Hard Day : Patterdale to Shap

Tough Days 

On tough days – both in life and on the trail – my mind often goes through energizing song lyrics or inspiring quotes.  This morning one that stood out was the encouraging comment from Brian Tracy a Canadian motivational speaker who once observed that,

 

“You have within you right now, everything you need to deal with whatever the world can throw at you.”

 

Which is a wonderful sentiment that today I’m not entirely sure is completely true.  Laying in my sleeping bag I barely had the energy to start the day.

 

Evening and Morning in Patterdale

 

The night at Side Farm had not been restful in the way I had hoped and wanted. All evening, geese out on the lake and in the hills above us had been making their opinions known at almost the same volume as our drunken neighbours. I looked out a couple of times hoping to spot the northern lights, but there was no such luck. Most of the night was spent doing what we had both suspected we would be doing: trying not to slide downhill inside the tent, given the slope of the field.

 

So, for the second night in a row, sleep had been limited rather than restorative.

 

By morning, however, the lake beside the campground was lit up with stunning reflections. It was a beautiful scene, even if we were too tired to fully appreciate it. Eventually we crawled out of our sleeping bags, packed what we could, and began the now familiar work of rebuilding our small travelling world for another day.

 

I boiled water for coffee and oatmeal while Sean cleaned up and repacked our gear. As had been the case yesterday, today’s walk would continue to test my ongoing repairs to his damaged backpack. The stitching had already begun to strain, and we both knew the pack was no longer something we could fully trust. Still, it had to hold. For the moment, we had no real alternative.

 

Warmed by coffee and breakfast, we were grateful to get underway before the campground fully woke around us. Other hikers and campers were just beginning to emerge from tents, gather gear, and drift back toward Wainwright’s Coast to Coast. Today we would leave the Lake District, which felt wonderful.  A friend we had met years earlier on the Camino Primitivo once commented that crossing borders, boundaries, or regions on foot always feels like progress. 

 

I understood what he meant.  Even when the body is tired, there is something encouraging about moving from one landscape into another.  It reminds you that, however slowly, you are getting somewhere.

 

Back on the Coast to Coast

 

The morning got underway with us retracing our steps down the gravel lane bordered by stone walls before regaining the Coast to Coast on a gravel footpath. Around us dew clung to ferns just beginning to unfurl and hung from grasses like glass beads. Thistles also held drops of moisture along their spines, their sharpness softened by the morning light.

 

Soon we passed signs for Angle Tarn and Boredale Hause and began climbing out of Patterdale. With a couple of possible routes ahead of us, we chose the one that seemed to offer the gentlest ascent. Even so, the climb began almost immediately.

 

The sun was just rising above the peaks, and because we were heading east, it shone directly into our eyes. Behind us, Patterdale and Side Farm lay in miniature, tucked into the valley below. Across the way, the hills were lit by the early light, and we watched as the sun slowly crept across the valley floor toward us.

 

The landscape was lush and green, full of sheep fields, rolling hills, and the kind of scenery that makes climbing feel worthwhile even when your legs are protesting the effort. A Stonechat perched in an apple tree full of sweet-smelling white blossoms, the contrast of bird, branch, and flower briefly pulling my attention away from the effort of the ascent.

 

As we continued on, we passed a wild camping area that had clearly been popular after the first rise. Not long after a few walkers and a cyclist came downhill, but for a while the morning remained quieter than the previous day. Birds rose from the grasses, flapping upward while calling in joyful, bubbling voices, then spiralled or swooped back down. The surrounding hills were full of buzzy grassland calls, and Meadow Pipits seemed to be everywhere.

 

Angle Tarn

 

Before long, we reached Angle Tarn, where the landscape framed a beautiful mountain lake. More than a dozen tents were pitched around the water, making it clear that this was a popular wild camping spot. It would have made for a stunning evening, and for a moment I wished we had ended our previous day there rather than on the sloping field outside Patterdale.

 

The tarn itself was beautiful, held among the surrounding hills, with Canada Geese on the water and tents scattered around its edges. We stopped long enough to enjoy a snack and attempt to dry out our tent in the shining sun, and as we did, a number of other campers and hikers caught up with us. Nodding their hellos they continued on past what must have been a strange sight to them – two people waving gear in the air attempting to shake out the water.

