I am in love with Skiddaw.
Isn’t it beautiful? This monster of a mountain looms above Keswick with the sort of sweeping, barren slopes that throw all sense of perspective and distance out of whack.
The summit is elusive too. For a start, it’s a ridge with multiple tops. It also likes to hide either in the clouds or behind its younger brother, Skiddaw Little Man, who (believe me) is not so little. In the picture below, Skiddaw is the furthest peak to the left: Skiddaw Little Man (which looks higher from this angle) is to the right.
Skiddaw is the sixth-highest mountain in England. The name is thought to derive from the Old Norse skyti or skit + haugr meaning either “archer’s hill” or “jutting crag hill.” If you translate it as skítr-haugr then you get “shit hill,” which seems more apt during the laborious ascent from Latrigg.
My initial intention was for us to get a cab to Dodd Woods and hike up along the ridge, taking in Ullock Pike, Long Side, Carl Side, Skiddaw, Skiddaw Little Man and Latrigg before returning to Keswick. This was Wainwright’s favourite approach. All the research I had done suggested that this was the most interesting route and I thought we could bag a number of Wainwrights in one go.
However, we had made the fatal mistake of camping the night before. If you’ve read my previous posts, you’ll know that I detest camping. A night spent shivering on a slowly deflating airbed whilst being forced to listen to the party mix of some moronic caravan dwellers soon changed my mind about the rather ambitious day of hiking ahead of us.* Instead we opted for what I knew was an ‘easier’ route; the ascent from the car park at Latrigg. We would still take in Skiddaw, Little Man and Latrigg and could come back another day to do the ridge.
In preparation for our adventure we demolished two huge breakfasts. Pete likes to stock up in the morning – the first time he and I ever went camping together (Snowdonia, 2011) he spent at least an hour loading up on crumpets and cheese scones as if he would never eat again. It was such a strange thing to witness so early in our relationship that I captured the moment for posterity:
There is definitely fear behind that smile. He also used to put tabasco on everything: luckily these days are now almost behind us.
So, after a hearty breakfast and with our engines well-stoked, we set off for the fells. But first, we had to find the car park. The narrow road out of Keswick takes you up a steep hill that is so long it makes you question whether you can actually drive all the way to the summit. Out of the blue, a sign appears saying ‘Skiddaw’ and directs you to make a very sharp right – a good place to practice your handbrake turns if you are so inclined. We reached a small car park on the left and stopped, thinking how lucky we were to have got the last space. Suited and booted (or so I thought … more on that later) we marched up the tarmac road which carried on steeply up the hill.
Ten minutes later, already sweating, we reached the actual car park at the end of the road … it turns out we’d parked behind a hotel about half way up. Idiots.
This marked the start of the walk (I was already puffing away, Pete said to think of it as a warm-up rather than a cock-up). We spent five minutes or so trying to figure out where the path to Skiddaw began (there are a number of paths going off in different directions) and started up the hill … to Latrigg. Those of you who know the area will be aware that this is in completely the opposite direction to where we were meant to be going. After another five minutes considering that the mountains behind us looked far higher than the hill we were heading to, we asked a friendly American couple if we were headed the right way.
“No, you’re not” said the woman, with an expression of pity clearly reserved for morons like us.
“You want to go up there,” said the man, pointing towards a very clear zig-zag path up the steep side of the mountain behind us.
“No, I don’t.” I said, when I turned and saw this:
Shit. Look at it.
We walked tentatively towards the towering slope. At the bottom was an interesting monument: this is the Hawell Monument, dedicated to two nineteenth-century shepherds and thought to be erected by one of the co-founders of the National Trust. Presumably the Hawell shepherds took one look at the hill in front of them and died on the spot.
There was a sheep licking the stone in a rather deliberate and creepy manner when we got there:
The hill itself is known as Jenkin Hill. It is by far the most gruelling, mentally knackering slog up a hill I have ever faced. It just keeps going on and on and on and there’s really nothing to do but trudge: no changing views, no rivers to cross, no trees to cling on to or wildlife to pretend to study whilst you catch your breath. Just a rocky path that keeps on going up.
I couldn’t even do my usual ‘photo’ stops because when you’ve looked over your shoulder at Derwent Water once, it pretty much stays the same all the way to the top.
Instead I stopped multiple times to catch my breath, each time feeling the onset of a Wainwright wobble (and possibly a bout of vomiting) developing within me. About half way up it manifested itself into some frustrated sobs.
Like a small child I tried every excuse to return to the car: “I feel sick. I feel faint. I need a wee.” Then a little later and a little more forcefully, “I am going to be sick. I am going to pass out. I am going to piss myself. I am going to die.” When none of these petitions succeeded in shattering the rock that is Pete’s determination to get me up mountains, I merely focused on slowly putting one foot in front of the other, head bowed in submission, muttering terrible things under my breath about Pete, about Skiddaw and about my total inability to just push through ‘the wall.’ Lots of people overtook us and I mentally gave each one of them the finger for having better stamina than I could muster.
