Thursday 14 April 2016

Latrigg The Hard Way

Hyperdog Moss on the summit of mighty Latrigg

‘So where exactly has Fellbound been?  Do tell, please do.’

I am sure this is a common cry across the blogosphere. Why did his blog go quiet for so long?  Well, I have always meant this to be a blog about my walking exploits, such as they are, and there have been precious little of these of late.  I did think of posting random ramblings “The thoughts of Fellbound”, in which I would share my very valuable, insightful and completely reasonable, moderate and unprejudiced views on matters of great import to this fine country of ours, but decided that these could wait until I am chosen by a popular and understandable clamour to be supreme ruler of the universe.
Desperate for a drink, Moss heads down to Whit Beck, stopping only to eat sheep dung
A failed attempt to drink the beck dry

Without going into all the extremely interesting details which would have readers on the edge of their seats with excitement, my legs and various other parts of my anatomy have been misbehaving for some months now.  As I mentioned on twitter (and I beg your pardon in advance for this) the correct medical terminology is that they are “fucked”, as confirmed by our very wonderful NHS.  Wonderful, apart from the waiting lists, that is, and one or two other things which I will also need to sort when I become the Supreme Ruler.  So, a word to the wise.  If you work in one of the NHS teams which determines appointments, I suggest you buck your ideas up.  Pronto.  We can’t have a Supreme Ruler with wobbly legs made out of jelly, can we?  That would be most undignified.

What I was coming round to say is this.  Over the last three weeks the legs have not mucked me around so much.  This means that either I have miraculously cured myself (I do lay my hands on my person at every opportunity) or I am in remission from the lurgy that was afflicting them.  The long and short of this is that this week I got up two mighty Cumbrian Hills.  Which gives me an excuse to brag about my exploits.
If you look carefully, you can see Moss in the distance topping out on Beacon Pike. We had ascended by the NW Ridge and here had just joined the main tourist route
We always have a game of "fetch green rubber stick" as a reward for our efforts at scaling The Beacon.  It's a tradition in the Fellbound household
The hills in question were Beacon Hill (or Beacon Pike according to most locals) which is 286 metres above seal level, and Latrigg near Keswick, which climbs to a lung busting 368 metres above seal level.  I climbed both of them alpine style, and so did not use oxygen or fixed ropes (Moss’ lead doesn’t count).  The photographs tell only part of the story.  They show the fierce terrain but nothing, neither words nor pictures, can adequately explain the endurance and determination needed, and the rigours and hardships endured by my hairy partner and I as we battled through the elements (sunny spells and a bit blowy on Latrigg; drizzle and slightly misty on the Beacon) to achieve our goal.  Why did we do it?  It’s simple. Because they are there.

Descending the little used West Route from the summit of Beacon Pike

The Penrith gallows, where wrong uns were done to death in the olden days, were situated in this small quarry. I suspect that the blurry photograph is the result of paranormal goings on that I skillfully captured with the camera of my smartphone


  1. Good Lord! They're like buses - None for weeks on end then two at once!
    Careful now.

    1. I did have a long lie down after writing this. It can be so exhausting bashing away at the old Remington. And no, that isn't a euphemism.

  2. You could start a new long distance route. The Wibbly wobbly way. I can vouch to be a contender.

    1. Alan! Good to hear from you. As I am ageing rapidly I think the Wibbly Dribbly Way might be more appropriate.

  3. Supreme Ruler of the Universe, eh?

    Shelley had a few things to say about that...

    I met a traveller from an antique land,
    Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of jelly
    Stand in the peat hags. . . . Near them, in the bog,
    Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose belly,
    And wrinkled toes, and sneer of cold command,
    Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
    Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
    The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
    And on the pedestal, these words appear:
    My name is David Williams, King of Kings;
    Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
    Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
    Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
    The lone and level bogs stretch far away.

    1. Goodness me, Alan. There aren't many men who would dare edit Shelley. I'm not certain that Ozymandias would approve, but I appreciate your erudite response to my post. Perhaps a less profound rejoinder to my desired elevated status would be this poem from Roger McGough:

      I wanna be the leader
      I wanna be the leader
      Can I be the leader?
      Can I? I can?
      Promise? Promise?
      Yippee I'm the leader
      I'm the leader.
      OK what shall we do?

      Enjoy your Pre-Walk Daunder :-)

    2. Shelley was okay, in his day. But he does need bringing up to date. I think Mr McGough might well be the man.

      Ta, David.