone on it move at their own pace.

 

Toward Grisedale Tarn

 

Not long after we began our long ascent toward Grisedale Tarn. It was a climb of roughly 500 metres to begin the day, which felt like a fairly direct answer to any hope we had that this would be an easy recovery stage.

 

The route climbed through the valley along Tongue Gill, following a wide gravel path that wove steadily upward. At first, it was not rugged or technically difficult. The ascent was gradual, the footing easy, and in places stone pavers and steps helped guide the way. But “not difficult” is not the same as easy, especially on tired legs, with little sleep, and with a newly repaired backpack whose seams we did not fully trust.

 

Mist spilled over the hillside around us, while sunlight moved across the slopes in changing the world into shafts of light and deep shadows. Waterfalls came down from the hills, and the path climbed amid the sound of moving water. As the ascent steepened, the stone steps became more frequent, and we were grateful for the trail work that had been done to manage erosion, protect the fragile ground, and make the climb a little easier underfoot.  Still, as it was continuous the climb was tiring.

 

Near the top, another group of hikers appeared from a higher route and began cheering, celebrating their own arrival with the energy of people who had earned a view. We recognized some of them by now. The Coast to Coast is long enough that faces begin to repeat, but not so long that everyone remains anonymous. Even without names, people become part of the moving community of a trail.

 

We also met a Belgian couple who admitted they were tired from the previous day. Their honesty was reassuring. Sometimes the most comforting thing another hiker can say is not that the trail is easy, but that they are finding it hard too.

 

Although we had allowed the Korean group to move well ahead, we soon caught up to them again.  We nodded to them as we passed by, but they quickly returned to the trail and  climbed close behind us on a steeper section, marching together in a tight line. When we reached the top, we had to step aside as they arrived, spread out, and began taking photos in seemingly every possible arrangement of people and scenery.  Twice, members of the group bumped into us and smiled an apology.

 

It was not malicious, but it did make the space feel crowded. There are moments on trail when cultural differences, personal expectations, exhaustion, and the simple physics of narrow paths all meet at once. Everyone wants the view. Everyone wants the photograph. Everyone wants to keep moving. And yet there is only so much room on the side of a mountain.

 

At the top, where the route divided between upper and lower options, we looked out over Grisedale Tarn, a small mountain lake held between the surrounding fells. The air was cooler there, especially after the warmth of the climb and the dampness of the fog. I put on my wind jacket and we chose the lower route, walking toward and around the blue water rather than remaining in the crowded junction.

 

It was not longer before we had rounded the tarn and begun the descent.

 

Down into Grisedale

 

The descent toward Grisedale Valley began with rocky, tricky footing. We moved slowly, picking our way down as the path alternated between loose stones, gravel, and shallow streams of water running along the trail itself.

 

Ahead of us, the Korean group moved in single file, stopping often to take photographs, spin toward the views, and regroup. Rather than try to pass or remain close behind, we slowed deliberately and let them get farther ahead. Not long afterward, we passed them sitting together by the side of the trail, sharing a communal meal.

 

Then, almost unexpectedly, the trail seemed to empty.

 

We continued descending, but the hikers who had been ahead of us were suddenly nowhere to be seen. This felt strange because the valley opened below us, and we could see a long distance down the slope and across the landscape. Given that we are rarely the fastest people on a trail, it was unsettling to feel as though everyone else had vanished.

 

We checked our GPS tracks repeatedly, confirmed that we were still on the main route, and continued down into Grisedale Valley along the traditional path.

 

Eventually we reached a stone hut, which we believe was the Outward Bound hut near Ruthwaite Lodge. We stopped there to photograph the waterfall and the foggy landscape, only to discover that a group of eight to ten North American hikers had gathered nearby for lunch. Somehow, the missing hikers had reappeared. We joined them loosely for a short break, then followed as the route continued its descent into the green valley below, where sheep, small cottages, and stone walls filled the landscape.

 

From there, the walking became slower and more congested. The path dropped through the valley, met a stone wall lined with trees, and narrowed in places so that trekking became a kind of long single-file queue. There was confusion at a bridge, then a forested stretch where we stepped aside for cyclists and runners. Later came private property, paved road walking, and a long, winding approach that made the route into Patterdale feel less direct than we had hoped.

 

At one point, I helped a Canadian group take a photograph while Sean politely kept out of the way. By then, we had spent much of the descent near a shifting collection of hikers: Germans, Koreans, North Americans, and others whose names and natioalities we did not know but whose walking styles had become familiar.

 

It was not a lonely day. In fact, at times, it felt like the opposite.  While everyone was generally friendly the fact remains that walking in a large group is not our preferred style of trekking.