Finally, though, we made it to the top of the hill and the next section was blissfully flat(ter). As you can see, Pete has his eyes closed in this picture. At this point he was either having a moment of Zen, now that my complaining had finally ceased, or he was envisaging how he could dispose of my body in such an exposed public place.
You can also see that he was, once again, dressed for some kind of hipster beach party rather than for the mountains. It was windy up there and I pulled on my coat.
“Aren’t you going to put your coat on?” I asked.
“Forgot to bring it.” He replied.
Cue another tirade of abuse on my part. Fun fact: you can die of exposure on a windy mountain even if the weather is mild at the bottom. I reminded him of this. Then I said we would have to go back down the infernal hill now that I had received this new information because it was only going to get windier and colder higher up.
But after all the tears and effort we’d put in to climbing up “shit hill” so far, he wasn’t going to give up that easily. He put on his jumper instead and assured me that he would ‘just not stop walking.’ I let him get on with it, knowing I had my survival bag to wrap him in if worst came to worst (I secretly revelled in the fact that I might be proven right about carrying it with me on every trip and also at the prospect of Pete walking to the summit dressed in a fluorescent orange bin bag and a backwards cap).
Have another look at the picture above. Many people, when they get to this point, think that the summit in front of them must be Skiddaw. They are wrong. It’s Skiddaw Little Man.
We decided to skirt round to the right of the Little Man and push on to the main summit along a flatter path (I think my exact words were “F*ck that, I’m not going up there after climbing that hill.”) We had to walk quickly now because I became convinced that Pete was going to get hypothermia, even though there were many people around us similarly walking in their t-shirts. We stopped very briefly in a sheltered spot behind the Little Man so I could take a photo of what I thought might be Blencathra (is it?):
Once you pass round the back of Little Man the main event comes into view and another steep (but shorter) hill takes you up to the summit. Unfortunately, my iPhone died (again) at this point. It seems to do this when it gets blown around in my pocket by the wind, hence the need for my second, emergency mobile phone (an indestructible Nokia 3310) tucked into the main part of my backpack. Pete and I were not quite on speaking terms yet so I couldn’t borrow his phone to take pictures of the path to the summit. But I can tell you that it was windy, steep and I had to stop … a lot. To make matters worse, each stop was limited to about ten seconds to prevent Pete getting too cold.
When you reach the top you haven’t technically summited yet because Skiddaw has four summits. The highest is the furthest one from this point but the walk to it is flat and over a rocky plateau that feels other-worldly. In our elation at reaching the unusually clear summit, Pete and I reconciled and he leant me his phone so I could snap a few pictures.
Here’s one of the Back O’Skiddaw, looking North West towards the ridge I had wanted to ascend at the start of the day (Ullock Pike, Long Side, Carl Side).
The lake you can see is Bassenthwaite Lake (the only ‘Lake’ in the Lake District) and if you squint you might be able to make out the Solway Firth in the distance.
Here’s the view looking back along the path we had climbed, with Skiddaw Little Man in the distance:
And here is the view of Keswick and Derwent Water from a bit higher up, looking South West. You can see Catbells to the right of the lake:
Pete was getting cold (I did warn him) so we didn’t stick around for any longer than we had to at the summit after we had taken the obligatory hands-on-trig-point shot:
We marched back down to the bottom of Skiddaw Little Man and I decided that I couldn’t bear to walk back up Jenkin Hill ever again so we had to climb Little Man today and get it over with. The misery of the previous hour had been almost forgotten at this point and I practically bounded up to the top, which offered some fabulous views and a snazzy cairn:
As we descended the Little Man we found a sheltered spot out of the wind where we could sit for a while and have a small snack without fear of Pete turning blue. A family of three passed us on their way up. They looked like I had felt earlier that day.
“Is this the top of Skiddaw then dad?” asked the young boy.
“Yes, I think so” replied his father.
“I hope so” said his mother.
Fools, I thought.
By the time we got back to the car park (where we hadn’t parked, of course) and after a long, knee-grinding descent back down the zig-zag path, we decided that Latrigg could wait for another day.
We had conquered “shit hill” and his little brother and I could now happily admire them from afar again, feeling glad of three things:
that I made it up there without vomiting or wetting myself
that Pete hadn’t succumbed to hypothermia and
that we would never have to climb Jenkin Hill again as long as we both lived.
I could get back to loving Skiddaw once more.
*I am not in any way suggesting that caravan owners in general are moronic. Indeed, I always envy them their solid beds when I am camping in a tent.
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