Getting away from them all

I go walking to get away from other people. Not completely – a cheery ‘hello’ is always welcome, as is a good walking partner (i.e. one who doesn’t talk too much) – but, like many walkers, I want to avoid the crowds. I want to ‘get away from it all’, ‘head off the beaten track’ and other such clichés.

The problem is that walking is too damn popular these days. Everyone’s at it – old, young, fat, thin, Duke of Edinburgh groups, Ramblers, people trying to get fit, groups raising money for some charity or another – and the great outdoors is taking on the characteristics of our busy day-to-day lives; noise, hustle, and even more bustle. I have seen walkers searching for a space to sit down at the top of Helvellyn, and (from a distance, fortunately) people queuing to go along Crib Goch – madness. I have even heard pub discussions about whether to limit numbers on popular hills – it works in New Zealand, after all. But how would that work – bouncers at Pen-y-Pass? 'Not going up in those boots, Sir.'

It can be immensely frustrating, especially if, like me, you share that sense of entitlement found in many regular walkers – that these people really shouldn’t be there, that I was there first, and they should respect my privacy by finding a different pastime. But there are ways around this irritation.

The first would be to try being a bit less antisocial. But let’s skip that one for now. An alternative is to pick more obscure, unknown hills. They can still be found, even in the Lakes or the Yorkshire Dales – you will rarely find a soul on Black Combe, for example. But then there’s a reason why peaks like Helvellyn are popular – it’s because they’re good, they’re dramatic, they offer the most exciting challenges. So it takes a bit of careful planning to get them to yourself.

Setting off early afternoon is a pretty simple trick. Catch the last bus or train of the day to your hill of choice, and you’ll arrive just everyone else is heading home. I have had the unrivalled experience of enjoying the summit of Snowdon by myself, on a sunny summer weekend, without a soul about except for the crows and seagulls feasting on the remnants of 1001 packed lunches. Heading up at 3pm, I passed the many hundreds of walkers, oozing down the Pyg Track and Miner’s Track like treacle, with only a few curious glances for my troubles. By the time I reached the western edge of Glaslyn, they had all vanished. Perfect.

On a mountain like Snowdon, with clear tracks to follow, it’s easy to plan for the walk down in fading evening light. Another way, and useful for trickier summits, is to camp out wild in the hills. This has the added advantage of getting them to yourself again the next morning, before the hordes begin their march. Nothing beats a cup of tea brewed as the sun goes down behind your favourite peak, when there’s not a sound apart from the gentle crash of a stream or the birds overhead. So if you can’t beat them, avoid them – it’s not always as hard as it seems.


Posted by Tim

Going to walk on an egg

A fried egg sandwich with a cup of tea is a welcome snack at any time. As an unscheduled breakfast before venturing into a thunder storm for two days, it assumes previously unknown qualities – comforting, motivational and warming – not to mention a boost of caffeine and grease, those two staples of the UK diet.

Our expedition to walk across the Howgill Fells had suffered from an inauspicious start. Gary had managed less than two hours sleep on the overnight train to Carlisle, thanks to the snoring passenger in his carriage. The bus that was supposed to take us from Kirkby Stephen to Ravenstondale had sped past – the driver oblivious to our frantic hand gestures – meaning an unwelcome trudge next to the busy A685 at 7am. Dark grey clouds were swirling overhead; an ominous sign that the unpleasant forecast was likely to be correct for once.

Trying to delay the inevitable soaking, we wandered into the Black Swan Hotel in search of some comfort. Their delicious egg sandwiches rescued the trip from being abandoned in favour of two days in the pub, and all for a bargain three pounds each.

After draining the last drops from the teapot, we set off through Ravenstondale, which sits on the northern edge of the Howgill Fells. The day’s route was undecided, with no particular summit or ridge in mind. All we had planned was to ramble through territory unknown to us both until we found a suitable place to wild camp. The following day, we would complete whatever distance remained to Sedbergh, located on the southern side.