 

Patterdale

 

We reached Patterdale sometime between 2:30 and 3 PM and stopped at the Patterdale Hotel, a large white building with picnic tables outside. There, sitting in the sun, we enjoyed a cold pint and a packet of crisps. After the climb and descent, it felt wonderful to be off our feet with our shoes for a while.

 

Unfortunately, as Sean slipped off his backpack, we saw that my repairs from the night before had already begun to strain under the weight of his gear. Some of the stitching was pulling, and the patched sections were showing signs of stress. The pack had survived the day so far, but only just. More repairs would be needed.

 

Still, for the moment, there were happy dogs around us, a few hikers at the tables, and a relaxing puddle of sun to enjoy.

 

We also chatted with an insect photographer from London who was wild camping in the Lake District. He had a Nikon Z-series camera, lightweight camping gear, and remarkable images of green butterflies. He was constantly checking his phone for new iNaturalist sightings of insects and birds, and he seemed genuinely delighted by the idea of travelling to another country to look for wildlife.

 

For him, wildlife meant red squirrels, butterflies, insects, and sometimes birds. He seemed unable to comprehend that in parts of Canada, black bears, moose, and elk can appear in neighbourhoods and backyards. It was a lovely exchange, one of those conversations that opens up the strange scale of the world. What feels ordinary in one place can seem astonishing in another.

 

By 4 PM, somewhat rested and cooled off, we put our packs back on and walked toward Side Farm, a campground just outside town. This meant that we did not see much of Patterdale itself, but we did not have the energy to return later. The day had already taken enough from us.  But then again day 4 on a trail always seems to do that to us.

 

Side Farm

 

Arriving at Side Farm involved more confusion than we expected. Eventually we found the entrance, paid £24, and were directed another 400 or 500 metres down a narrow country lane to the camping field. After the day’s hiking, that extra walk felt longer than it probably was.

 

The field was set beside a lake, which sounded more idyllic than it felt in practice. There were no defined sites in the way we would expect in many Ontario or British Columbia provincial parks. Instead, tents, vans, and large encampments were scattered across the available space, with some setups occupying enough room for several smaller tents.

 

The facilities were also disappointing. The washrooms were concrete blocks, the stalls lacked proper doors, the washing machine cost £5, and the price of drying was unclear. Much of the camping area was on a slope, which meant that sleep would likely involve sliding slowly downhill all night. Given that I had barely slept the night before, this was not ideal.

 

For a while, we seriously debated walking back into town and trying to find somewhere else to stay. But need, fatigue, and the desire to stop moving won out. We set up the tent on what may have been half of a flat patch of ground and accepted that this was where we would be spending the night.

 

Not long after our own tent was up, three other hikers arrived and pitched their individual tents very close to ours. Clearly, personal space means different things in different camping cultures. Around us, people unloaded huge tents, heavy equipment, mallets, and long metal stakes, hammering them into the soft, marshy ground with far more force than I had ever seen used for a camping pitch.

 

It was not the quietest or most restful place we had landed.

 

Once again, I spent much of the evening trying to sew another panel onto Sean’s backpack, which seemed determined to continue dissolving. At 7 PM we ate a package of TentMeals for dinner. They were good and filling, though blander than usual without cheese or wraps to accompany them. While Sean rested in the tent, I unloaded his pack again to inspect my stitching.   Unfortunately, to my dismay, several seams from the previous night’s work were already pulling.

 

So I took out the needle and remaining thread from the hotel receptionist in Grasmere, silently thanked her again for letting us keep them, and resumed the repair work.  It was not how I had imagined ending a stage in the Lake District.

 

Evening in Patterdale

 

By 9 PM we crawled into the tent as the sun was setting, though the campground was still filling around us. People continued to arrive late into the evening, including a group of older men who marched in as the light was fading, apparently very impressed with themselves. They spent the next several hours drinking, belching, farting and yelling to one another loudly between their separate tents.

 

A reminder that some days, you simply do not catch a break.

 

And yet, when I looked back on the day, it was not only frustration that remained. We had watched morning light turn the hills above Grasmere gold. We had climbed beside waterfalls and mist. We had stood above Grisedale Tarn, descended through a green valley, spoken with hikers from several countries, met a talented insect photographer who reminded us how differently people notice the natural world, and reached Patterdale.

 

The day had not been long by distance. It had not even been the hardest stage by elevation or terrain. But it had asked something of us all the same.

 

It asked us to keep moving when we were tired. It asked us to trust a damaged backpack and an imperfect repair. It asked us to share narrow paths with people moving differently than we were. It asked us to accept crowding, noise, imperfect campsites, and the fact that our own expectations of trail life were not always going to match the realities of walking in the UK.

 

There are days when walking gives you spaciousness, solitude, and beauty. There are other days when it gives you queues, wet tents, strained seams, and people talking too loudly beside your tent at night.  All of these experiences, for good and bad, are part of the trail.

 

See you on the Trail!