A Week In Buttermere
I have a vision of the Buttermere valley, sunny, warm, so very relaxing and of course utterly beautiful. But as I drove through the rain, passed Keswick and in to the Newlands valley, the sky became darker, the mountains more aggressive and I felt a sense of anxiety that should have been so out of place. I rounded the last bend of Newlands to be confronted by Red Pike and High Stile for the first time, rising from Buttermere lake, apparently sheer, dark, brooding, warding off any fool who would try to scale their heights. Getting out of the car I was almost knocked off my feet by gale force winds, rain tearing at my face; Buttermere was not happy to see me again.
In many ways, the Lake District couldn’t be more different from my home which is so very flat with predictable warm and dry weather through the summer months. May be the sheer scale of the mountains had caught me off guard, the darkness and enclosure of the valley a world away from our wide East Anglian skies and the driving rain so unfamiliar outside of our worst winter storms. But this is June and June should be pleasant; a word so mediocre that it doesn’t do justice to this place on a bad day and certainly not a good one. This place has no mediocrity, it doesn’t do pleasant or nice or just ok. I’m not in the flat lands here, this is definitely mountain territory; stunning, dramatic, jaw dropping, quite literally awesome.
On bad days it is menacing, dangerous and you know who is boss. Days when you know not to tackle the mountains. But when the days are good, they are glorious, beautiful, sublime. The lake invites you to its shores and the mountains to their slopes, encouraging you to their peaks and to float along their ridges. The play of light on a steep sided valley through passing clouds; the sheer joy of water falling down impossible mountain sides from unseen tarns in to rushing, noisy mountain rivers; the cool forests so full of wildlife and who knows, may be a Red Squirrel; we have those near home too.
Above all, it’s the stillness of these sleeping giants. A peace they share willingly. Their endless patience waiting for your return, no matter how long. Old friends that you never really leave behind. It was good to be back in this high country, even if it did make me work for my rewards.
Fleetwith Pike and Haystacks
Across Green Crag on to Haystacks
Dubs Quarry
Camping under High Stile
Looking down from between Haystacks and Fleetwith Pike to Buttermere & Crummock Water
Looking across Innominate Tarn to Great Gable
At the Honister Slate Mine
Looking up the Honister Pass
High Crag, High Stile and Dodd from below the Honister Pass
Haystacks, Seat and the tip of Buttermere
Scale Force
High Crag
Mellbreak
Ankle deep in the landscape
The start of the path up Red Pike
Continuing up Red Pike
Crummock Water from the ascent to Red Pike
Fleetwith Pike from the ascent to Red Pike
Bleaberry Tarn with Red Pike above
Comb Crags leading to High Crag
Sour Milk Gill looking across to Whiteless Pike
Sunset over High Stile and Dodd