A dreek day in Buttermere

We were supposed to go up on Thursday, but life got on top of us a bit, so just I headed north west to the Northern Lakes. I had a new supplier/customer to visit in Blindcrake, north east of Cockermouth, and it was dark when I arrived for that meeting, a splendid 90 minutes late, entirely putting to death the resolution of punctuality I vowed at the beginning of this year.

Bouyed up by a really useful meeting, I fired up the SatNav and picked my way through the comically named Cockermouth, before heading south for Loweswater. That is the location of two wonderful adjoining farmhouses called High Cross and the Long House. They were bought by Pauls & Whites Social Club way back when, and as I worked for a subsidiary company back in the 90s, we're on the list of 'trusties' who can rent these super places for next to nothing.




Despite a dreadful signal, I managed most of the Archers before arriving to be greeted by Steve and Lea, our best mates from the glory days in Somerset. Steve still works for BOCM Pauls and he had bagged the two houses for the weekend and filled them with family and friends, and Friday night was a fine night of wining, dining and music making.

Saturday, however, dawned late and dark, with very low cloud taking out the top of Low Fell and with it our chances of going aloft, safely at any rate. So it was lake yomping, and crikey, was it a long one. Steve is a nutter when it comes to the great outdoors, so off we marched, suited, booted and a carrier bag full of Kendall Mint Cake (well, Mars bars, much more appetizing).

We dropped down to the river beneath Scale Hill, and then turned south along the eastern shore of Crummock Water. The cobrador was showing too much interest in a recently butchered badger, but at least she resisted her usual urge to roll in the rotting stomach that had been opened. The stench was indescribable, and stayed with us downwind for an uncomfortably long time. We then walked the length of Rannerdale, right up to the saddle above Buttermere, and then dropped down into the village. I investigated the bus timetable for the return trip, but was floored to find out the bus needed booking the day previous. Looking around for a taxi rank seemed inappropriate, and Steve wasn't allowing us into the Fish Hotel (what an imaginative name!) as it was already 13.30 and the daylight that hadn't ever truly materialized was due to fail before we got back to Loweswater unless we got a move on, which we did.


The rout out of Buttermere took us nearly a mile in the direction we didn't want to go, but needs must, as we needed to cross the southern end of Crummock before we could turn north and breast Mellbreak at lakeside level. The walking was surprisingly rough, and as everyone was getting tired, it was prime time for an ankle twist. I am Captain Paranoia about ankles, having busted mine last April in a fit of overconfidence, and the mended bone stood up to the yomp remarkably well.




The last leg was tough going, despite the lack of climbing, but the lure of the Kirkstile Inn was the accelerant, which we finally made it to at 15.15, when the real business of the day began, and we were in for a session. Several glasses later, it was the last half mile back to High Cross, and I felt like I had a leg transplant in the pub. Gone were the aching limbs that staggered painfully up the last hill to the pub, but then I had shipped aboard enough anesthetic to dull an amputation. It's today I'm paying the price.