The Accidental Tourist

So, having made it to the Lakes and having an outline plan to do certain walks, without the satisfaction of travelling completely on foot, I set out to catch a bus at 8.13 to get me into Windermere for a long breakfast at B's and plenty of time to jump on the bus to Patterdale. Easy? In theory, yes, but you underestimate my ability to introduce random acts of muppetry into any plan.

Having leaped out of bed, shoved the necessary into my rucksack and hiked the mile or so to Newby Bridge, I just hopped on the first bus that turned up and headed off in completely the wrong direction. This isn't as stupid as it first sounds as, at this stop, the buses come from the same direction and some of them turn round again and head back the way they came. Being half asleep, not having had my usual three pints of strong black coffee before I engage with the world and without breakfast it is just about understandable.

Luckily my prolonged study of the Lakes Rider and a late running Patterdale bus got me back on course and eating a bacon butty in Glenridding with only a slight detour via Kendal, home of Q's Mint Cake and Black Drop (a mixture of opium and brandy much favoured by the romantic poets of the day, although Wordsworth preferred a nice cup of tea.)

Only slightly delayed I headed off up Helvellyn. The particular attraction of this route are two knife-edge ridges formed by glaciers setting off in opposite directions (much like the 618 and x35 bus services.) The fashion is to walk up Striding Edge and down Swirral Edge as the path is too narrow for walkers and baggage to pass in two directions at once. The downside is having made the scramble onto the first peak of Striding Edge the walker encounters the Dixon memorial which helpfully points out that the reader is standing on the very spot where this unfortunate gentleman plummeted to his doom in 1858. The plain cast-iron support of the plaque has been worn smooth by the arms of countless hikers who have discovered a sudden taste for vertigo and embraced it.

After a brief spell of memorial hugging and with no companion to pry me loose I continue on my way. The low cloud makes the trip easier if anything as the sheer drop on either side of the ridge is hidden. To be honest generations of chickens have worn a slightly less exposed route just beneath the crest of the ridge and it's comforting to have a sheer drop on just one side. The only real bit of unpleasantness on the route is a bad step at the end, I don't mind scrambling up rock but I do hate scrambling down it. At this point the cloud that I'd been walking in for the last hour decided to open and, on setting foot on the summit, was greeted by another memorial to further dampen my spirits.

The Gough memorial is earlier and has a more interesting tale behind it:

Charles Gough was a tourist who visited this spot in 1805. The taste in landscapes in the late 18th and early 19th century was changing; previous generations had feared wild mountain scenery and preferred rolling meadows fit for cattle and with a gradient of less than 1 in 3. Increased urbanisation, an emerging middle-class with the funds to visit the alps and the romantic movement had led to a reappraisal of these views and wild 'natural' landscapes came into vogue. Poets and painters were drawn to Cumbria by the rugged scenery and ready availability of opiates. Tourists inspired by their works soon followed.

Gough, accompanied by a spaniel (is the technical term for an aspiring poet's hound a doggerel?) climbed Helvellyn and, while consulting his copy of the Lakes Rider to determine if he could make Watendlath by closing time, was taken by a sudden gust of wind and blown over the edge. He bounced twice on the scree and came to a halt on the shores of Red Tarn. The dog patiently trotted down the mountain, sat by his master's side and was eventually discovered by a shepherd 3 months later. The hound's fidelity was immortalised in paint by Landseer and Danby and in verse by Wordsworth and Tennyson. The more cynical commentators of the day observed that the dog had slightly more meat on his bones (and Gough slightly less) than should be expected after his vigil.

Keeping a wary eye on the edge I dropped down over Nethermost Pike and Dollywaggon to Grizedale Tarn and Grasmere. Keeping a wary hand on my wallet I waited for the return bus at Dove Cottage. The dislike of mountain scenery by previous generations was partly due to the belief that the fells were inhabited by bandits. To be fair this was true then and the descendants of the thieving bastards of the 18th century now run pubs and guest-houses in Grasmere.

Hostel Intent

There's an (almost) fail-safe technique to planning which has stood me in good stead over the years. It involves procrastinating for weeks on end, mulling over various options without making any real decisions and then swinging into action at the last minute. The theory is that you've weighed the options and the decisions will be instinctive and right... I did say (almost) fail-safe and in this instance every hostel I'd planned to stay at over the weekend was booked solid for the next few weeks.

As I put the phone down after the third fruitless conversation and despair was starting to set in my eyes lit on my dog-eared (more on dogs tomorrow) copy of the Lakes Rider. The LR contains the details of every bus timetable in the national park and is a constant companion in my pack; as a result it's as rain-sodden as my britches, slightly mildewed and covered in arcane calculations to determine if it's possible to get to Watendlath at Witsun.

And so plans change and plots thicken. I was hoping to walk through from Penrith over the Roman road, climb Helvellyn, have a lazy day in Grasmere, maybe do the Langdales and then chill at the cabin for a couple of days. As it turned out I kipped at the cabin and ran round like a lunatic catching buses for 5 days and making ever more cryptic scribbles on the pages of the Lakes Rider.