This approach to walking makes a refreshing change from a fixation on one mountainous target, or having to be back by a certain time for the bus. No rush, no pressure and time to enjoy the beautiful surroundings of the Howgills.

You have probably seen these steep, tussocky hills, even if you didn’t realise it. Anyone travelling to Penrith from the south will have noticed them sloping away to the right, opposite the more dramatic skyline of the Lake District. These fells are often overlooked in favour of their illustrious neighbours to the west, but this is to their benefit. They are much quieter, unscarred by a criss-cross of ever widening footpaths and, in the central valleys, offer a sense of solitude that is hard to find in the Lakes.

Fortunately, the forecast rain didn’t arrive until we reached The Calf, the highest point in the Howgills at 676 metres. Despite it being just past lunchtime, we decided to head for Bran Rigg to camp for the night – an afternoon doze suddenly seemed very appealing, with the rain getting heavier by the minute. A flattish hollow next to the small stream looked promising, with views down the valley to Castley and Crook of Lune – at least when the rain stopped for very brief interludes. The three dead sheep just upstream didn’t deter us – it was the only space large enough for two tents in this steep sided, v-shaped valley, and neither of us wanted to walk any further that day.

The bright sunshine next morning lasted long enough for us to take down the tents and have breakfast. By the time we reached the top of Brant Fell, however, the clouds had settled in for the day, making themselves comfortable on the rounded plateau between Arant Haw and The Calf. Heads down, we moved swiftly to the top of Cautley Spout, the highest waterfall above ground in the UK (Gaping Gill is bigger, but in a cave). This is one of the highlights of a trip to the Howgills; the path down sits alongside the series of falls, and the best viewpoints marked by the worn-away patches of grass where previous admirers have tried to capture the perfect photo.

The sun returned for the final stretch, along the valley from Cautley to Sedbergh. The warming rays lifted the scent of wild garlic into the woodland air, and wild gorse coloured the fields stretching up towards the Howgills. The contrast with the walk in to Ravenstonedale couldn’t have been starker – or maybe the warm, feel-good glow of the egg sandwiches was still working its magic. They really were that good.

Getting there
Kirkby Stephen Station is on the Leeds-Carlisle line, and there are occasional buses to Ravenstonedale (when they stop!). Sedbergh is served by many buses to all nearby towns and several villages. There are regular buses back to Kirkby Stephen to get a train home.

Where to eat, drink, sleep

There's nowhere that near Kirkby Stephen Station, but the Black Swan Hotel in Ravenstonedale offers a very warm welcome. Sedbergh has a wide selection of accommodation and places to eat, drink and be tired.

Photos by Tim and Gary, using Laura's camera

Falling for the South Downs

The Devil’s Dyke, on a sunny Saturday morning in May, is probably not the best introduction to the South Downs. People sit impatiently in their cars on the approach road, waiting for a free spot in the vast concrete car park. Ice cream vans, motorbikes and squawking children drown out any sounds of nature, although the wildlife undoubtedly knows to leaves early. This was my first experience of the South Downs, and it left me distinctly underwhelmed – was it really set to become our newest National Park?

Ditchling Beacon, the second attempt at some peace in the countryside, was not much better. A smaller car park, but this only seemed to make those queuing to get in more frustrated. Several people who had made it were indulging in that peculiarly British pastime, the in-car picnic. Why sit outside in the sunshine when you can gaze at the view through your windscreen? And all this weekend disturbance could easily be avoided; both of these popular spots are well served by buses from Brighton.

This was not what I was hoping for from my new walking playground. Before reluctantly moving to Brighton, I had spent nine months in Aberfoyle, near Scotland’s Trossachs, with the ever-changing views of Ben Lomond to cherish each morning. This was followed by a year in Lancaster, with its easy access to the Lakes and Yorkshire Dales. A humble line of chalky hills, spluttering to a high point of 280m, offered little potential excitement. There’s no doubt about it; I was pining for these places, and the South Downs were bearing the brunt.

