First There is a Mountain :Low Cock How to Borrowdale

“The more civilized man becomes, the more he needs and craves a great background of forest wildness, to which he may return like a contrite prodigal from the husks of an artificial life.”

Ellen Burns Sherman

Morning in Lock Cock How

After the rain, mud, fog, and steep descent of our first day on Wainwright’s Coast to Coast, we woke at Low Cock How Farm feeling grateful for warmth, dry gear, and the fact that we had not needed to camp in the previous night’s weather.

We set out around 8 AM after an enormous Full English breakfast of orange slices, beans, eggs, hash browns, and coffee. At the time, it seemed far too large, but in hindsight, it gave us exactly the energy we needed for the long day ahead. Outside, the morning was warm and bright, around 11°C, with no rain falling and only a slight cloud cover above us. After yesterday’s constant bands of rainstorms, that alone felt like a gift.

Before we left, our hosts talked to us about the two possible routes around Ennerdale Water. The southern shore was the more traditional Coast to Coast route, but they explained that after all the rain, the rocky exposed trail would likely be muddy, slippery, and slower going. The northern route, they suggested, would offer better shelter, easier walking, and, in their opinion, better scenery. Still sore from the previous day and not eager to spend the morning scrambling over wet rocks with full packs, we took their advice.

Leaving the farm, we followed the lane past horses, sheep, two enormous Wood Pigeons, and a European Robin singing from the hedgerow. Somewhere nearby, a Cuckoo called, its unforgettable song carrying clearly. Magpies moved through the fields, and everything around us seemed swollen and lush from the previous day’s rain.

The short road walk toward Ennerdale Bridge should have been straightforward, but the trail periodically wove off the tarmac and into narrow dirt tracks lined with chest-high grass. The grass was soaked from yesterday’s rain and the evening’s dew, and within a short distance our legs and shoes were wet again. It was not rain this time, but the trail had still found a way to remind us that dry feet are never guaranteed for long.

Ennerdale Bridge

We soon arrived in Ennerdale Bridge, a charming village with stone buildings, small lodgings, tea rooms, and the Fox and Hounds, which looked like a very inviting pub and possibly would have a good place to camp. It was still early, though, and the day ahead was too long to spend much time here.

In town, we passed signs about Red Squirrel conservation, which surprised us. In the UK and across parts of Europe, conservation often feels especially urgent and focused on things that we take for granted in Canada.  Likely because so much of the landscape has already been so continuously cultivated, reshaped, and denuded from centuries and millennia of occupation. Species that might once have seemed ordinary now require serious protection, and the presence of a Red Squirrel sign at the edge of a village was a reminder of how much can disappear before people realize what has been lost.

It immediately brought Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” to mind:

“Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
Till it’s gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot”

Leaving Ennerdale Bridge, we passed a sign telling us we were entering Lake District National Park. Despite the signage, there was no sudden wilderness, no sharp line between the human world and the natural one. Instead, there was a sidewalk which we followed along the roadway until a kind local woman pointed us back in the right direction.  Somewhere along the line in town, we had stopped paying attention long enough to take a wrong turn.

Soon we were heading toward the northern shore of Ennerdale Water through a local conservation area, grateful once again that kindness and correction often arrive before our mistakes had led us too far off track.

Around Ennerdale Water

Before long, the path moved away from the road and onto a broad track before following the Broadmoor Jubilee Trail, along which we enjoyed following a level route through the forest and along the lake. After the previous day’s mud and climbs, it felt almost luxurious.

Several people were out walking dogs in the morning sunshine, and everyone we passed seemed friendly. When we reached the lakeshore, we also picked up a local accessible route marked “No Stiles for Miles,” which sounded exactly like the kind of trail we needed while carrying full backpacks. We checked with two local walkers to make sure we could continue around the northern edge of the lake this way, and they confirmed that we could.

Across the water, we could see other Coast to Coast hikers moving along the rockier southern shore. From where we stood, it seemed almost an even split, with some walkers taking the traditional route and others choosing the northern option. Sore from yesterday, we felt no regret about our decision. The northern route may have been described as easier, but between the warmth of the day, the long paved and gravel sections, and the distance still ahead, it was not effortless.