Regardless the trip confirmed that the planned route is worth repeating and turned up some hidden gems that I wouldn't otherwise have passed (the Mortal Man Inn at Troutbeck is definitely in for a visit soon), the sight of Llamas amongst the Herdwicks, the discovery of relics from the last ice age in Windermere and the ability of Cumbrian sheep to do a creditable impression of a stone circle from a distance.

Travelling to Cumbria via the coast line has its own pleasures too and I've developed the knack of looking up at just the right time coming out of Lancaster to see the first glimpse of the fells over the tree-tops, then the long wait to see the full panorama of jagged peaks across Morcombe Bay. A pint at the Hole int' Wall and a ferry ride to Lakeside isn't a bad way to start a holiday so things were starting to improve.

The Sun Also Rises

It's important to remember that somewhere in the world the sun is shining brightly and the sea really is turquoise under a cerulean sky. It's particularly important to remember it when you've just spent 2 hours sanding down window frames, applying masking tape and, just as you're stirring the paint... it starts to rain! Bugger.

So ducked in doors and spent a few idle minutes going back through the photos from my last trip to Pembrokeshire which was the last time the sun shone in this country. Ah well, off up to the Lakes on Wednesday to play on the fells.

Sourdough diary: Bring me the bread of Alfredo Garcia

Spot's big day...

Last night I tipped Spot (my sourdough starter) into a large plastic bowl, added half a mug of flour and half a mug of water to the mix and waited for it to prove. According to the experts a white foam should form when the job's done and I was expecting something like the head on a pint but came down this morning to find a thin layer of bubbles on top.

Usually bread making is therapeutic for me but this was a nerve-wracking time waiting to see if the care (and occasional neglect) of the starter had paid off. I didn't hold out much hope to be honest but, reserving some of the mix for another attempt, I tipped in a mug and a half of flour and started to knead. There are all kinds of variations to the recipe but I wanted to keep things simple to give the yeast a fighting chance and get an idea of the unadulterated flavour of the bread before faffing about with it too much.

I pottered about for a bit in the garden and kept checking in on it and, it rose! With commercial yeast this usually takes an hour or so for the dough to double in size so I left it for a good two hours.

Feeling a bit more confident now I kneaded the dough again and left it another two hours to rise. At this point the dough needs handling with care to avoid knocking the air out of it, just gently shaping it into a rough ball and folding the dough under to stretch its skin. This gives the loaf a smooth crust like a freshly-botoxed, fading celebrity. I stood back to admire my handiwork and, making a few tentative moulinets with the bread knife, carved a swashbuckling Z for Zorro in the crust.

40 minutes in the oven and my first sourdough loaf emerged golden and crusty. Now this is the really difficult bit. The temptation is almost overwhelming to carve a slice off it, spread it with butter and scoff it down while it's still hot from the oven but previous experience has taught me this will only give me indigestion. I have to take myself off up to M's to buy the makings of a frugal supper (Mushrooms a la Spot) and give the loaf time to cool but timing is crucial here... I want the loaf to be warm enough to melt the butter for the first slice, 45 minutes ought to do it.

While I was up there I bought a new home for Spot, an airtight plastic tub that he can occupy in the fridge. He's been living in an assortment of old jars and margarine tubs while I've been feeding him but, now he's feeding me, it's only fair that he should live in style. Now this is the bit I love about sourdough, all I have to do next weekend is tip him out, let him get up to room temperature and feed him to start the whole process off again. When I go on holiday I can just freeze him and resuscitate him when I get back, in fact he's virtually indestructable. After a nuclear holocaust the cockroaches, politicians (sorry I'm repeating myself) and sourdough starters will rule the earth!

And yes it tastes as good as it looks. I just saw my neighbour D riding past on his broomstick, wonder if he'd like a slice?

(More photos of Spot and the construction of the loaf in my gallery, I'm off to make garlic mushrooms on sourdough bruschetta... gaaaaarrll!)

Sourdough diary: Shout at the Breville

On death by PowerPoint and mouldy old dough:

I'd started to suspect that making sourdough wasn't as exciting as I'd first thought, feeding Spot night after night with no apparent change in his condition or temperament. Could it be possible that no wild yeast survives in the murky atmosphere of Manchester? To this end I'd cut back on feeding Spot to check that I wasn't diluting the yeast.

I've also been busy on a presentation skills course the last couple of days, bellowing "a proper cup of coffee from a proper copper coffee pot" at the top of my lungs and learning to be faster than a speeding bullet point. So, coming home last night I checked in on Spot and, joy of joys, he was frothing and bubbling like the more industrialised stretches of the River Irwell. The reduced feed and the odd stray beam of sunlight that we've had over the last couple of days seems to have done him a power of good.

There was a disturbing band of mould at the top of his home though so I hastily decanted him into a spare tub and fed him again to perk up his immune system. Hopefully this will have staved off ergot poisoning but, if I start denouncing witches in my future blogs, please send an ambulance. This morning though he had a pleasing layer of hooch and, when I stirred this in, he now has a very satisfying beery taste and smell.

