Helvellyn, Lake District, July 2023
It was a bright, humid morning as we set out for Helvellyn. On the winding track towards Red Tarn, we met a man, perhaps in his 70s, who was completing a ‘recovery run’ by trekking deep into the hills. I laboured behind him, kind of in awe, as he split off from the main trail, having extolled on us the dynamism of the landscape, its rich industrial past. He loved it, he said, before disappearing into the valley, off the track.
The trail was busy, with a variety of northern accents carried on the wind below the peak of Catstye Cam. Best of all perhaps was the Geordie-lilt of a group of women working their way up the hill. The Lakes are the northerner’s South Downs, their Sunday playground. Unlike these folks from the north-east, I have to admit I found the humidity stifling.
We rounded the hill and met the steep-sided bowl of Helvellyn, Red Tarn glimmering at its base. Here we encountered one of the strange tiers of mountain or hillwalking, where new ranges appear, delivering you from previous zones within the landscape. Your psychological experience can be altered completely. I have vivid memories of walks in mountains in the past 10 years when these changes took place, whole new valleys appearing from beyond the horizon. It makes it all worth it.
My companion, Pete, spied ravens and lesser black-backed gulls. He’s a ‘top birder’ and professional conservationist of serious skill and knowledge. Having not spent much time with him in recent years due to the pandemic and the birth of his first son, I had forgotten just how much he has taught me over the years, and how being in his company sharpens your own senses.
‘Clever,’ Pete said of the lesser black-backed gull. ‘Going where the food is’, as in any leftovers from the large groups of walkers high on the summit.
In the distance we saw perhaps 50-100 people on a group walk cutting up a desireline on the hillside, in order to meet the famous Striding Edge from down by Red Tarn. On other days we saw families traipsing up from Glenridding as they sought highlines across the ridge towards Striding Edge.
We opted for the ‘gentler’, shorter route of Swirral Edge. We had to wait for some time as others scrambled down the sharp, jutting slabs of rock, often on their backsides! I was glad to be ascending, only looking into the rocks rather than down into sheer drops. When I did turn to look over my shoulder, the view contained the sublime vista of Ullswater.
Reaching the summit was like accepting an invitation to a special alpine (maybe not quite ‘alpine’ in official terms) community. Two dogs tried to eat my lunch (of course). Those ravens we had seen earlier toed the edge of the escarpment, one hopping sideways along with the wind. We sat there and took it all in.
After a break, we made our way north along the ridge passing up and down over several small hills, with Thirlmere in the west. Down into the valley we had first climbed from, we could see the grey structure of a dam, something the recovery runner had identified to us as being related to the Greenside Mine. One of the dams in the area burst in the 1800s, causing huge damage downstream.
We encountered the unusual sight of two men hiking together in different Manchester football shirts – one in the deep red of United, the other, a hint of a grin on his face, in the baby blue of City. Rivalries die in these hills.
At Sticks Cross we turned east and found ourselves in a far wilder and more ecologically rich valley. The path edged the slopes of Sticks Gill, flowing down towards Glenridding. Here we had entered the margins of National Trust land, where the hills were touched by heather and bog.
The yellow of bog asphodel was smattered among the heather.
In small boggy patches the red rackets of round-leaved sundew could be found among sphagnum moss. Here we were haunted by a small fritillary butterfly that never waited long enough for a photo or closer viewing. Bees flew in numbers unseen near Helvellyn.
This rich landscape began to break away as the scars of the mining industry, once of global significance but now over 60 years in the past, appeared. The lunar expanse was testament to the long history of lead mining in this area, explored as far back as perhaps Queen Elizabeth I, according to the information boards in the youth hostel.
Taking paths cut through the spoil and rubble, there came a wonderful zigzag of crouched woodland. Juniper trees, some potentially of veteran status, covered the steep hillside as it fell away to the epicentre of the mining industry, now marked by the youth hostel and other accommodation. Some of these houses had been newly renovated with estate agent signs noted some as sold. As we sat in the YHA after this walk, a man came in asking for more information about who had bought the houses. It reminded me just how invested people are in this place, the YHA included, which I was only visiting for the first time.
The YHA is currently selling off a large number of its hostels as the financial impact of the Covid-19 pandemic spreads.
High on that juniper ridge, aspens and pines grew, while foxgloves dropped their socks towards seed as their season closed. Pete had said how he wanted to see an emperor moth and he got lucky when he found a large green caterpillar moving among ballast at the path edge. We confirmed it via a combo of iNaturalist and messaging my mother-in-law!
In the end it was a walk of around 8 miles, but it felt like much more due to the climbs. All worth it – the rewards were immense. Dear Lake District National Park – I’m sold.
Thanks for reading.
Latest posts:
Unlocking Landscapes 