An April Rush To Cumberland

By D. L. Reed

Much depends on the Way one approaches the hills, and the tone of a journey to the Lakes may determine the whole week-end. On the 16th April we went over in Goggs’ Bentley like all the similes of speed. To some “ Leah” was just another old car but the discerning observed her length of bonnet, the diameter of her brake drums and the massive forging that was the front axle. We went to the Lakes, then, like a ball of fire, like a bat out of hell, arrived “ Fojos” ^[1] at Seathwaite and so remained. Our speed diminished appreciably after this and we reached the Styhead sign post some fifty -five minutes after leaving the farm, slothfulness rather disgraceful but excusable perhaps in the early spring following a winter that had yielded less than the usual amount of Pennine ski-ing. It is well to go gently after leaving the signpost so that, moving round towards Kern Knotts one can note to a yard the spot at which the roar from Piers Gill sweeps across the valley and breaks upon the silence that lies about Styhead. Then one can claim another minute’s rest to listen to it.

So Crowe, Goggs and myself arrived at the Napes about five of a clear evening with a keen dry feel in the air. Sale and Brown came along a little later, were rather blasé about our attack on the Abbey Buttress and started to rope at the foot of the Eagles’ Nest Arête. By this time we had, with due solemnity, gone through all the rites proper to the auspicious commencement of a rock climb ; we had uncoiled the ropes, tangled them, untangled them, taken a photograph of someone standing on a rock gazing out over space, and We had broken into the chocolate.

“Talking of curious information, which we weren’t, do you know that the firm which makes this chocolate has complete control of the supply of fresh milk to Barcelona ? ”

“ Talking of rock climbs, which we ought to be, do you know we came here to climb the Abbey Buttress? ” and the climb began. All went well for a little while and the silence at the foot of the rocks was helpful and in the best

of taste, until the leader began to falter, went up a step and came down again, stood a long time in a very uncomfortable attitude on one foot and repeated the manoeuvre with equal success on the other. Then from below:-

“ Hello.” “ Yes.”

“Did you know that droshkyis really plural, so that if you speak of riding in a droshky you’re wrong ? “

In spite of this the top of the first pitch was reached, the second tackled and another sticky patch discovered.

“By the way,” said number two comfortably ensconced at the top of the first, ” you are aware, of course, that at one time the engineering workshops at the University of Oxford were entirely devoted to the manufacture of astrolabes ?”

And so to the top of the buttress, reached just in time to offer the Eagle’s Nest party the assistance of a rope from above. It was refused, but we thought, not scornfully. Soon afterwards there were live men at the top of the Eagle’s Nest West Chimney, which is too many for any platform on the Napes, however spacious. Some went down Ling Chimney, and some the other; for descent Ling was voted the easier. There was a grand sunset going on when we reached the bottom, but, as far as I can remember, callow youth went off and climbed the Needle whilst appreciative age watched the snow on Lingmell turn to pink, watched the banded red of the clouds over the sea.

The party descended Gavel Neese in open formation, joined ranks at the bridge and marched to Burnthwaite in good order. There whilst the bacon fried we held debate; the motion before the house, “To bath or not to bath,” reached the inevitable deadlock of :-

“ I hate to let my sweat dry on me,” and

“ If you continue to plunge your marble limbs into hot water at every opportunity you’ll have no epidermis left.”

At supper We met two women who had walked over from Rosthwaite, having parted there from an acquaintance they had made who seemed to know every place in the Lake District ; they thought, possibly he had done some climbing, they thought his name was something like Beeton or Bentham or both, they wondered if we had heard of him. We had.

We did not continue our debate on the effect of water on the epidermis after supper, for these two departed immediately to the bathrooms and later there was no hot water. Left to ourselves and the soothing hum of the local dynamo, the usual question, “ Well, what are we going to do to-morrow ? ” fell on unresponsive ears for we were full, and content to let the next day take care of itself in spite of the necessity to decide whether to climb or to take photographs with the cinematograph machine Crowe had brought. We felt that it was impossible to do both but that we should inevitably try.

The morning came and was good, the sort of day on which Montague felt “ that to stay indoors and write works about equal to Macbeth is a contemptible spiritless sort of business ; I must get out ….. ” There was no nonsense about bathing as there had been one day in March when Longland and Watts rushed into the river near Rosthwaite, but we felt strong and took our breakfast without that wambly feeling at the knees that the thought of Brown Tongue immediately afterwards so often engenders. Dubiously weighing the sandwiches in our hands we set out ; Brown Tongue duly took its toll, we rested long at the stream and decided that the marmalade, of the gelatinous variety known as “ pond life,” had not been sufficiently nourishing. This settled we felt able to proceed as far as Hollow Stones, where we went into Committee. On the right stood Scawfell, its ledges white with snow, its faces dark and cold and fascinating ; on the left Pike’s Crag, bare of snow and already warming up beneath the sun. Scawfell seemed to tower above Pike’s Crag, one felt its challenge. Sale, Crowe and I accepted it, setting our faces sternly towards Lord’s Rake. Brown and Goggs crept away to the pleasant fastnesses of Pike’s Crag, but first we unloaded on to them an ice-axe saying they might find it useful for cutting lotus blossoms, thinking that we ourselves should find two an encumbrance.

Scawfell was in splendid form with lots of snow about and here and there some ice ; mindful of various involuntary glissades we had heard of in these parts, we roped on Lord’s Rake before setting out for Steep Gill. There is a fascination, almost an inspiration, in the rocks of Scawfell; one can lark about on the Napes as we had done the night before, and one remembers people going up Pillar in top hats, one has heard of a man standing on his head on the Needle, of another proceeding, slowly, down Idwal Slabs heads first, and of another going up the Cioch Direct feet first and backwards, but that sort of thing does not accord with the rocks between Lord’s Rake and the Pinnacle summit.

