QUINTIN LAKE
It’s out into the countryside as Quintin meets some friendly folk
The pull of England’s highest peak is too much to resist as Quintin Lake continues his coastal odyssey
At Haverigg Point, I pass three people in succession picking up warm dog faeces in thin plastic bags with
their hands. The British have strange ideas of how to spend their leisure time!
The 12km of shingle walking past Millom at Haverigg Beach is slow going, with an alarming frequency of plastic pollution along the entire length. Sports drink bottles are the most prevalent form of detritus. In the afternoon the shingle gives way to sand; firm and fast to walk on, it feels like riding a conveyor belt after hours sliding backwards on the shingle.
I’m learning the hard way that when the map shows ‘ford’ in Cumbria, it is not the Haywain-like pastoral scene that I’m used to wading across down south. The Eskmeals ford is the most daunting I’ve yet seen, so I’m heartened to discover the contractors working on the rail viaduct have their own coastguard to ensure their safety. They are a friendly lot. I have a hard time explaining why I don’t want to be carried over on a quad bike when I refuse their lift.
It’s a 5am start to reach the summit of Scafell Pike from the sea at Ravenglass. Misty bands of cloud and light play over the peaks, while photographic feasts of wispy changing vistas unfold. Welcome to the Isle of Man, my mobile informs me erroneously. The ground here is a peaty, boggy slime and I regularly sink half way up the calf. I’m weary before I’m a quarter of the way to the summit. Ascending Scafell Pike The cloud hangs at 600m, slicing the visible mountains in half and capping an exhilarating view down into Wasdale. I haven’t seen many people for a few days so it’s a surprise just how busy England’s highest mountain can be on the weekend. My first introduction to the circus atmosphere is passing a lady with a daypack and hiking boots, paired with suspenders, bunny ears, a corset. Wellequipped husbands patronise overweight wives over how they can walk without slipping. Halfway up and off to one side, a Muslim man bows in prayer. The descent On the descent I pass armies of minibussed Three Peakers; unsmiling, clad in fashionable gym attire, smelling of deodorant. The best light of the day photographically occurs as I break through the clouds, the slope of Scafell inky black in the foreground as the gusts of wind and the last light bring the surface of Wast Water alive.