Wasdale in the Western Lake District is simultaneously forbidding and achingly beautiful, remote and spectacular. I have been here in the depths of winter when a vicious wind lashed me with snow and ice and it felt like I was in the Arctic Circle. Even in months less inhospitable, this valley where England’s highest mountain peak stands sentinel over its deepest, most mysterious lake, can feel a little hostile. It’s like entering a forgotten world.
Wasdale attracts a flood of outdoor enthusiasts to admire the epic work of the last Ice Age, but until recently this was one of the most isolated farming communities anywhere in the British Isles. The first people to farm this land were descendents of Norse settlers from Ireland. It’s the reason the valley church is called St Olaf ‘s, after the King and Patron Saint of Norway, who is said to have visited this area in 1020 to defend it from a Saxon invasion.
By the 1300s there were cattle farms in the valley and a packhorse route that went from the coast over the hills into the Eastern Lakes. It’s not hard to imagine how hard life must have been in the ancient farming community. The National Trust owns much of the farmland these days, and Herdwick sheep have supplanted the far less damaging cattle. Farming rubs along with ever expanding tourism, not always harmoniously.
No matter how many times I come here, the sheer majesty of the landscape never fails to pull me under its influence. You can only reach Wasdale by the narrowest of lanes, the drive into the valley is almost as hair raising as climbing some of the surrounding peaks. I arrived early on a June day when the temperature would reach 29ºC. Others were already here setting off to climb Scafell Pike. I was destined for paths less trodden.
Starting my walk on a gentle path that skirted around Middle Fell, I followed Nether Beck, a small stream, up towards the ‘saddle’ between two hills, Haycock and Great Scoat Fell. The climb got steeper and steeper until I finally reached the peak of Great Scoat. The views (admittedly spoiled by Sellafield Nuclear Plant) to the Irish Sea were magnificent. The climb had been hard work but the heat was intensifying. I set off again.
Descending Great Scoat Fell and climbing up Scoat Fell (confusing, I know), the views north towards Ennerdale were tremendous. In the foreground was the dramatic rock formation simply known as Steeple. It was here that I encountered the first person I’d seen since leaving the shores of Wastwater. This was around halfway and I headed along a ridge to the top of Red Pike and a picnic lunch with views of Great Gable.
It was tough to get back onto my feet and set off again, in part because the views were almost as wonderful as the solitude, but mostly because I was really tired. It was all downhill from here though. I descended steeply at first to reach a valley and then followed a steam back to Wastwater. It was hot and sticky, and every step an effort, so I promised myself a dip in the lake when I finally got there.
William Wordsworth, who through his writings promoted early Victorian-era tourism to this region, described Wastwater as ‘long, narrow, stern and desolate’. A place of awe. The former poet laureate would likely have been as dismayed as I was when I reached the lakeside to discover that, in the hours I’d been on the fells, hundreds of people had arrived and parts of it now resembled a seaside resort. It was quite jarring.
I wandered along the shore to a deserted stretch of stoney beach and waded into the chilly water. It was pure bliss for aching limbs after walking for hours in the heat. Sat on my little beach, the view over the water, down the valley to the hulking peaks of Scafell and Scafell Pike, was simply magnificent. It would be hard to find another to beat it.