 

There are places on a trail that seem to gather people naturally. Angle Tarn was one of them. Walkers paused to photograph the water, pack away damp tents, adjust layers, and prepare for the day ahead. After the long, noisy night below, it felt strangely peaceful to stand beside the tarn in the morning light, surrounded by mountains, birds, and the small community of people trekking on.

 

Kidsty Pike

 

From Angle Tarn, the trail continued uphill through rocky, open country. The footpath narrowed at times, skirting the edge of the hillside with a steep slope rising on one side and dropping away on the other. Sheep were everywhere, including tiny lambs running about despite the ruggedness of the ground.

 

The track was busy with hikers and day walkers, and we were grateful for the clear weather and expansive views. For a while we walked near the large group of Canadians we had been seeing periodically along the trail. Eventually they took a shortcut, while we continued toward Kidsty Pike, the highest point on the Coast to Coast.

 

As most of the ascents on the C2C seem to be, the climb was long and continuous, but the path was mostly gravel and easy underfoot. After the previous days, that counted for a great deal. The higher we climbed, the more impressive the views became.

 

By the time we reached Kidsty Pike, a large group of walkers had gathered there. True to form, people crowded the summit area, each trying to capture the moment. We waited for the group to disperse, hoping for a quiet minute at the highest point of the route, but one gentleman took his photographs and then remained planted in the lookout spot while texting the images and calling people to tell them where he was.  He marched around, then lay down as others including us waited for a view or to take a picture – all the while he remained oblivious.

 

So much for taking in the highest point of the Coast to Coast in silence.

 

A few feet away, we ran into a familiar group of hikers discussing the way forward. Several had been told by their hosts about “a shortcut,” while another had apparently been told about “a shortcut to the shortcut.” Soon, plans were forming to leave the trail and follow a route that was not on any map we had but would apparently take them more directly toward Shap without having to deal with the hills.

 

To us, the prospect sounded dubious if not completely ridiculous , if only because the entire region appeared to be made of hills.  Owing to this simple and to us self evident fact we decided to continue on the marked route.

 

Within an hour, we had the sense that almost everyone else had taken some version of the shortcut. Apart from ourselves, only the large Korean group we had seen on previous stages seemed to have made the same choice to follow the official Coast to Coast route down from Kidsty Pike.

 

Leaving the Highest Point

 

We turned away from the summit and stopped a little farther along for a snack with a view over the lake below. A pair of hawks soared beneath us, and the landscape opened in every direction. Because it was Saturday, there were many weekend walkers out on the hills, and we stopped to chat with several people, all of whom were friendly.

 

One woman told us she had “done all the Wainwrights,” a phrase that apparently in the Lake District carries a particular meaning. Alfred Wainwright’s pictorial guides described 214 fells, and to complete “the Wainwrights” is to climb each of those named summits. In Scotland, walkers often speak of “bagging Munros,” the mountains over 3,000 feet, while in North America the language of peak-bagging is common in mountain regions. In each case, the impulse is similar: to turn a landscape into a list, and then to let that list draw you outward, summit by summit.  Understanding UK hiking culture a little better we congratulated her and continued on.

 

From Kidsty Pike, the route down toward Haweswater Reservoir required immediate attention and a lot of focus. The descent was steep, eroded, and in places quite sketchy, especially where the ground remained wet. We found ourselves moving carefully, sometimes almost crawling down the slope, occasionally resorting to sliding on our backsides rather than trusting tired knees and rubbery legs on the loose ground.

 

At one point, the friendly Korean group passed us. They were moving faster than we were on the descent, though even they seemed to be working hard. The path seemed to go on and on, and by the time we reached the bottom our legs felt like jelly.

 

Below us lay Haweswater Reservoir.

 

Haweswater Reservoir

 

Having looked through the guidebook last night we had both imagined that once the climbing and descending were done, the remainder of the day might become easier.

 

This was a serious misreading of the map.  Or at the very least too much to hope for.

