Three Peaks
During a five-year quest to walk the perimeter of mainland Britain, photographer Quintin Lake only made three major diversions inland. His goal? To bag the highest summits in England, Wales and Scotland…
Quintin Lake climbs the high points of Wales, England and Scotland from the coast
THE RULES for my 11,000km walk around the coast of mainland Britain were simple: stay as close as possible to the sea, and walk every step of the way. For 451 days, this is precisely what I did.
But for three especially memorable days, I left the coast to climb the highest peaks in Wales, England and Scotland.
The first person to walk the coast of Britain was John Merrill, whose 1975 book Turn Right at Land’s End was one of the inspirations for my journey. One of the features of Merrill’s walk that appealed to me was that he included Snowdon, Scafell Pike and Ben Nevis on his route. As a homage to him, and for a change of perspective, I would include these three peaks on my coast walk.
The plan was to walk from the sea to the summit and back on the same day (which worked out well for Snowdon and Ben Nevis; but Scafell Pike needed an overnight at Wasdale because of its distance from the sea). All these peaks are ‘maritime mountains’, relatively close to the coast and profoundly influenced by the climate and moods of the ocean. Climbing them from sea level gave a fascinating insight into the wider landscape of each of the ‘three peaks’.
My memories of the coast walk revolve around isolation, remote communities and the ever-constant wind. I came to love this feeling of the wind, but there were regular respites from it as the walk rules demanded avoiding ferries. That meant there were many very long inland detours to the find the first bridge over a river. Sometimes – such as around Falmouth harbour or the long Scottish sea lochs – this detour would take several days, and it always felt like a long exhale in contrast to the battering of the elements I experienced at the coastal edge. So the detour to the three peaks was a change of environment that I relished.
I slept in a tent for most of my journey, but I stayed in a B&B or hostels for the mountain days – which meant my bag weight was 10kg rather than the 20kg I usually carried. Walking with such a light pack made those long mountain expeditions seem more manageable than if I were to do them now!
Day 136: Snowdon
In the weeks preceding the approach to Snowdon I’d brushed against the Cambrian mountains, feeling close to Cadair Idris when I crossed the railway bridge in Barmouth before following the beautiful world apart of the Llŷn Peninsula as it jutted into the Irish Sea. Turning east there were momentary glimpses of Snowdonia in the far distance. It was exciting to imagine that
I would be eventually be standing on the summit of the mountain I’d been circling for so long. I arrived at Caernarfon at dusk, tired and hungry after sleeping many nights outside. I felt like a medieval traveller, overawed by the castle’s turrets and openmouthed to be in a big town again.
Next morning before dawn, I walked past the faceted geometry of Caernarfon Castle with my mind full of Snowdon, the goal for the day. It felt calm and sheltered to be inland, away from the windswept coast after so many weeks, and I was enjoying the change. I needed to follow a main road for a few miles, but it was so early that there was hardly any traffic. On reaching farmland, I was surprised at how many of the stone farms by the path are ruined. I stopped for a brew next to Ty Isaf, a ruined smallholder’s cottage, and admired its large inglenook fireplace with chamfered timber lintel. Then I criss-crossed over sheep-scattered fields and, as the bulk of the mountain became apparent, a peacock strutted towards me and proudly unfurled its tail fan. I was happy to take this as an auspicious sign for the day ahead.
I started to gain some height on Moel Eilio, whose summit has a clear view over Anglesey and the Menai Straits and back to Caernarfon Castle. A fine and rolling walk, all above 500 metres, led towards the Snowdon Ranger Path, which zig-zagged into the cloud ahead. This was mountain walking at its best: views to the sea in one direction and the mountains of Snowdonia in the other.
As I entered the mist, there was complete silence – only the sound of my breathing and boots on stone. There were not many people on the mountain that day, even on the Llanberis Path. By the time I got to the summit trig, it was late afternoon and still a white muted world. Despite planning for the best weather, I was coming to terms with the fact I wouldn’t be getting a view. Then, suddenly, I was rewarded by the mist clearing to reveal rapidly changing views of Snowdonia, as the clouds scooted past, casting shadows on the mountains. There were glimpses of the sea back to Harlech, the Llŷn Peninsula and onwards to Conwy. Distant figures stood silhouetted on the spiny back of Crib Goch as the fields and peaks were illuminated beyond. The streams and lakes in the cwm glistened in the evening light.
The light was crisp and golden, perfect for photographing the texture and bulk of the mountains and the epic slate workings at Dinorwic, whose giant stepped constructions and sloping ramps almost seemed Aztec from this angle. There was a group of tents far below by Llyn Du’r Arddu next to ‘Cloggy’ – the famed
rhyolite climbers’ crags. I stayed near the top until I was too cold to take pictures any more before following ancient, silent tracks under a starry sky to return to Caernarfon at midnight, where I was overcome by a confusing mixture of exhaustion and elation.
