The C2C Trail, Part 4: Well, This Has Gone Surprisingly Awry

Oh, hi there. Allow me to relight the fire (a campfire, for it is summer) and fetch you a beverage of your choice. I believe I promised a story a couple of months ago, and yet here we are. The Monster Behind the Evaporation of Time did its thing again!

But back to the long walk, and a tale about things going awry – an oddly accurate reflection of my current state but in a very different way.

Have you ever felt as if the universe (or perhaps God, or whatever force is out there) places things and people in your path for a reason? All the best stories have some sense of this – a protagonist struggling along and encountering challenge after challenge, but also allies, and gifts and traps along the way. It’s all very synchronistic.

During this tale, the protagonist (moi) encounters four naysayers. And some gingerbread.

Naysayer 1

It was my first night on the trail, and I had just completed my first 24km march to Ennerdale Bridge. I had planned to cook some soup with my little camping stove, but the pub menu posted outside The Fox and Hounds Inn was too enticing. Lasagna, fish and chips, roast beef, minty lamb pie. I wanted all of it. I quickly set up my tent in their beer garden next to a little creek and wandered in just as it started raining.

There I spotted a few people I recognized from the trail, and they beckoned me over. We spoke about tomorrow’s trail over some malty pints, and someone asked which route we were all taking to Rosthwaite – the high or low road. I said I was considering the high road, which is an intimidating collection of peaks, rather than the low road, which hugs the lakeshore.

One of the men I was speaking with immediately shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “With a full backpack, in rain, no. I wouldn’t advise it at all.” He was a good hiker and familiar with the area, and I took the seriousness of his advice on board almost without making a conscious decision.

So the next day, I took the low road. I was grateful for this, because it’s how I met Helena, and honestly, there were enough hills that day without adding more, and a good dollop of rain to boot.

Naysayer 2

But the universe is conniving, it is. 

Two evenings later, I was in Grasmere tucking into some roast beef and mashed potatoes, contemplating the next day. My route would lead me up a pass to Grisedale Tarn and down to the other side to the town of Patterdale. Up at the tarn, there is access to a peak called Helvellyn – a spectacular, narrow ridge with an incredible view if you’re lucky to catch it in good weather. 

My plan was to leave early enough to drop my heavy backpack at the tarn and summit the peak if the weather was good. But when I voiced this plan over dinner to the two guys I was eating with, I was met with concern. Did I know how high the peak was? One of the men had hiked it a few years ago, and had found himself in total fog and bad, slippery conditions. He was disoriented and it had taken him a long time to get down – he was clearly shaken by the memory of his experience.

I thanked him for letting me know and decided to spend the next morning in Grasmere instead, with a woman named Olivia who I had met in a hostel the night before. That evening, as I reviewed the next two days of hiking, I decided to make a last-second tweak to my plans. 

My original plan was to stay in Patterdale the following evening, but my accommodation had fallen through and everything else was expensive. The trail after Patterdale was going to be both steep and long, so I decided to add an extra 6km to my next day instead, walking beyond Patterdale up to Angle Tarn, to wild camp there for free.

Olivia and I enjoyed the town of Grasmere the following morning. It is a quaint, peaceful, and elegant place. We visited William Wordsworth’s grave and the famed Grasmere Gingerbread Shop, which has been in operation since 1854. They sell one thing – a giant block of gingerbread, which is dense and heavy enough that I hefted it in one hand, contemplating the weight it would add to my pack. Olivia and I enjoyed a coffee together, shared travel stories, and I left at about 2pm.

Naysayer 3

As I took the first few steps up the trail, I came across two men hiking in the opposite direction. “Are you going to Patterdale today?” one of them asked me. When I said yes, the other raised his eyebrows. “You’re leaving a bit late with that thing,” he commented, nodding at my backpack. “You’d better get a hustle on.”

This time, I felt a flicker of irritation. After all, it was the third time I had either benignly voiced my plans, or casually asked for others’ advice, and the third time my plans had been cast in doubt. But I carried on in good spirits.

The valley that led up from Grasmere to Grisedale Tarn was a perfect grade, allowing me to make great time and also gain a considerable amount of elevation. When I humped my backpack over the edge of Grisedale, I was amazed at the view. Pure sun, Helvellyn in full view. I set my backpack down and ate the packed lunch from my inn. 

I felt an urge to summit Helvellyn despite my late departure, because the weather was so good. Seeing it in person, I shook my head with remorse, but also another feeling – astonishment, because I was having a sudden moment of clarity.

For the first time, perhaps in my life, I saw how easily I had taken on other people’s opinions and completely relinquished my own agency. This realization came with no blame attached, which is what made it different from past experiences.

People are allowed to have their opinions. They’re allowed to express doubt, concern, fear, discouragement, and downright ire or anger in the face of my choices. They’re allowed to want things I don’t want, and bring agendas that I don’t share. They’re even allowed to feel uncomfortable with my perspective or to take my decisions personally – that is up to them. They are allowed to be angry when I do something different than what they would do. 

But it’s entirely up to me to choose what I do with this information, rather than to blow with whatever wind is strongest.

I gazed up at Helvellyn, and I couldn’t believe how easily I had disregarded who I am. I had forgotten, momentarily, that I have been summiting peaks and traversing narrow ridges in the Rocky Mountains since I was a child. Suddenly, I saw myself through other people’s eyes on this journey – a lone woman from across the world, fairly small in stature, with a giant backpack, considering summiting a peak that is pretty intimidating for people unaccustomed to the mountains in my backyard. Those naysayers aren’t bad people – they simply don’t know me.

