An Ennerdale Horseshoe

Tony Smythe

Ennerdale must be the least accessible of the Lake District valleys – unless you live in West Cumbria.  One day in August 1995, I set off from my home near Kendal to make the comparatively lengthy drive round and do a good walk there.

It was near the end (as it turned out) of the long dry spell that summer and being out in the midday sun was proving to be if not mad, quite arduous.  I, therefore, planned to do half my walk in the evening, kip on the route, and complete it early next day.  I had in mind a circuit of Ennerdale about 24 miles, and packed a sleeping-bag, a litre of water, a packet of sandwiches and some oranges, etc and a spare pair of socks.   The weather was so hot and settled I had only shirt, shorts and sun-hat, and a lightweight cagoule (not needed).

The obliging llama-rearing owner of Routen Farm agreed to mind my vehicle – the Forestry Commission car park is apparently a happy hunting ground for thieves – and I set off just after 5 p.m.  It was still tropical and swarms of flies ruined my enjoyment of the lakeside and forest, but I eventually climbed into a cooling breeze below Haycock, the first summit and start of the long ridge route.  Even at 7 p.m. I was able to strip off and dry my sweaty clothes in the warm evening sun as I ate supper.  Thereafter the next two hours before nightfall were magical – an easy stroll along the boundary wall over Haycock and Steeple as the sun became an orange orb and sank into the haze-covered sea behind me.  I started to look for bivouac sites and settled for the grassy top of Pillar Mountain at 9.p.m. as it grew dark.  Two other parties were there, one with a tent, but on the football-pitch sized summit the sense of solitude was not spoilt.

Bivouacs are always a gamble especially with such limited gear, but this one worked well.  The ground was hard but dew was prevented by the light wind and I slept well. I left at 5.20 as it grew light and the high mountains around were differing planes of grey – Gable’s top hat, the Scafells – cardboard cut-outs against a pale rose-coloured band of mist with the Wasdale Head Hotel just visible down below in the dark valley.  The silence was absolute.

From Black Sail pass I missed the route onto Kirk Fell, using instead a loose gully to the North with a delicate pitch round a jammed boulder that made me aware of the stale taste in my mouth.  After that I was quickly down to the gap underneath Gable and to my dismay finding no water anywhere.  Every pool or tarn was dried up, every bog crunchy and solid – there had been almost no rain for many weeks.  At last I managed to fill my bottle from a dubious trickle.  There was visible livestock in the water but I reckoned it was what you couldn’t see you had to worry about!  The sun was now popping up from the horizon and I had the nasty feeling that the hard times were yet to come.  I wasn’t even half way round.  Gable was quicker and easier than expected, how wonderful to loaf on the top for five minutes with not a soul in sight.  Then beyond Green Gable at Gillercombe I met a couple camping by a stagnant pool who kindly replaced my ‘green’ water with water filtered from their pool with a halazone tablet popped in.   “Ten minutes and you can drink it”.  He should have said “you may drink it” – it was so disgusting I still had half a bottle many thirsty hours later!

Brandreth seemed a bit pointless, easily bypassed by a good path, but Haystacks was a solid obstacle.  A series of ever-increasing lumps to be struggled up from a low heather-in-bloom fly-infested altitude.  I had seriously underestimated my food requirements and was having to play games – “you can have a toffee on top of that next one, not before”.  A conversation with a lady being towed by her large labrador resulted in the gift (despite my protestations) of a cheese roll and a tomato, and with this extra five miles-worth of fuel I knew that like Lawrence of Arabia I was going to make it.  A bit humiliating though!

High Crag beyond Scarth Gap pass was the crux.  A huge cone of slag-heap appearance to be tackled in the late morning with the sun on my back.  It was a case of mind over matter, but after that, High Stile with glimpses of climbers in Birkness Combe, Red Pike and the Dodds were more bearable.  Finally Great Borne  (or should it have been Great Burn in the midday sun) and I was plodding thankfully back to the start, some twenty-one hours after I had set off.

With hindsight I should have started a couple of hours earlier the previous afternoon, and perhaps added a couple of hours walking by torchlight to enable a finish before midday.  But it had been a rare experience.  In good weather the hills are at their finest in those hours before dusk and after dawn, with the bonus of having them almost completely to yourself.