Day 165: Scafell Pike
I’d always associated Cumbria with the fells, so it was a joy to discover the Cumbrian Coastal Way. After the vast tidal expanse of Morecambe Bay, Duddon Sands and Cartmel Sands each gave a unique perspective on the distant fells. Of all the three peaks, Scafell Pike proved to be the most significant contrast between coast and mountain, with the summit being the busiest and the adjacent coast path the most secluded. I’d previously walked the Coast to Coast and various high-level traverses of the Lakes, and I’d always had a soft spot for the westernmost fells for their seclusion and the strong relationship they have with the sea.
It was a 5am start to reach the summit of Scafell Pike from the sea at Ravenglass. Misty bands of cloud and light played over the peaks as I wrapped up warm and waited on the summit of Muncaster Fell, while photographic feasts of wispy changing vistas unfolded. ‘Welcome to the Isle of Man’, my mobile informed me erroneously. The ground here was a peaty boggy slime, and I regularly sank into it halfway up the calf. It was slow going – I was weary before getting a quarter of the way to the summit.
Low Farm was the last structure before open ground, and every outbuilding rang to the howling of dogs. A barn floor was entirely covered with a mound of freshly shorn wool. Before the fells proper, the last field was populated with dozens of rams, their improbably enormous testicles swinging proudly.
On crossing over the watershed, a heavy cloud hanging at 600m sliced the visible mountains in half and capped an exhilarating view down into Wasdale. I hadn’t seen many people for a few days, so it came as a surprise just how busy England’s highest mountain can be on the weekend. My first introduction to the circus atmosphere was passing a lady who had paired a sensible daypack with suspenders, bunny ears, a corset and hiking boots.
On the mountain path, I passed mums telling teenage sons (who completely ignored them) to “Be careful, or you’ll break your neck”. Well-equipped husbands were patronising their partners on how they should walk without slipping.
I chatted to a cheerful chap with the sole of his boot flapping like a crocodile’s jaw. “Why are you stopping?” half of a large
group shouted impatiently to the other. Engulfed in mist, I checked the map – only to see I was just a few metres from the top. “You’re halfway up, mate!” a descending group of lads shouted to me jokingly. The summit was a slippery jumble of jagged rocks, white mist and fierce wind: thoroughly unpleasant, like all the other times I’ve been up there!
On the descent, I passed armies of unsmiling Three Peakers, clad in fashionable gym attire, who marched past smelling of deodorant. The best light of the day photographically occurred as I broke through the clouds, the slope of Scafell inky black in the foreground as the gusts of wind and the last light brought the surface of Wast Water alive. I made it down to the valley floor by 7.30pm, while above me a procession of Three Peakers’ head torches traced the zig-zag path into the darkness.
Day 245: Ben Nevis
In the weeks building up to Ben Nevis, I’d been heading north up the jagged coastline of Kintyre. The going had been so hard that, by the time I reached Oban, I had a stress response in my shins and couldn’t walk for a few weeks. When I recovered, I was walking north-east through spectacular scenery, following the Great Glen fault along Loch Linnhe with the remote and mountainous regions of Kingairloch and Ardgour to admire across the loch. Crossing the bridge at Ballachulish with a glimpse into Glen Coe felt like a big moment: I was really in the heart of the Highlands now.
I left the kebab-strewn streets of Fort William at 5am to conclude my trilogy of mountains. My head torch guided me past a steaming distillery, through a golf course into a knotted birch wood and out onto the open hill. The stars were bright overhead. Around 500 metres up, I sheltered from the ferocious wind behind a boulder. There were clear views across the hills in all directions, but the summit of Ben Nevis was in cloud. The mist was swirling around Castle Ridge menacingly – I felt thrilled but very alone.
Approaching the Carn Mor Dearg arête at 900 metres, the ground was covered in snow. I spotted a group of ptarmigan, wellcamouflaged other than a distinctive red arc above the eye. The snow cover was extensive but grippy. I didn’t have an ice axe or crampons (Don’t do this; I arrived late the night before and didn’t have time to hire any!), so I double-checked every step I took and followed a slow, careful route at the side of the arête so that a slip could be controlled. I decided not to turn back. The white-out conditions helped me concentrate: hand, foot, hand, foot, hand, foot.
As I clambered over the jagged boulders towards the summit, the ice-covered ruins of the observatory emerged from the whiteness. I’d been out for ten hours now and hadn’t seen a soul. As I rounded the raised refuge near the summit cairn, two men sheltering from the strong wind gestured for me to enter. Lukas and Kuba shuffled along to make space for me – they’d just climbed the Ledge Route, and their rope sat between them. Although I was warmed by the shelter and the conversation, I declined their offer of whisky. I’d need all of my faculties for the descent.
On the way down, I was glad of the cairns along the tourist track at this stage in the day. Dropping out of the monochrome world of the summit, the snow line ended abruptly, the wind softened and the temperature rose. I exhaled. The rich autumnal colours of the glens and mountains returned. Halfway along the tourist path it was head torch time again. Far below were the twinkling lights in Glen Nevis as I zig-zagged towards them.
After fifteen hours in motion, the loop was complete, and I was back in Fort William. When I reviewed the photos from the day, it looked like a week’s worth of images spanning four seasons.