Day 5 - Grasmere to Patterdale

This rock is what underlies the ground in Grasmere. It is what we walked on (only rockier) throughout the day.











That distant hilly range is where we're headed.







This is the story of how we lost Jonathan the first time. I'm writing this with several days hindsight, so I know we managed to lose Jonathan again. He is the curious scientist who delights in exploring and asking questions, and his thinking is unexpected. And this is why we lost him. But before we lost Jonathan, we had to get over the Grisdale Pass.

Grasmere was just lovely, and we all regretted immensely not having had more time there. There was no time to visit Wordsworth's cottage, to Mary's dismay. She had been reading his sister's journals, as well as Mary's mother's journal about her visit to Grasmere several years ago. It is because of the significance of Grasmere as a poet's rest that the tourists come pouring in and the town has more businesses to cater to them. We had a fairly good dinner at a regular restaurant, not a pub, as a result.

This was supposed to have been an easy walk up to Grisdale Pass, past Grisdale Tarn, and down into the next valley to our farm B&B. There were other, more difficult alternatives: high trails to St. Sunday and Helvellyn peaks. We wanted the easy ten-mile path to the next valley. Three and a half hours, the guidebook estimated.





We went up unmannerly rocks, over little rivulets that sought gravity's path down the hill, through the abundant mud. It was so cold at the top that, despite how hot we were from our climb, we had to put on extra clothing.

Grisdale Tarn is dark. Dark water even on a day with glimpses of sunshine. Maybe hikers in the heat of summer are tempted to swim in its waters, but not today. As we hiked towards one end of the tarn, we spied huge black plastic bags full of something. They were close to the beginning of the trail going up to Helvellyn. Frank, the other curious scientist of our group, made the extra effort and walked over to one of the bags. He came back and reported to the rest of us. "Rocks," he said. Rocks? Why would you bring rocks to a place that already, to our intimate knowledge, had lots of rocks? Remember, I'm writing this from the vantage point of many days later, so I know we find out the answer to this puzzle a couple of days from now. But just to let you know: the bags of rocks were helicoptered in and were not sitting there waiting to be helicoptered out.

We had lunch among the rocks on the other side of the pass and stared down at the valley below. How have the English managed to maintain the charm and curiously lost-in-time look? Sheep farms, stone buildings, meandering lanes, all pretty much as they have been for hundreds of years. Answer: government subsidies. Sad but true, the government knows tourists like to see exactly what we, too, have come to see: sheep farms, stone buildings, meandering lanes. They pay people to maintain this illusion, because tourism is big business in this part of the country. Even knowing this, you can't help finding the whole shebang very attractive anyway.




Valley view.












That's the way the cookie crumbles: a lost gingerbread man.








The uneven rock paths make the going slow and our group was still plodding way past the time, according to the guidebook, when we should have been hoisting a pint in Patterdale.

When we finally got down to the valley, we began walking on farm lanes and roads. It's interesting to watch farm life, including the thunderous pounding of fence posts by a machine and circling of the farm by farmers on ATVs. Whether by choice or government decree, we don't know, the remnants of very old buildings stand yet, in counterpoint to the products of modern technology. It is one of these ancient buildings that Jonathan started to explore. It was somewhat off the road, so none of the rest of us, footsore and aching for a pint of best bitter, was tempted. We continued walking down the road, knowing that Jonathan could easily catch up.

We passed a couple of signs that claimed to be footpaths, but following the instructions in our guidebook, we sought and finally found the one it suggested as a way into Patterdale. Before hieing off down this trail, however, we waited for Jonathan. Frank even walked back down the road a way to see if he could see Jonathan. We finally decided that Jonathan had taken one of the other paths on purpose. He, too, has the guidebook we've all been using. So we continued on our way.

We came to this path, the prettiest we have seen so far, on our final climb over to Patterdale. The grass was soft under our feet and not strewn with poop. The mud was easily side-stepped. Wow! This is what we thought the walk would be like all the time.

When we got to the main road of Patterdale, our farm B&B was still about a mile down the road. Invitingly, across the street was The White Lion pub. Let's just pop in for a quick pint of best bitter.



And there at a table was Jonathan with a pint of best bitter. Jonathan! we exclaimed. Where have you been, we asked. It turned out he had taken one of the other paths by accident and made it to The White Lion a few minutes before us. Mystery solved, group reunited.

Where our farm B&B was located was another mystery. We walked to where we thought it was and where the GPS said it was, and there was a farm, but no sign. Wouldn't a B&B have a sign? Finally, someone looked down and there in the mud, covered by junk, was a sign with the farm's name on it. That was ominous.

It could have been a complicated story with an unhappy ending, but it actually was rather benign. A big wind had come by the week before and knocked the sign down. The owners were happy to welcome us. The rooms were comfortable and there were dogs to play with. A couple were foxhounds who were out of foxes to hunt but had a lot of energy nevertheless. They bounded all around. Most of the rest were Australian kelties (sp.?). They were extremely friendly and liked to peer in the dining room window at the guests eating.