James Forrest
Fancy a real dose of escapism? Then turn off your phone, pack your tent and head for the Lakes on a solo backpacking adventure.
turns off his phone, packs his tent and heads to the Lakes for two days of blissful backpacking solitude
It was the perfect Friday night out. No beer, dancing or drunken antics. No Netflix and chill. No date night and bottle of wine. Just me and my tent, alone in the Lakeland fells, sipping a mug of hot chocolate while soup gently bubbled on my camp stove. Wind ruffling my hair as a golden sun warmed my neck, and views that made my soul sing.
It was hard to believe that just three hours ago I was at my desk, hunched over my laptop, feeling stressed about a burgeoning to-do list and fatigued from a tough Monday to Friday grind. But now I was atop Low Fell, in the Western Fells, at the start of a weekend of wild camping adventures. The tranquillity and isolation washed over me. It was cleansing and invigorating. Lingering worries and frustrations dissipated, the brain fog lifted, and I began to feel happy and free. It was as if I’d tapped into something intrinsic, like an ancestral yearning to be connected to landscape and nature. I spooned tomato soup into my mouth and gulped my stream-filled water bottle, mesmerised by the scenery. Low Fell serves up a view of ‘classical beauty, an inspired and inspiring vision of loveliness... a scene of lakes and mountains arranged to perfection’,
as guidebook author Alfred Wainwright put it. Crummock Water stretched out sumptuously into the distance, its still, silver surface like a sheet of glass. The sweeping ridgeline of Mellbreak framed the lake to the west; the looming bulk of Grasmoor and the shapely but diminutive hump of Rannerdale Knotts did the same to the east. In the distance, low-lying clouds eddied over crags and summits, swirling around the tops of Great Gable and Haystacks, while the sky was marbled with a rippling mix of blues and whites. A vision of loveliness.
Blues and whites turned to oranges and pinks as dusk descended. The sky was on fire. I wandered around aimlessly, exploring Low Fell in a pre-bedtime splurge of energy. I looked out to the west coast of Cumbria, watching the sun set over the wind turbine-dotted Irish Sea. I looked back at the route I’d walked that evening, a simple climb via Fellbarrow from Thackthwaite, a quaint hamlet memorable for its blooming daffodils and red squirrel safety signs. I looked down to my Terra Nova tent, perched proudly atop a grassy dome, my very own viewing platform just to the south of Watching Crag. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world.
The following morning, feeling rested and refreshed, I stirred my coffee and studied my maps. I felt excited. My plan was to complete a 50km, high-level loop of Crummock Water and Buttermere, ticking off 14 Wainwrights and walking a series of glorious ridges in the process. The shapeliness of the contour lines; the names on the maps – Haystacks, Fleetwith Pike, Dale Head; the chaotic, dense squiggles representing crags and cliffs – they all set my pulse racing. I couldn’t wait to get stuck in. The route I’d designed was a warped, contorted red line on the map, with a series of ups and downs and twists and turns. Not exactly a perfect loop or textbook horseshoe. But I really didn’t care. It somehow felt more adventurous, more authentic, more unique to be taking on a bespoke, improvised challenge.
I descended Low Fell via Darling Fell, a hill for lovers perhaps, before ambling along Loweswater to the village. At a defeatist fingerpost sign, proclaiming ‘no road to the lake’ to the left and ‘no through road’ to the right, I ignored the pessimism and bounded positively over Church Bridge towards a white-washed farm building. Ahead, the north ridge of Mellbreak looked formidable if not impenetrable,
U
a towering pyramid of scree and crag. Gulp.
Was that really the way up?
My feet slid on rivers of scree, but the going wasn’t as tough as I’d first feared. A narrow trod guided me up steep slopes of shifting rocks and I emerged at a promontory, where I perched like a mountain goat to gaze back over delightful Loweswater. It was another fine day in Lakeland – blue skies, a light breeze, no threatening clouds in sight. The weather gods were shining down on me favourably. From the southern top of Mellbreak, I eyed up the journey ahead: a drop to Scale Beck, a steep ascent of Red Pike and a traverse of the craggy Buttermere Edge ridge towards Haystacks.
