The wind funnelled between Dollywaggon and Fairfield, it was blustery and inconsistent. We’d just risen up from the protected Tongue Gill to get our first sight of Grisedale Tarn and our first exposure to the westerly wind that would eventually dominate as we ventured up to the summit of Fairfield.
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| Grisedale Tarn |
Trudging up the ever changing, steep Tongue Gill had been tough. Over dressed in the sun drenched valley we struggled to find a stride. As we skirted around the flanks of Seat Sandal we got our first view of the sea. It was a deep orange, reflecting the shallow glow of a distant winter sun. This spurred us on as we scurried up the last climb to reach Grisdale Tarn, a natural resting point, from which we stared up at rocky summit climb ahead.
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| Ali, meandering along the head of Tongue Gill |
We covered the steep, 300m climb in no time. Ali’s fear-induced adrenaline kicked in and I struggled to keep up. My mind cast back to scrambling up Scafell with my dad, his reassurances that he was behind me to catch me if I fall. I could feel the confidence of that back-stop as I picked my way between the scree and snow.
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| The Summit Climb, above Grisedale Tarn |
My phone battery died on the summit so I have no photos of one of the great Lakeland panoramas. I couldn’t stop looking west, past Windermere, Grasmere and the Coniston range and out to the Irish sea. The top was busy, the first good day of winter weather for weeks had drawn us all out. The hum of a busy summit. It feels like you’re all sharing in something brilliant. And in the Lakes though you’re soon away from each other again, sitting on a fell side, listening to the roar of a beck gathering itself together in the valley 200m below.
The wind was at our backs as we descended gently down onto Great Rigg. Occasionally somebody would stride by in crampons, and I would revert into the silly boy that had ventured into the fells unprepared. Terrified somebody would ask me if I could use a compass.
The descent from Great Rigg via Stone Arthur was magic. The sun was setting behind the Consiston range, the sky was beginning to bruise and the low sunlight drenched our wind beaten faces in golden light. We ran hand in hand down the grassy paths, gathering pace effortlessly. Crossing a small beck, we reached the tree line. We were sheltered from the wind again, and the birds were singing. It felt like a summers evening.
Its Monday evening now, there’s another cold snap coming. I’m off to google crampons…