 

The path along Haweswater, following the reservoir’s southern shore, was beautiful but by no means an easy walk. Haweswater had once been a smaller natural lake before it was dammed in the 1930s to provide water for Manchester. The water level was raised dramatically, submerging the village of Mardale Green. Before the valley was flooded, coffins were removed from the graveyard and the church bell and windows were taken away, though the drowned village is said to reappear in times of drought.

 

It is a strange thing to walk beside a beautiful body of water knowing that a village lies beneath it.

 

Near the shore, we again met the Korean hikers, who had stopped to cook lunch and make tea. I envied them the opportunity to sit down.  The reservoir was drawing plenty of people that day, many of them carrying cameras and long birding lenses. We took a moment to scan the water for birds, rested briefly, and then, hopeful that the major work of the day was now behind us, set out along the shore.

 

Almost immediately, we were reminded that topographical maps and trail descriptions are highly subjective things.

 

Instead of a flat, gentle path beside the water, the trail began to climb again. A steep gravel track lifted us away from the shoreline in what felt like a pointless ascent, only to drop us back toward the same level on a rocky descent soon afterward. Again and again, the path rose sharply and then fell, sometimes gaining and losing height in quick succession as though determined to make sure we did not forget we were still in the Lake District.

 

By then, we had walked only about ten kilometres and still had roughly fifteen more to go. We had thought the rest would be easier.  It definitely was not.

 

The afternoon grew hot, and the exposed path left us climbing in full sun. The kilometres along Haweswater became some of the hardest we had ever walked. The shoreline seemed endless. The climbs were not large compared with the morning’s ascent, but they came at the wrong time, with tired legs, low energy, and water supplies beginning to diminish.

 

There were still beautiful moments. We passed stone sheds, hillsides bright with yellow gorse, and an orange butterfly marked with eye-like spots. But beauty does not erase exhaustion.  In fact, if you are travelling with a photographer it can lead to things taking much longer than you would prefer in the moment.

 

It was nearly two hours later, when we finally reached a forested stretch, that we found a place to rest. Sitting in the shade beside a fenced woodland, we drank the last of the water we had carried for the day.

 

After a thirty-minute break in the shade, we walked on.

 

Beyond the Reservoir

 

The walk around Haweswater seemed to go on forever. When we finally reached the end, the route left the water behind and entered pastures full of sheep. There were stiles to climb, field after field to cross, and legs so sore that each barrier felt more demanding than it should have.

 

We passed through a small community near Burnbanks, which had once housed workers involved in the dam project. There were several honesty boxes laid out, and one offered Victoria sponge cake. It was absolutely delicious. In hindsight, we should also have bought cold drinks, because the afternoon was hot and we were running out of water. But tired people do not always make the wisest decisions.

 

From there the route passed through a woodland filled with bluebells beside a running river. Under other circumstances, it would have felt magical. The flowers, trees, and moving water had all the ingredients of enchantment. But by then the late afternoon sun was boiling hot, we were out of water, and we were exhausted.

 

The fields that followed were muddy and slow. On a different day, they might not have seemed so bad, but after the descent from Kidsty Pike, the endless undulations beside Haweswater, and the heat of the day, they felt like one more trial. Toward the end of the day, nearly everyone else seemed to have disappeared. We continued to leapfrog with the Korean group, who were also spread out dragging themselves along, but otherwise the trail had become strangely empty. We could not help wondering whether many of the others had taken the shortcut, caught transport, or found some other way forward. 

 

With the Lake District behind us, we marched toward the Pennines and Yorkshire, though “marched” may be a generous word for what we were doing.  Given that by this point, most of us were moving at little more than a shuffle.  We kept checking the GPX tracks, but Shap never seemed to get any closer.

 

At one point, after crossing a sheep field, we came out onto a lane where a farmer was working. He was friendly and gave us directions: follow the stone wall to a fence, then follow the fence to a stile, then follow the wall to another stile, and then follow a fence to the next stile. It was kind of him, but in our tired state the instructions became more confusing than helpful. We soon missed the first stile and had to slip and slide down an embankment to reach the route again.