But I am not the type to nurture a grievance after the eighteenth heartfelt rant. Joining the local Duke of Edinburgh’s Award group as a leader meant regular weekends in the Downs, discovering new places and unexpected delights: Beachy Head, with its dramatic, plunging cliffs; the glorious Arun Valley and its varied birdlife; Cuckmere Haven, perfect for (outdoor) picnics, and the nearby Friston Forest. Maybe not household names, but they carry the same importance to local people as the more exalted walking regions to the north.

The South Downs has another advantage over some of these regions; every section of its 100 miles is accessible without a car. The towns and villages that nestle either side of the ridge are almost all well served with buses or trains. This includes locally run, walker-friendly services such as the Cuckmere Community Bus. This multitude of start and finish points, combined with the geography of the Downs, makes it ideal for linear car-free walks; start at one village, up onto the ridge, then down again once you’re done for the day.

After five years of learning to love the South Downs, I found, with no little surprise, that I had a favourite walk here – Southease to Lewes, via Highdole Hill. It doesn’t make my top 20 walks, maybe not even the top 50, but a day of gentle ups and downs in one of the quieter sections of the Downs gets all the right muscles twitching. It is also one of the few places in the southeast of England where you can escape the crowds, stretch your legs, and appreciate the sounds of cows and seagulls instead of mobile phones and traffic. And for that alone, it deserves a little recognition.

Southease to Lewes
Southease Station is the perfect place to begin a car-free walk. No café, no car parks and usually no other passengers alighting, and the footpath starts at the end of the platform. How’s that for accessibility?

A short distance from here, over the old wooden bridge that spans the River Ouse, is the village of Southease, and the walk’s first highlight. St Peter’s Church was built in the early 12th Century, and is a fine example of the architecture of this time. It’s well worth exploring if you are in no rush to reach the hills.

Cross the road just out of Southease and a footpath takes you right into the South Downs Way. There’s no fixed route to follow – head along the secluded Breaky Bottom, or climb up to Highdole Hill for views over Rottingdean and the English Channel. The walk is also dotted with those features that colour a walk; look out for the path-side monument near Whiteway Bottom, in memory of another admirer of these hills. A little further along is the mysterious collection of farm buildings the southern side of Castle Hill Nature Reserve, disused except for the crows and ravens who watch as you pass.

At Castle Hill, head briefly along the South Downs Way towards Kingston near Lewes. The Juggs Inn is a handy place to refresh before the final couple of miles to Lewes. In spring evenings, you may even be treated to a display of Morris dancing in the road next to the beer garden. Mock ye not this splendid tradition; our ancient Isles would be a more cheerless place without these grown men and women who, for our entertainment, hit sticks together and wear bells round their ankles.

A one-way ticket through the Yorkshire Dales

One of the joys of car-free walking is making up your own routes. Rather than sticking to a well-trodden path, or a particular peak, you can select two stations or bus stops – one to start and one to finish – and make up the bit in between. With this cunning plan in mind, I spread out my maps of the Yorkshire Dales and started scanning.

The problem with the Dales, though, is where to start? There are several train stations around the south and western sides, and good bus services through all the major dales, which means the whole park is easily reached without a car. The Three Peaks – Ingleborough, Whernside and Pen-y-ghent – were demanding a second visit, and Wensleydale boasts some of the finest walking in England. Or what about exploring a less familiar valley – Raydale, Wharfedale or Dentdale?

Time for Plan B. A brief check on the Trainline found cheap rail tickets from London to Gargrave, so that was the starting point. And a friend had recently spent a night at Grinton Lodge in Swaledale while cycling the Coast to Coast path; for want of a more noble reason that would be my end target. So, south to north across the best part of the National Park. As for the bit in between? Well, I could make it up.

Gargrave was bright and sunny upon arrival, and after stocking up on supplies (I had eaten my emergency chocolate on the train), a brisk amble along the Pennine Way took me to Malham. No time to visit the famous cove before darkness fell, so instead I made for the Lister Arms, maps at the ready to plan the next day’s route. Unfortunately, three pints of Thwaites’ Nutty Black scuppered any attempts at forward planning and I was soon tucked up in bed – at least I got an early night.

