Christine's walking & birds blog

Christmas in the Lakes

It was an uneventful but dramatic trip north, with bands of sleet and hail, sudden clear sunny spells and one area of dense fog. We drove into the snow-covered national park just before dark and it looked beautiful.

This is the entrance to the drive of our holiday flat - and it's as far as we got. Greger cursed his low-profile tyres as the wheels just spun on the ice. He even tried reversing out onto the road again and then charging at it - still no-go. We carried all the stuff up the slate steps to our apartment at the top, and Greger put the car in a nearby car park with a note on it. It would stay there for the next four days.

Loughrigg Fell

On Christmas Day we walked to the top of Loughrigg and back. The snow was nicely packed on the paths, and soft everywhere else - fabulous! Lots of woodland birds were seen on the way up. This goldcrest was foraging in trees at about 150 metres, and the coal tit was a bit further on. Nearby was a house which had feeders up in the garden, so they were probably making use of them.

A curious white mist hung almost all day over Windermere, creeping from the lake into the valleys. As we sat eating our lunch I could not rid myself of the notion that the knobbly rock in the centre of the picture was a man in a donkey jacket and bobble hat, lurking furtively behind the hillock watching us. So that's what happened to Benny from Crossroads!

As we descended, a buzzard cruised low across the fell-side and perched on an outcrop of rock. As we dropped down to the River Rothay Greger spotted a dipper - I couldn't resist trying for a shot but the camera naturally focused on the frost-rimed twigs.

Helm Crag

Our next walk was Helm Crag, near Grasmere. It was a greyish day with no sun. Some way up the flank, half a dozen fieldfares hurtled past as though their lives depended on it - but the only raptor we could see was a kestrel.

Greger managed some nice shots as four ravens took to the air.

A peregrine clutching prey sped right through this elegant show, producing some noisy protests; but the ravens were more interested in their own concerns and the peregrine went safely on its way.

As we descended steep slopes to the east, two of the ravens flew right over us, one of them executing several half-rolls as it went.

The Fairfield Horseshoe

On the last day, we decided on this old favourite. We set off from Ambleside to tackle it anti-clockwise, and on a morning of deep blue skies and sunshine, soon found ourselves stripping off hats and jackets.

The going was good, and a male stonechat was a nice sight just above the tree-line.

There were many more people on the hill than last year, when the weather was murky. Some fell-runners were out, and I admired their sure-footed speed - but it was this man, swishing quietly and gracefully past on skis, who really made us envious. He had come to the end of his run here, but it got him a good way down from the summit.

The snow had drifted across the drystone wall, so a path had been beaten along the top of it. This felt very peculiar but it was preferable to breaking a trail. I slipped and fell once, and was glad when it came to an end.

However, I was soon to wish that the wall went all the way - because the alternative was horrible. Deep snow had formed a crust on the surface so that you couldn't just push through it. Now and then I found I could walk quickly on top like a basilisk on water - but then it would give way and I'd be back to high-stepping. It was extremely tiring. As Greger pointed out, what would have been useful was Ray Mears' snow-shoes.

Then I looked at my watch and realised it was 2 pm - and we still had to make the summit. The summit was by now draped in cloud, so our hope of a view was dashed. "I can't do it," I announced, and Greger assured me I could. I grizzled and whined and cursed the snow...and while I was whinging, I slipped over again. Greger offered to help me up and I waved him away...it was Swedish stoicism versus an English batting collapse.

We sat on a rock and ate our sandwiches, and I realised that Greger was also tired. I apologised for being such a pain and we packed up and trudged on.

A cold wind had sprung up, but at least it shifted the cloud off the top; and from the summit cairn we had wonderful views all round. A yellow RAF rescue helicopter chugged over, but we didn't hear later of any accidents. I looked over at Helvellyn and wondered if there were snow buntings on the top, as there were none on Fairfield this year. Snow too deep, I suppose, although a few patches of vegetation showed through.

Or perhaps the ravens had driven them away. Hunger made this one bold as it scavenged for scraps in the snow.

Apart from a solitary runner who was just leaving as we arrived, we were probably the last people on the summit. Our destination at the near tip of the lake looked a very long way away - and we knew we wouldn't get off the hill before dark.

Fortunately there was a moon and a clear sky - making for an unforgettable, unearthly descent. The flanks of the final hill, Nab Scar, are very steep, and the hard-packed snow was turning to ice. Greger lost his footing twice, and though I managed not to fall again I wrenched my hand and arm painfully in managing to stay up. At one point, I thought I heard an owl; but this was no time to go in pursuit of ticks - or to take my eyes off my feet.

And after all that we still had a 2 km walk back to Ambleside along unlit, icy pavements. We agreed afterwards that this was one of our hardest expeditions - although mostly because of the deep, drifted snow high up after the wall, and the treacherous conditions at the end. Otherwise, as Greger later remarked, it had its pleasurably memorable moments.