Still, it was beautiful.

The lake held clear reflections of the surrounding hills. Geese and gulls moved along the shoreline, and at one point we spotted what seemed to be a Yellow Wagtail near the water. A pair of mergansers appeared farther along, and Mallards moved through a small pond near one of the promontories that extended into the lake. We passed picnic tables, conifers, lily-filled ponds, and the evidence of a recent local clean-up in the form of several large bags of collected garbage left by the roadside.

The valley itself was stunning. Although we were walking beside the water, steep mountains rose on both sides, closing the lake into a long green corridor. I was especially struck by the dry stone walls climbing straight up the slopes, seemingly impossibly straight and impossibly steep. From below, they looked less built than stitched into the mountainside.

For a while, the trail remained wide, level, and shaded by Sitka Spruce. The forest cover provided us relief from the sun, and the easy walking allowed us to settle into the rhythm of being able to walk without much thought. Eventually, however, the shoreline path came to an end, and we had to navigate a short unfinished section where the trail seemed still to be in development. It involved a little more bushwhacking than hiking, with rocks, prickly gorse, and a few awkward moments, but these conditions did not last long.

Soon we were back on a wide gravel road, surrounded by mossy trees, small streams, and the sound of water coming down from the hills. Somewhere in the quiet, Cuckoos continued calling. We saw a group of young people launching yellow kayaks into the lake, passed a catering truck, and watched several people as they descended on a different trail from the surrounding hills.

There were a few odd trail moments too, as there always are. At one point,  we came across a German couple, one of whom had their pants off, peeing in the middle of the road, which was unexpected enough that neither of us quite knew where to look. We also passed a small woman carrying a serious amount of camera gear. She was one of those people I immediately wished we had the chance to speak with, simply because her equipment suggested we might share similar interests in watching, photographing, and paying attention to the world around us.

As the road continued, it began to climb gently but steadily. We passed a retreat where people were outside doing yoga, then continued upward as the forest thinned and the day became warmer. Eventually, we reached the end of the lake, rejoined the walkers who had taken the southern route, and passed the Low Fillerthwaite Field Centre and YHA hostel, a stone building tucked into the valley.

Black Sail Youth Hostel

Beyond Ennerdale Water, the trail shifted and the day changed. We entered Ennerdale Forest and followed an exposed gravel road deep into the valley. In places, the surrounding forest felt dense and quiet; in others, the landscape in front of us opened up to reveal steep rocky slopes, grassy hillsides, waterfalls, sheep, and birds flitting between the small shrubby bushes.

The walk toward Black Sail Youth Hostel reminded us, in a strange way, of both the T’Railway Trail near Corner Brook in western Newfoundland and sections of the High Rockies Trail in Alberta. It was not that the landscapes were identical, but that same combination of rugged landscape, water, and hiking trail which brought those earlier routes back to mind.

The trees eventually gave way fully to open green fields, and ahead of us, we could see the valley narrowing into something more dramatic. A waterfall appeared in the distance, and then, after one last rise, Black Sail came into view.

It was immediately obvious why this small hostel is so well known and so difficult to reserve. A simple stone building sat in the valley, with benches outside and a single tree offering shade nearby. Hikers were scattered around the tables, sitting on rocks, resting inside, drinking tea, eating snacks, and preparing themselves for the next climb. In every direction, the hills rose steeply around us.

We also took a break there, bought cold drinks from the honesty café inside, and sat outside in the sun. I had a sparkling elderflower drink, Sean had raspberry, and both were wonderful. We also took the chance to dry our socks a little while sitting in a warm patch of sun.

Around us, the usual small dramas of the trail unfolded. A group of Americans were frustrated that hikers who had left after them had somehow arrived ahead of them, and they were convinced there must be a way to reach the night’s destination without climbing. Given that we were sitting in a narrow valley surrounded by hills on three sides, this declaration seemed to lack any meaningful relationship to the landscape in front of us. They were annoyed about being “behind the pace” and “slow on their miles” – both odd priorities amid the beauty of this landscape.