Wainwright wrote ‘for a man trying to get a persistent worry out of his mind, the top of Haystacks is a wonderful cure’. That’s exactly how I felt after a quiet lunch at Innominate Tarn. I was cured of any outside influences and unperturbed by the trappings of modern life, helped in no small part by my self-imposed rule for the weekend – no social media, no phone calls, no emails. Instead, over the remainder of the afternoon, I entered a mountaininduced state of auto-pilot, lulled into it by the mindless rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other. And in a world where we are all so busy, so preoccupied and so stressed, it felt liberating and joyous to be so vacant.
From Dubs Hut bothy, I veered north-west to Fleetwith Pike, descended a maze of slate to Honister Pass, and plodded slowly up grassy slopes to Dale Head. Captivated by the beauty of the Newlands Valley, I completed two simple out-and-backs to bag the summits of Hindscarth and Robinson and, as the light began to fade, I dropped west towards High Snockrigg to set up camp. I found a grassy ledge just off the summit. It was perfect. Flat and dry, with soft, tufty grass and bird’s eye views of Buttermere. But would it live up to my Low Fell experience?
Satisfied after a dinner of Summit to Eat chicken fried rice, I sat in silence and revelled in the moment. Singing larks overhead seemed to be celebrating the arrival of Spring, while an inquisitive Herdwick sheep stared at me, as if utterly puzzled by my presence. A cooling breeze blew, the low evening sun cast an aureate hue, and steam whistled out of my camp stove. I ran my hands over spongy moss and smooth rock, feeling a physical connection to
the mountainside, and looked out over Lakeland. It was a sight to behold: Mellbreak and Crummock Water in perfect harmony; Loweswater shimmering in the distance; the backbone of Rannerdale Knotts emerging gracefully out of the lakeshore; and the domineering flanks of the Grasmoor range soaring over it all. I felt content, as if existing in this back-to-nature state had reinvigorated my being and heightened my senses. I heard every sound, breathed in every smell, savoured every view.
I love hillwalking, but wild camping gives me an even closer, more intimate interaction with Britain’s wild places.
The following morning’s to-do list went by in a flash. Pack up and descend to Buttermere? Tick. Coffee and porridge in Ghyll Wood? Tick. Ignore burning calves and power up Whiteless Pike and Wandope? Tick. Ogle the magisterial but distant Scafells from the summit of Grasmoor? Tick. Skirt above Dove Crags and drop down to Coledale Hause? Tick. My weekend adventure was nearly over.
I was half-ready to return to civilisation, a Sunday roast at the Kirkstile Inn occupying my thoughts; half-convinced I should pack it all in and become a mountain hermit, living permanently in my tent in the heart of these wonderful fells.
I descended along Gasgale Gill, below the line of serrated, parallel edges at Gasgale Crags, and emerged close to Lanthwaite Green. I took a break. A farmer walked two Border Collies over the grassy slopes below me, his wife in green wellies lagging behind. I’d come almost full circle. I could see the route I’d taken over the past three days – Fellbarrow and Low Fell to my right, Mellbreak and Crummock Water ahead, Buttermere Edge to the left, behind me the Grasmoor range – and I thought about what wild camping means to me.
To put it simply, wild camping is a magical pursuit – an easy, inexpensive activity that revives my verve for life and opens my eyes once more to the wonders of the world. It is escapism in its purest form. It is losing myself in nature. It is feeling vulnerable and exposed – and surviving. It is returning to a primal simplicity, getting far away from roads, cities, shops and mobile phone reception. It is resetting my equilibrium; and it is good, oldfashioned adventurous fun. Is there any better way to fit all of that into a weekend? I think not.
“wild camping gives me an intimate interaction with britain’s wild places”