Cool off on Coniston Old Man
Scrambling. Swimming. Sunshine. Equals one perfect summer day.
The ground beneath our boots is hard, dry. The soft, damp earth that would be grasping, clinging, sucking has been baked firm by the sun. Spaghetti Western dust rises with every step and loose, gravelly stones skitter along the track. The air feels less arid. It’s heavy and close, weighted with the earthy scent of bracken. Winged dots flutter and bother, disappearing in the rare wisps of breeze, save for those stuck to sun-creamed arms. The churn of water can be heard, but not yet seen, accompanied by distant birdsong. The fells are green and, although yellowing, a long way from the barren orange of Sergio Leone’s gunslinger backdrops. But a weary pack mule or ponchoed outlaw wouldn’t seem out of place.
As the ascent begins the heat grows, warmth from within muscles adding to the sun’s fierceness. Beads of sweat are born on the brow and, with no capacity for the humid air to take them, are left to dampen eyebrows, sting eyes and drip from the nose. But such small discomforts bring their own pleasures. A swirling beck beckons, clear and fresh. Its water is an immediate relief; splashed on the face, the neck, and soaked into the hat to trickle cool ribbons of refreshment between back and pack.
Such dry and stable weather diminishes the requirement to rush. Daylight is not rationed. The need to reach shelter is not a determining factor. A large boulder proves too tempting to the inner child, who – revived and still dripping – emerges to clamber all over it, exploring each crack and ridge and ledge of the micro-mountain before returning to the cooling water.
With an adult head now back on shoulders, a longer respite from the heat is sought. The rock of the crags, sun-dried and rainless, is as climbable now as it ever is. The shaded gullies and gorges retain the warmth of the day but without the searing heat of the sun. The restorative beck begins its journey high up on these crags, flowing through the fissures and channels, foaming and churning in its descent. Sometimes the climb passes over it, sometimes alongside it, and sometimes through it; the stream is
a constant companion, a splash of water rarely more than an arm’s length away. The dry rocks stick to soles and welcome the grasp of fingers, the cold touch of the stone in the shadows a sensory contrast to the heat of the baked earth below. Up, up, up. The scrambling is lazy – too good to rush, too warm to hurry. There are no boundaries. Hands and feet go where the rock takes them, and when it takes them somewhere the body would rather not be, a quick look reveals easier alternatives close at hand. Eventually the climbing curves back into the sunlight. It’s hotter work now. Pauses for water, rests for recovery and stops for the views become more frequent. But a final, panting push ends, not at a summit, but at something better.
The Lake District is named for its water, but more ubiquitous than its valley-bottomed lakes are its fellcupped tarns. These little – and often not-so-little – pools sitting high on the mountainsides are a mecca for hillwalkers, oases of respite and reflection.
The climb is done. Hands are rough and dusty. Skin is hot and sticky. Sweat pools and drips. Rucksack buckles are fumbled with and the pack swings gently to the ground. Salt-patterned layers are cast aside, stopping short of nakedness. Feet tread the rough shores and take their first steps into the still waters. The relief is instant. A flash of cold, one that’s been craved. A little further in the chill begins to put up some resistance. But it’s what the body needs. A deep breath and a plunge. The shock, the pleasure, the total submission. Soreness and aches drift away into the tarn. A breath to refill the lungs, then back under, limbs pulling with renewed energy, energy the water has restored.
The chill has gone. The warmth from the sun, high and alone in a cobalt sky, has driven it back. Lazy feet brush the stones on the tarn bed as the clear water cradles and coaxes. It’ll be hard to give up this space, this sensation. Surrounded by the mountains, held weightless. Natural perfection, the aligning of the elements. This place could have been made for summer; but just as likely, summer was made for these places. Moments like this are rare. Seek them out, and hold on to them for as long as you can.
“SORENESS AND ACHES DRIFT AWAY INTO THE TARN”