The stars were still out when I left the hostel and headed towards Gordale – with the next night’s bed in far-off Wensleydale, I needed to keep up a steady pace. A herd of cows huddled together in a field, the morning frost clinging to their shaggy brows. They watched me pass in my hat and gloves, envious of these warming garments.

But in my eagerness for an early start, I had forgotten that Yorkshire gets a bit chilly in November. The rocks and boulders that jostle around the foot of Gordale Scar were coated with a thin but treacherous layer of ice, and the stream was bursting down the waterfall – evidence of the recent heavy rains. After two short-lived attempts to scramble up, and two soggy boots from rapid downclimbing, it was time to change plan and head up via New Close Knotts.

Even this was far from simple; the Dales’ distinctive limestone scars are steeper than they look from the valleys. A stone kicked down by a stray left boot bounced down to the valley floor; I took extra care over the final few feet to make sure I didn’t follow it.

If the early bird catches the worm, then the early walker gets the hills to himself. For the three hour hike to Arncliffe, I could enjoy the moors in blissful solitude, the frozen ground crunching beneath my feet. Along with three ascents, six tea breaks, and two slips, my route took me through four different dales – Littondale, Wharfedale, Raydale and Wensleydale. Crossing them in succession is more tiring than exploring one dale in a day, but added fascinating variety as each has its own distinct character. The bustling, tourist-loving Wensleydale contrasted with the hidden and elusive Raydale; Wharfedale was bustling with birds flitting along the river, collecting the last berries of autumn, while the sheep on the moors above Littondale huddled together behind a wall to shelter from the biting November wind.

After a refreshing overnight stay the Rose & Crown in Bainbridge, legs were fully restored from the 22 miles of the previous day and I set off at the more reasonable hour of 9.00am. The final day’s route headed across the grouse moors that rise up above Wensleydale, and head into Grinton in Swaledale. Grouse – and the associated shooting industry –dominate this part of Yorkshire. Grouse butts run in lines all over the moor, and every few footsteps would send one of these clumsy black birds into a whirring, stumbling flight over the moor, accompanied by a series of panicked squawk. They have every right to be scared – shooting is still big business round here. Graceless they may be, but that’s still no reason to blast them.

The frost had given way to snow on this higher ground, hiding the many bogs, streams and frozen ponds that scatter these moors, and I was cold and a little weary upon arrival in Grinton. Like all good walkers, I headed straight for the Bridge Inn, much vaunted by my coast to coast cycling friend. Several of the punters enjoying their Sunday lunch gave me disdainful looks – they hadn’t expected this snowy, hairy and sweaty intrusion to their dinner.

Fortunately the landlord’s father – doing an emergency shift behind the bar – was more welcoming. A keen walker himself, we were soon chatting at the bar about the moors above the village, life in Swaledale, and the history of Grinton. And as the unfriendly diners drifted away, my reward for three days of braving the elements presented itself – the fireside chair. Settling back, toes stretched towards the flames, and pint at hand, I could look back on a job well done – forty miles, five different dales and several pints of Yorkshire bitter. The final effort was to move my aching limbs from the fireside chair and climb up the hill to the Lodge – the hardest part of the whole trip.

Photos by me. Nice, aren't they.

Getting there

Gargrave Station is on the Leeds-Carlisle line, easily reached from either end. Getting back from Grinton involves taking the Dalesbus from Grinton to Richmond, and onto Northallerton for the nearest train station. Richmond makes a nice stop for a pot of tea if you have to wait while changing buses.

Where to eat, drink, sleep

Lots of options in each of the Dales - the ones mentioned in this blog were all very cosy and friendly, but better to make up your own Dales' route -there are loads of great places to relax after a day's walk!

