Have you ever encountered Jive Bars? If not I’ll warn you now, they are not rhyming boasts uttered by a 1970s pimp. They’re Twixes. The name might be copyrighted but the delicious combination of biscuit, chocolate and caramel is not and they sell them in Aldi.
The other foolproof method for choosing trekking supplies, apart from the name, is weight. Heft an item in your hand and you will know instantly if its calorific content is sufficient to justify its place in your pack. Blocks of mature cheddar and slabs of moist fruit cake will sail through this stringent selection process. Rice cakes will not.
Having wrestled free of our urban schedules, and suitably provisioned, the three of us were eager to begin our long weekend in the Lake District by rejecting the dullness of flat walking. Up is the only way to go, where lungs strain and calf muscles burn; where sweat runs into your eyes and huge views are revealed like an almighty carpet seller unrolling his finest wares.
The afternoon began as a warm up for the longer hikes and wild camp we had planned for the following days but when we arrived at Haweswater, a reservoir in the eastern part of the Lake District, and saw the sign proclaiming ‘Home of the Last Golden Eagle in England’, we knew we had a higher purpose.
The car park was full. We weren't the only ones keen to immerse ourselves in the fens and hopefully catch a glimpse of the largest bird in the UK. Thankfully we had free reign over the landscape as most of the other visitors were suffering from an affliction common to beauty spots throughout the world. B.A.D., or Boomerang Automobile Deficiency, to give it its full name, is highly contagious but not fatal. It causes in the sufferer a complete inability to venture more than 200m from the car park without rapidly turning around and heading back to the safety of the vehicle for snacks and texting.
With fresh legs and a buoyant mood we began the steady climb along the spine of the fen leading up and away from the pinewoods and water towards a ridge 600m above. There was the familiar sense of liberation and relief; mental clutter falling aside leaving only the simple task of getting from A to B under your own steam.
Stepping over loose rocks and squelching through mud we gradually gained the height necessary to read the land around us. We began to see how one slope flowed into the next and how the ridges ran between the peaks offering a highway through the hills. Looking back, the reservoir lay in the basin of the valley, sparkling at the sky like a dropped mirror.
At regular intervals we stopped to scan our surroundings with binoculars, hoping we might get lucky and cop an eyeful of the majestic raptor on the wing. Moss-covered drystone walls ran across improbable gradients where dishevelled sheep rummaged in the bracken. Shifting clouds chased their shadows over the steep, sparse slopes of the valley, tricking the eye. But there was no eagle.
We reached the summit, High Street, the site of a Roman road at 828m above sea level. It was easy to imagine the cumbersome wheels of carts rattling food and soldiers between forts many centuries before. The Lake District was spread out before us; Ullswater to the north, Lake Windermere to the south and the Irish Sea just visible beyond the higher peaks to the west. At the trig point we celebrated with a dram from the hip flask before beginning the descent to a small tarn we had spotted nestling in the folds of the fen.
Eschewing the path we slipped and slid the quickest route down. Hearing the tinkling of a spring we stopped to peel back clods of sodden moss, revealing the crystal-fresh liquid and refilling our water bottles. On the gravel bank we threw off our clothes and plunged in with yelps of shock. Our limbs quickly became heavy in the cold and submerging one’s head was a fast-track to brain freeze. The swim was brief but exhilarating.
Evening was seeping into the valley as we walked the final couple of miles back to the car park. The sun had packed off behind the hill, taking the birdsong with it and an unseen hand was turning down the brightness until colours faded and the edges of woods and water became blurred. We left the Haweswater valley to its feathered guardian and drove into the night, chatting excitedly about the days ahead.
The other foolproof method for choosing trekking supplies, apart from the name, is weight. Heft an item in your hand and you will know instantly if its calorific content is sufficient to justify its place in your pack. Blocks of mature cheddar and slabs of moist fruit cake will sail through this stringent selection process. Rice cakes will not.
Having wrestled free of our urban schedules, and suitably provisioned, the three of us were eager to begin our long weekend in the Lake District by rejecting the dullness of flat walking. Up is the only way to go, where lungs strain and calf muscles burn; where sweat runs into your eyes and huge views are revealed like an almighty carpet seller unrolling his finest wares.
The afternoon began as a warm up for the longer hikes and wild camp we had planned for the following days but when we arrived at Haweswater, a reservoir in the eastern part of the Lake District, and saw the sign proclaiming ‘Home of the Last Golden Eagle in England’, we knew we had a higher purpose.
The car park was full. We weren't the only ones keen to immerse ourselves in the fens and hopefully catch a glimpse of the largest bird in the UK. Thankfully we had free reign over the landscape as most of the other visitors were suffering from an affliction common to beauty spots throughout the world. B.A.D., or Boomerang Automobile Deficiency, to give it its full name, is highly contagious but not fatal. It causes in the sufferer a complete inability to venture more than 200m from the car park without rapidly turning around and heading back to the safety of the vehicle for snacks and texting.
With fresh legs and a buoyant mood we began the steady climb along the spine of the fen leading up and away from the pinewoods and water towards a ridge 600m above. There was the familiar sense of liberation and relief; mental clutter falling aside leaving only the simple task of getting from A to B under your own steam.
Stepping over loose rocks and squelching through mud we gradually gained the height necessary to read the land around us. We began to see how one slope flowed into the next and how the ridges ran between the peaks offering a highway through the hills. Looking back, the reservoir lay in the basin of the valley, sparkling at the sky like a dropped mirror.
At regular intervals we stopped to scan our surroundings with binoculars, hoping we might get lucky and cop an eyeful of the majestic raptor on the wing. Moss-covered drystone walls ran across improbable gradients where dishevelled sheep rummaged in the bracken. Shifting clouds chased their shadows over the steep, sparse slopes of the valley, tricking the eye. But there was no eagle.
We reached the summit, High Street, the site of a Roman road at 828m above sea level. It was easy to imagine the cumbersome wheels of carts rattling food and soldiers between forts many centuries before. The Lake District was spread out before us; Ullswater to the north, Lake Windermere to the south and the Irish Sea just visible beyond the higher peaks to the west. At the trig point we celebrated with a dram from the hip flask before beginning the descent to a small tarn we had spotted nestling in the folds of the fen.
 |
| The summit of High Street |
 |
| Small Water, where we swam, with Haweswater in the distance |
Evening was seeping into the valley as we walked the final couple of miles back to the car park. The sun had packed off behind the hill, taking the birdsong with it and an unseen hand was turning down the brightness until colours faded and the edges of woods and water became blurred. We left the Haweswater valley to its feathered guardian and drove into the night, chatting excitedly about the days ahead.