Tomorrow, Spot's first loaf...

Sourdough diary: To the Breville a Doughter

On the care and feeding of sourdough starters...

Just fed Spot, my faithfull sourdough starter and he's already a healthy butter-milk colour with a faint smell of vanilla. The process is simple, just tip out half of the mix, top up with the same amount of flour and warm water and stir it in. The problem I've got is: what do I do with the spare mix?

If I wash it down the drain there's a risk it will bung up the works and enrage UU or at worst could mutate into a giant dough monster and decimate the leafy suburbs of Manchester. ("What happened here Constable?" "Don't know Sarge, when I got here Old Trafford had been trashed and there was a faint smell of yeast on the breeze.")

In simpler times I would have just given the extra to a friend or neighbour but I don't think D or C would appreciate the gesture of a small jar of gunk. There are instances where sourdough starters have been kept alive for decades and left to people in wills though the smart widows still hold out for cold, hard cash.

I spent a bit of time googling the sourdough tradition in my dinner hour and apparently it was all the rage in the California gold rush (second only in popularity to gold.) The prospectors were called sourdoughs because of their taste for it and would eat it whenever they weren't otherwise engaged being hornswoggled by four-flushing, hornery varmints.

Sourdough diary: The Breville Rides Out

Day one in the sourdough house: Mike has gone to the diary room...

It may sound dull as dough but I've always been interested in making bread. There's something about the smell of a fresh-baked loaf that gets me drooling like a Simpson when it comes out of the oven. I came across a thread on the Backcountry Gourmet tribe the other day about sourdough baking and spent a bit of time googling around the subject in an idle hour. The recipe mentioned using yeast but I found out that you can kick start the process using just flour and water, the theory being that in amongst the anthrax, sulphur dioxide and asbestos strands there is wild yeast floating around in our atmosphere.

So, to this end I dropped half a mug (I don't do cups) of flour and some lukewarm water into an old beetroot jar and left it standing on the kitchen window to brew. I have decided to call him Spot.

(Ok, be honest, do I have too much time on my hands?)

The unbearable smugness of being right

It's wierd how a smell or a line from a song can take you back decades to a distant memory and put you right back into that moment. Mine came this week from thumbing through a trail guide in W's and glimpsing "... parrots ..." as the page flew past. The human brain has a remarkable ability to capture an event that the eye hardly registers and trigger a chain of associations to drag a memory from the depths.

After a walk I usually take a few weeks out to reflect on my blisters, get used to sleeping in a bed and eating things that haven't been freeze-dried. Round about the three week mark though I start to get itchy feet and lurk in bookshops looking for the next route and this is how I came to be standing in W's flicking through Martin Wainwright's new guide to the late, great Alfred Wainwright's Coast-to-Coast walk (not sure if they're related, remind me to google this later.) The glimpse of the word "parrots" took me back 6 years to a long night in the Bluebell at Ingleby Cross discussing the subject of tropical birds on the Cumbria/Yorkshire border as I flicked back through the book to the section about Kirkby Stephen and read the line "Don't be surprised to meet parrots here."

The conversation in the Bluebell covered the usual gossip about who had dropped out and who'd seen who on the longest day of the walk. There was a bitter/sweet atmosphere of "Oh crap/Yaay we've done the hardest bit of the walk and are only three days from the end." At which point I casually asked the question "Did you see the parrots in Kirkby Stephen?" (for the benefit of our American readers, please substitute "penguin" for "parrot" and "Death Valley" for "Kirkby Stephen".) The rest of the conversation went something like this:

"Eh?"
"I said 'Did you see the parrots in Kirkby Stephen?'"
"Parrots?"
"Yes, parrots"
"In Kirkby Stephen?"
"Aye, coming out of town past the quarry. About 8 or 9 parrots flew out of a stand of pines as I walked past"
"Are you sure they weren't magpies?"
"Look I know what you mean, short stubby wings and long tails but these were much bigger and had parrot beaks"
"You know magpies can look blue or green if the sun hits them from the right angle"
"I know but some of these were red and like I say, much too big to be magpies"
"Do you want another pint?"
"Yeah Ok, now about these parrots..."
"Are you sure they weren't magpies?"

And so it went. Today I finally had the courage to google the phrase "parrot kirkby stephen" and 6 years on can now confirm that my marbles are intact. There's a bloke out that way called John Strutt who has collected them from breeders over the years and operates a kind of avine open house for parrots and parakeets, letting them fly free or roost when the weather sets in. By all reports they are no threat to tourists but vistors to the area are advised to keep a firm hold of their chips.

Next week's plan

Well, the monstrous bulk of my rucksack is lurking in the corner of the bedroom ready for my next fun-packed jaunt. 186 miles around the coast of Pembrokeshire... see you all in a couple of weeks.

Doh!

The English Lake District is so beautiful and tranquil that it soothes away all the stresses and strains of modern urban living until... you forget to put your watch forward when BST kicks in and end up missing the s*dding train in Cark!