Only I know me.

Naysayer 4

It was too late for Helvellyn, so I carried on with my new insight down the valley to Patterdale. It was a strikingly beautiful day. My feet were, as you know by now, sore (to say the least), but I couldn’t help stopping to take photos. I ate the remainder of my cold food next to a stream, where I rested with my feet in the refreshing water. I nibbled the edge of my giant block of gingerbread, and it was, indeed, delicious. It was dense, more like Christmas cake than bread – very rich and sweet.

I should mention now that I had packed pasta, soup, coffee, and oatmeal to eat that night and the following morning, as well as a container for extra to eat for lunch the following day. Since you can’t fly with fuel of any kind, I had packed my little screw-on stove and purchased a small camping fuel canister when I arrived. For those who are interested in walking this route, I suggest just packing the cold food you need for the day and foregoing the weight of cooking implements, because there is an abundance of pubs, inns, and small stores along the route. 

I’ll always remember this stretch of trail to Patterdale for the butterflies and the birdsong, and the towering heights with stone walls built straight up the slopes. I would give anything to go back in time to witness whoever had laboured so hard in the wind and the rain to build them.

I staggered into Patterdale for a break and foot rub before my final 6km walk up to Angle Tarn. It was about 7pm by now, and the light was becoming softly golden. I filled up my water bottles at a nearby inn and set off for my final stint, promising my feet that it was only a little further.

But the universe was not done with me yet, friend. 

I was beginning the ascent to the tarn through a small hamlet when I met yet another pair of hikers, again both men, walking in the opposite direction. They nodded politely to me, and I to them. I was ten steps clear of them when one of them stopped me. “Excuse me,” he called to me, “but are you doing the Coast to Coast trail?” I said yes, I was. “I think you meant to stop in Patterdale,” he said. “That’s the town right there.” He pointed down to it, but I was ready this time, and I kept my gaze focused on him.

“I’m carrying on and wild camping at the tarn,” I said in the most neutral voice I could muster. It is a popular place to camp, and they had probably passed it on their way down. The man almost laughed at me.

“This path is really slow,” he warned me, with a small smile on his face. “It’s steep and narrow and muddy. If I were you, I would turn back and find somewhere to stay in Patterdale tonight.” I gave him a long look. Fit, in his forties by my guess, and had just come from the tarn. Even with the gift of my new insight, I hesitated. What if he was right? But I said thanks, and I turned to continue the ascent. 

Not this time, I thought.

The Very Steep and Treacherous Walk

This is when I discovered something very important. And it was not that the trail was super steep, or slow, or muddy, or difficult to navigate. I did not end up wandering in the wilderness, alone in the dark. I did not break down in tears on the side of the trail and wish that I had just listened to the nice man who wanted to help me avoid disaster. No.

The walk was neither too steep nor too treacherous. I learned that the most beautiful time of day to sweat up a mountain is the golden hour, amongst reckless sheep who have the zoomies. The trail was quiet, the wind was nil, the temperature was perfect.

I reached Angle Tarn, which was a magical place, to find a flock of Canada geese drifting around in the water, which I hadn’t expected. It felt quite nostalgic, like a little slice of home. I found a patch of flat grass with no geese poop to pitch my tent, and cracked my knuckles.

Look at me, I thought as I rolled out my tent with satisfaction. I am competent, I am fit, I am smart, and I have a good attitude. I know myself.

Thank you universe, I offered abundantly to the heavens, as I tossed my sleeping bag through the flap. I have now learned that I am amazing and that I shouldn’t fold like a piece of paper under the pressure of other people’s whims.

How beautiful this night is, I thought, as I laid my sleeping mat on the ground, and pulled out my evening clothing. This is where I belong. I, Brittany, am one with nature. I’m basically a forest nymph. Or a moor child. I am so cool.

There was no one to see, so I changed into my evening garb under the sky and splashed my face with water from my bottle. I am good at this, I thought to myself. I am the embodiment of solo adventure. I pulled out my stove to make myself some soup for the first time on the trip. I provide for myself, I thought. I am present, peaceful, and – 

I paused, as I struggled to screw my stove onto the fuel canister I had bought in Glasgow. It wouldn’t thread in. I looked at it closely, and patiently tried again.

It didn’t work.

I shone my flashlight on it and tried again in the light. 

There was no denying it – the two pieces were incompatible.

I had no food.

Well, this has gone surprisingly awry, I thought to myself.

The Gingerbread

Maybe it was because I was tired, or because I was in on some great cosmic joke, but my instinctive reaction was to burst into laughter. 

When I finished laughing, I took stock of my food. Most of it had to be cooked to be even reasonably edible. But I did have some ramen noodles I could eat dry, and, of course, the gingerbread.

So I had gingerbread and dry ramen noodles for dinner. When I awoke, I had gingerbread for breakfast. Gingerbread for a midmorning snack. Gingerbread for lunch. Gingerbread for a midafternoon snack. Finally, as both the town of Shap and dinnertime were approaching, I traded the last of my famed gingerbread for two Babybels with a fellow hiker. And I have to say, I have never enjoyed the taste of soft, salty cheese like I did in that moment.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that people don’t know you. They don’t know what you’re capable of, in the face of challenges in your life, whatever those may be. Often, you don’t know what you’re capable of either, until some proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan.

This is who I am: The kind of girl who goes to the tarn. And then laughs and laughs at my own folly, and cheerfully enjoys some gingerbread. 

And I’m pretty happy about that.

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