 

As the day wore on, there seemed to be more barbed wire, more warning notices telling hikers not to leave the path, and more signs discouraging wild camping. Not that there were many inviting options. The fields were full of cattle, mud, and fences, and water was neither plentiful nor clean.  With few realistic places to take a break or to stop we pushed on.

 

Shap Abbey

 

A long time later, we stumbled across a stone bridge and up toward Shap Abbey.

 

The ruins were beautiful, but we were too hot and tired to take them in properly. Fearing that if we put our backpacks down we might not be able to get them on again, we paused only briefly for a photograph or two and continued.

 

It would not be the last time on this trip that we wished we had more time and energy for the small towns, ruins, churches, and historic places we passed. Shap Abbey deserved more attention than we could give it. Between about 1200 and 1540, it was home to a community of Premonstratensian canons living a monastic life. After the Dissolution of the Monasteries, much of its stone was reused in nearby buildings, including the adjacent farmhouse.

 

There were well dressed tourists walking around the ruins, reading signs, taking photographs, and doing what we wished we had the capacity to do.  Instead we simply walked on.

 

Beyond the abbey, the route climbed again through another field in the hot afternoon sun before eventually giving way to a stretch of exposed road walking toward Shap. After the long day we had already endured, I could not decide whether walking pavement into two was a gift or a final test.  At the time it was easy trekking through an oven.

 

Shap

 

At last, around 5 PM, nearly eleven hours after we had set out, we reached Shap.  The town did little to soften our exhaustion at first. We stopped immediately at a grocery shop to buy cold water, which felt more urgent than anything else. Our hoped-for camping option, New Ing Lodge, had rented out its usual yard for an evening event, and other accommodations were full because of the same local gathering. Someone recommended a nearby pub that offered camping out back, so we continued a short distance to the Crown Inn.

 

From the outside, it did not inspire much confidence. The windows were grimy, the tables were sticky, and shouting from inside did little to reassure us. But it offered a place to pitch for the night, and by then legality, flat ground, and access to water mattered more than charm.  Unfortunately when we stepped in – despite the sign outside listing a menu – we discovered that the pub no longer served food, so dinner became a tube of Pringles and a pint of Guinness.

 

There were very few customers, and the whole place had a tired, slightly abandoned feeling. Out back, the camping area consisted of a square patch of grass near the side parking lot and overflowing  rubbish bins.

 

The facilities were rough. The bathroom felt closer to an outhouse than a proper washroom, and the shower was simply mounted on the wall beside the toilet, with drainage into a hole in the floor. It was not appealing, but it was available. Regardless of these conditions I was grateful for the cold shower and flat ground to sleep on.

 

We sat outside at the picnic tables with warm beers and crisps, watching a Starling nest near the door where adults were feeding their young. Swifts and House Martins flew overhead, cutting through the evening air above the road and rooftops. Even in places that feel worn down, birds continue their work.

 

At one point we debated walking on and trying to find somewhere to wild camp. But we did not know what options lay ahead, we were out of energy, and didn’t really want to keep walking. So we pitched the tent beside the bins, accepted the situation for what it was, and called it a day.  By nightfall, there were three other groups and four tents set up camping.

 

The Hardest Day So Far

 

This was, without question, the hardest day of the Coast to Coast so far.

 

It had begun with poor sleep on a sloping field and ended beside a rubbish skip in Shap. Between those two points, we had climbed out of Patterdale, passed Angle Tarn, reached Kidsty Pike, descended on jelly legs to Haweswater, followed a reservoir path that felt endless, ran out of water, crossed muddy fields in the heat, passed Shap Abbey too exhausted to properly stop, and arrived in town with little more than determination holding us upright.

 

Yet we had made it.  In the process, we had also left the Lake District behind, which felt like progress, even if we were too tired to celebrate it properly. Tomorrow we would have to decide whether to push the long distance to Kirkby Stephen and take a rest day there, or stop short and let the walk continue without a day off. Without Wi-Fi, we could not make reservations or fully plan ahead, so the decision would have to wait.

 

For now, the day was done. Sean’s pack had survived, though barely. We had water again – though we had to purchase each pint of it from the bar. The tent was on flat ground. Birds were overhead. And after eleven hours of walking, that was enough to be happy.

 

See you on the trail!