A tale of two valleys: my first car-free walk

Every weekend in the summer, people swarm to the Lake District’s myriad attractions. The campsites book up months in advance, spilling over with families, barbeques and guy ropes; crossing the field to join a toilet queue becomes an SAS-style mission. Fortunately for those who prefer to watch the sun set without a Frisbee flying across it, there are endless opportunities for wild camping – pitching your tent in the wilderness, miles from anyone else.

A long weekend away was also an opportunity to think through an idea for a new walking website. Whilst a few guidebooks and walking magazines now mention how to get to a route by bus or train, the nearest car park is still what most walkers look for. I wanted to create a website where people could share walks in the UK that could be reached by public transport. A few nights alone in the quietest corners of the Lakes would be the perfect opportunity to think through ideas, work out a plan and, most importantly, think up a name.

After booking some very cheap train tickets from London to Windermere (a bargain £19 each way with The Trainline), and packing a brand new Terra Nova tent into a well-worn backpack, I head north. I time my arrival in Windermere at late afternoon, when most walkers are trudging down from the summits. This is a well-known wild camping trick; just 30 minutes later on Orrest Head (an easy 238m ascent), there is no one to disturb the views across Windermere and the golds and russets of the fells provide the perfect backdrop for people enjoying England’s largest natural lake from their rowing boats.

Heading deeper into Troutbeck Valley along the Garburn track, the trickle of evening walkers dries up completely. As dusk settles, I pitch my brand new tent on the grassy flanks of Ill Bell alone – the Lake District to myself at last. Some inquisitive sheep wander over to see what’s happening, unused to intruders disturbing their peace at this time of day. The setting sun sends soft purple shadows across the silent valley, and the scent of wild grass and bracken just overpowers the smell of damp boots.

By 7am the next morning, I’m heading north towards Stony Cove Pike. The plan is to head towards Helvellyn and wild camp near Red Tarn. Three glorious hours pass before meeting the first walker of the day. He issues a cheery “good morning”, displaying the bonhomie that flourishes between walkers in Britain’s mountains. By mid morning, the crowds are out in force, jockeying for position around the famous Fairfield horseshoe. And ever more they come; on Helvellyn, after the 200th “hello” of the day, my good spirits are in dangerously short supply – the solitude of a wild camp can’t come soon enough.

‘Closing Time’ syndrome strikes again as the sun goes down, and the fells are soon deserted apart from a few stragglers carefully descending Swirral Edge. Dark clouds are gathering, though, and neither my new tent nor tired limbs fancy a cold, soggy night on higher ground, so I head into Grisedale Valley to look for shelter. Some hope. As the winds pick up and the clouds explode, the tent starts playing games – there hadn’t been this many poles last night, surely?

But 10 minutes later, the stove is bubbling and the boots are off. I sit in the small porch to watch the storm unleash its fury on Patterdale and Ullswater. And there’s no better way to enjoy the Lake District than sheltered by canvas with a whole valley to yourself, whether it’s lit up by lightning or a sunset.

Next morning, the inclement weather means an early start (the rain started at 5am) and a head-down, hood-up quick march back over Fairfield and into Ambleside, where warm pubs and foodstuffs other than cereal bars await me. Refreshed, it’s a short stroll for the final night’s camping – this time in the relative comfort of the campsite behind Rydal Hall.

The final day presents a situation that will be familiar to many other car-free walkers. Anxious not to miss my train (pre-booked tickets are rarely changeable), I was again off early over Wansfell, taking the scenic route back to Windermere station rather than walking alongside the A591. But arriving two hours early left a slight dilemma; how welcome would I be in the Booth’s café, after three days of camping and little more than a splash in the sink as a token nod to hygiene? The scent of fresh coffee and the enticing smells of cooked breakfasts proved too strong; dropping my bag near the door, I sheepishly made my way to the counter to order. “Been out walking, love?” enquired the waitress. “You’ll be hungry, then. What would you like?” Clearly they are used to bedraggled walkers round these parts. The breakfast soon arrives, and I can stretch the weary legs and take out the notebook to write up my first car-free walk. Now, all I need is a name for this website…