We stayed as long as we reasonably could, enjoying the rest, the view, the drinks, and the pleasure of being dry in the sunshine. There was also a wonderful sign in the washroom which seemed to capture the wit of the British perfectly,

“Please don’t…

…flush paper towels,

Sanitary towels, nappies,

Gum, unpaid bills, unwanted

Underwear, your ex’s favourite

t-shirt or your hopes and dreams down this toilet.”

Eventually, though, we had to move if only because, despite our fondest wishes, the hill would not climb itself; that was our task to undertake.

Steep Ascent up Loft Beck

Putting our shoes back on and stepping away from Black Sail, we followed the valley for a short distance before beginning the steep ascent up Loft Beck. By then, the sky had clouded over and a light breeze had sprung up. Which ultimately was a blessing, because the climb ahead was steep enough to make us warm almost immediately.

The path rose beside a rushing stream, climbing what felt like a long stone staircase set directly into the mountainside. Thankfully, it seemed that stones had been placed into the landscape, creating a rough but useful series of steps that helped guide the ascent and protect the fragile ground. Even with them, the climb was hard.

 

We were not alone. A line of hikers moved slowly upward ahead of us, with another line forming behind. Everyone seemed to be climbing in small stages, pausing when necessary, then pressing on as far as energy allowed. The hillside climb was by no means technical, but with full packs on and given the degree of ascent, it nonetheless demanded attention – as well as increasing focus the more tired one got en route.

 

Around us, the scenery was extraordinary. A waterfall ran beside us, sheep moved across the slopes, and the valley opened below with each bit of height gained.  As always, there is a virtue in pausing to look back across dramatic landscapes. 

 

All around us were huge bags of stone that had been airlifted or transported onto the mountain, presumably to repair and reinforce the trail where erosion had damaged the route. It was a striking reminder that these paths, which can feel established underfoot, require constant human labour to remain accessible, walkable, and safe.

 

The higher we climbed, the more the weather began to shift. Fog began to push in, and for a while it seemed as though rain might follow. Regardless of these conditions, the climb itself kept us very warm, and when we finally reached the top, we found a wide, grassy, wet plateau full of sheep and exhausted hikers taking breaks after the ascent.

 

From there, we looked back toward Black Sail, not far below and over Ennerdale Water.  Unlike the sunny patch where we had rested below, here the ground was wet and marshy, and by this point our legs were beginning to feel rubbery. Walking on the trail full of a long line of hikers snaked across the hilltop toward another small lake.

 

For a while, we leapfrogged with a woman out walking for the day with her three greyhounds, then finally began the descent. Mercifully, it was gentler than the climb had been, and much easier than the previous day’s terrifying descent from Dent Hill. The guidebook and maps had led us to expect something more dramatic, but the wide grassy track eased us down in stages rather than dropping us abruptly.

Honsiter

The path continued across the high ground before reaching the remains of a dismantled tramway. The old stone platform and mining traces directed us through the landscape in another direction, and we could see evidence of the slate quarries that have defined this part of the Lake District. The descent toward Holister was steeper, and by the time we reached the visitor centre, we were more than ready for another break.

A popular tourist site meant that Holister Slate Mine was busy. Visitors in thick down jackets were gathered inside the warm café, while hikers moved in and out, looking variously damp, tired, hungry, and relieved. We were fortunate and found a spot on the porch beneath the overhang just as the sky began to spit rain.

 

We bought a brownie, a blondie, and two more sodas - rhubarb with crisp apple and elderflower lemonade. The opportunity to sit once more and have a cold drink was exactly what we wanted.

 

Not everyone approved. Another hiker, seeing that his wife liked the look of the brownies, loudly announced that it was “all empty calories and crap” and that people wouldn’t “make it like that.” Apparently, such snacks were not something “proper hikers” should be eating. Once he noticed our large backpacks, binoculars, and cameras, his opinion of us did not improve. He and his companions continued discussing how we would likely fail the trail.

 

By that point, we were too tired and too hungry to care much. We enjoyed our empty calories enormously. After years of walking long distances, one thing seems increasingly clear: everyone hikes their own hike, and sometimes the thing that gets you down the over hill and to the end of the day is a large brownie chock-full of empty calories.