Sale led, Crowe, carrying his heavy cinematograph, was second. Snow lay fairly deep on the lower reaches ; Lord’s Rake to the Progress was something more than a scramble and the whole place appeared different from what one remembered. We seemed to enter Steep Gill by a variation route (not to be recommended), and things became more difficult for the snow thinned out to a ticklish depth, not thick enough to hold an axe but far too thick for one to discern what was underneath. We climbed slowly to the Crevasse and bade Crowe unlimber his camera whilst we tried to get warm and passed a vote of censure on the Guide for its remarks on Slingsby’s Chimney, “ . . . provides remarkably little genuine climbing, but is well worth doing for the sake of the views . . . ” To-day the climbing was genuine enough and the half was not said, nor could be said, about the views. The clouds had lifted as we climbed, we could see hill beyond hill, the rock walls beside us were magnificent ; in the middle distance and below us was Pike’s Crag, sunswept but insignificant compared to the rocks near by. First of all we were to attempt Sansom’s traverse ; Sale went down slowly, looked round the corner, looked back and said we could give it up, which we did. He started back as Crowe began to wind his machine. “ Now smile,” said Crowe, and as he spoke Sale found the hold for which he had been searching and obliged with considerable abandon.

So Sale returned and chivvied me up Slingsby’s Chimney. Now it must not be supposed we were comfortable at this time, we were out of the sun, there was plenty of snow about and the wind came in chill gusts. In a half-hearted way I scratched about with the ice-axe, trying to uncover handholds to help me across the crevasse on to the sloping platform below the chimney and thinking that there weren’t any. Having found one, in the wrong place, I pushed off and found myself balanced on one knee on a round knob trying to maintain equilibrium with one awkward hold for the left hand. Here I remained, poised unstably whilst occurred one of the most satisfactory and good-humoured exchanges of small talk I can remember. Everything was said which should have been said, every sentence was well rounded, nicely finished, there was not one word which either party wished to alter after the maturest reflection. The point was my left kneecap moved, as kneecaps do when knelt on, and I began slowly to overbalance. Sale observed it.

“ I say,” said he, eyeing the sloping foothold below, “ would it be of material assistance were I to hold your foot in ? “

“ Well, no ; the situation is, not that I am about to slide off, but rather to rotate in a clockwise direction as viewed from behind. If you will be so kind as to press against my right buttock, I shall be grateful.”

” How unfortunate! D’you know it is, at the moment, beyond my reach. I could use the axe of course; which end would you prefer, the flat of the blade and pick, or the point ? “

“ The former would, I think, be preferable.”

The welcome pressure came. We shall remember those sentences, paltry as they look when written down, we shall remember too, the scene, a conversation piece with a setting of rock and snow, and a clean wind blowing.

Of course after that the sight of a bit of ice in the chimney frightened me, I crept back to the Crevasse and Sale went on with his customary ease. He hauled up the rucksack whilst Crowe and myself squatted at the foot of the chimney. Crowe went next with the ice-axe through his belt, went up quickly till its point was dangling about six inches above my head and his tricounis scratching away at the same level, then he stopped and stayed put for about a hundred years until, my penance being completed, he climbed on without more ado. Shortly afterwards we arrived at Low Man, where the sun was shining, and took lunch. It was half-past three before the real work of the day began, the movie camera was wound up and aimed at Sale who set out across the Knife Edge and up the Arête. It was the best place we could think of for the job, and the sun shone on Crowe’s endeavour.

The sun did not shine on the easy way off High Man; with snow and ice about we had fun getting off and more fun later on Broad Stand, whence we could see the other two, lounging in the sun on the Pike. So, back to collect the sacks, down from Lords Rake and away along the Corridor Route to Styhead, pausing only to drink and to take telephotos of Scawfell, We arrived at Mrs. Edmondson’s completely famished, there was no question of baths, hunger was of paramount importance ; we sat round the table listening to the sizzle of bacon and greedily eyeing the sugar in the basin and the small round cakes.

“ The only thing I can’t resist,” we quoted, “ is temptation,” and succumbed, but we did not spoil our appetites for a. tremendous hyperborean dish of bacon and eggs.

There is not much more to tell of this April week-end; one thing I remember seeing from the Bentley before pulling the rug up to my ears and closing my eyes, a silver birch, leafless, shining in the headlights against a dead black background. Later it occurred to me to wonder, sleepily, how the week-end would have been described forty years ago. Headed, no doubt, by a quotation from one of the minor but more uplifting poets, its first high spot would have been a halt on the Keswick road to look at Saddleback and allow some bearded member to remark, :

“Vide ut Blencathra, stet nive candidum,”

and for another to forgive him the parody. There would be some debate as to whether the Eagles’ Nest was justifiable, and then? Well after all there wasn’t anything really worthy of comment. Forty years hence ? Still less, some description possibly of the food taken, expressed in proteins and calories, the latter worked out according to the Grouch formula which calculates the amount of work to be performed from a man’s weight and the height to be climbed, estimates his efficiency as half that of a perfect heat engine working between the same limits of temperature, and so arrives at the number of foot-pounds, horse-power—hours, or kilogram-calories required. After that only a few notes on times and the various scientific instruments read during the day.

 

1.  Fojos, Full of the joy of Spring, usually pronounced Fokyos.