Holister to Rosthwaite

Leaving Holister, the route more or less followed the road toward Rosthwaite, though the trail often climbed above it to parallel the traffic from the hillside. There were plenty of birds in this section, and several picturesque lone trees stood out against the slopes. At one point, we slipped off our packs to take some time to try to identify the birds near the road, which seemed to bewilder other walkers passing by. For us, stopping to look was part of the point. For others, perhaps, the goal was simply to keep moving.  As I said before, we each hike our own hike. 

The path seemed to go on far longer than anyone expected. Eventually, it zigzagged down toward Seatoller, a charming village with narrow roads, stone buildings, and large tour buses somehow managing to reverse and weave through spaces that did not look large enough to hold them. Unfortunately, everything we might have wanted seemed to be closed. The pub was very full, and the ice cream shop was shut, which was a shame because at that point I would definitely have enjoyed more “empty calories and crap.”

 

From Seatoller, many tired Coast to Coast hikers abandoned the official trail and simply walked the road directly into Rosthwaite. I understood the temptation. We were tired too, and the day had already been long. But we stayed with the route, climbing back up into a beautiful wooded path where moss covered the walls, rocks, and tree trunks. The green was vivid - the kind of lushness that only wet places seem able to produce.

 

Here, moments in the shade were welcome, and the sound of water returned as the trail followed the riverway toward Borrowdale.

 

Then, just when we thought the day was easing toward its end, the path became awkward again. We reached a rocky section beside the river where the footing was steep enough that chains had been provided. Under different circumstances, it might not have felt especially difficult, but after 27 kilometres with full backpacks, our legs were tired, and our energy was low. What might have been fun at any other point felt unnecessary now.

 

To make matters worse, two English hikers pushed past me while grumbling about my pace, only to thank us afterward for letting them go ahead. It was one of those odd trail moments that feels absurd rather than serious, but by then both of us was too tired to find much humour in being shoved across rocks beside a river.

Borrowdale YHA

It probably goes without saying that we were tired and ready for the day’s stage to be done when we finally reached Borrowdale YHA, where we had camping reservations for the night.

Thankfully, it turned out to be a wonderful place to land. The hostel had large common areas, a kitchen, a lovely yard for camping, and enough space for us to set up our tent in the field. It was busy, but welcoming, and after the long day, we were grateful to be there. We checked in, pitched our tent, hand-washed our clothes, and hung them on a line beside us to dry.

 

Then we sat outside at the picnic tables with a couple of pints and a large vegetarian pizza. The evening had turned warm and lovely, and for a while it felt wonderful simply to sit in the sun and do very little. After the long climb, the long descent,  the river scramble, and all the miles in between, sitting still felt like an accomplishment.

 

There was a House Martin citizen science project on the property, which immediately caught our attention, and we saw Turtle Doves out front. The river moved nearby, birds called around us, and the whole place had the easy, communal energy of a busy hostel at the end of a long walking day.  To me, it also brought back memories of the albergues we had stayed in on the Camino Frances and Camino Portuguese.

 

At one point in the evening, we also realized, too late, that when we had asked about “laundry,” it had been interpreted as “laundry service” rather than “do you have a washing machine?”  This discovery came as the evening progressed, and we spotted lots of people who were clearly washing and drying their clothes themselves, so we probably could have managed things differently. But by then our hand-washed clothes were on the line, our tent was up, and we were too tired to care.

 

As we went to bed in our tent around 9 PM, people were still walking in and setting up around us. Tomorrow remained uncertain. The guidebook suggested Grasmere as a shorter stage of around 13 kilometres, while Patterdale would mean pushing farther, closer to 25 kilometres. The difficulty was that we could not clearly find camping in either place. Grasmere YHA was listed as having full camping, though Borrowdale had been listed that way too and still had plenty of space. Patterdale YHA, meanwhile, had apparently closed the previous year.

 

As always, time and experience would give way to an answer one way or another.

 

For tonight, though, we were exactly where we needed to be. The tent was pitched, our clothes were drying, the river was nearby, and birdsong filled the evening air.

 

See you on the Trail!