Recently @NotJustLakes wanted to know how we all pronounce Scafell, i.e. the Scar vs Scaw debate which I'd recently been having with my mum. The modern pronunciation is Scar (or ska!) - but western roots know it as Scaw. Twitter and Wikipedia quickly confirmed that "Formerly the name was spelled Scawfell, which better reflects local pronunciation." Someone spelled it wrongly on an eighteenth century map; unusually Ordnance Survey didn't reinstate the local pronunciation; visitors and offcomers to the second and third generation start to pronounce it how it's spelled, long-rooted locals, nearby offcomers and the curious pronounce it the old way.
There are Sca*fell Roads all over the county - about half spelled each way - and it's likely that a high proportion of those are estates built in the last 70 years, suggesting that spelling as well as pronunciation isn't long fixed.
That reminded me of Scaws Infants in Penrith - on the Scaws estate - I guess there was Scaws Juniors too (but I was too young,and they merged to become Beaconside. Between Scawfell and the Scaws estate we have two very similar names showing the east and west Viking incursions into Cumbria. Scawfell in the west is from the Norwegian Old Norse skalli fjall, where skalli is shieling (skiul in Danish) or bald (try this) or skagi fjall, where skagi is headland*. Scaws estate in the east, on the other hand, is from skoven, Danish woods (skogen in Norwegian)**
In August's Cumbria Life, Caz Graham suggested that useful things kids should learn at (Cumbrian) schools included "how to say Torpenhow, Bouth, Burgh and Skelwith in a manner that will confuse tourists". Even when you know Burgh, how about the nearby Powburgh beck? Pohbruff? P-ow-bruff?
Earlier in the year, before I left London, Lord Oakeshott asked me over dinner (I worked with his wife; I was amused to have dinner with a lord) whether my home town was pronounced PENrith or penRITH? Given that Virgin Trains and their often Scottish crew, say CarLISLE and penRITH, and that's where I'd most commonly heard the names spoken for 25 years, I found myself uncertain about the town I grew up in. Mum explained: in general in a two-syllable name we stress the first (and wherever possible we put a schwa in the second syllable). So
CARlisle, PENruth, THRELkuld, SCAWfull (allegedly; the 'full' is debated here!), WAZdull, WARcup, etc.
But there's no accounting for Aspatria, of course.
* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scafell_Pike and http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/scaw
**Cumberland & Westmorland, Ancient and modern: the people, dialect, superstitions and customs (1857) Jeremiah Sullivan, p49, p95
Milli fjallanna og fjarðarins
Wednesday 28 September 2016
Wednesday 21 September 2016
To the Mountains
Searching for heather, looking for firth from fell - temporary roads - awesomeness - home and away - peak-bagging - heather mattress - release the hounds
I don't think of heather as being a particularly Lake District plant. I think of it primarily as Highlands and, if pushed, Peak District. I included heather in the colours for my Dancing on the Fells blanket, but wasn't entirely convinced. I'm obviously wrong here - just look at the Skiddaw massif in August - and need to reprogamme myself. I decided it was time to walk up Skiddaw, partly in search of the heather, partly to see the view of the fell from the firth, partly to walk one of the high fells for the first time: my first Furth.
The radio news show is discussing distractions from taking a hands-free phone call – but what about distractions from seeing a buzzard take off and hover over the field beside the road? The first autumn skein of geese flying in? The mountains on a beautiful early autumn morning? Entering the National Park, the view of the back of Skiddaw causes me to pull off the road just to look at it.
On the last stretch of the road to the car park, a Temporary Road Surface sign, which I don’t place too much store by. I had forgotten: when I was a child I thought “temporary” meant “bumpy” because in Cumbria, a temporary road surface was a lumpy one. In this case, “temporary road surface” means “not much road surface at all”. It’s obviously a post-Desmond issue – but having experienced some post-storm roads in Africa, that one really ranked up as a strong contender for the worst road surface I’ve ever encountered. And I encountered it too fast, not having interpreted the sign correctly. Swearing followed.
I assumed that before 9am was early enough to still be able to park , but the parking area was close to full already, noisy and smelling of bacon cooking. The British junior hill-running championships were due to start around 10am. Not only do you need to check the fell weather forecast when planning a trip to the high fells, but also the fell running forecast (and I don’t have a twitter link for that). The marshals have arrived now to set out the course, which is exactly the route I will be taking, as far as Skiddaw Little Man – solitude and serenity will be in short supply today.
500 metres of the 720 of ascent are in the 3km between the car park and Little Man summit, and getting them out of the way at the start dealt with high fell anxiety - can I do it? Yes, no problem!
The walk book says: “Little Man is a great lunch spot with awesome views”. My instant response to the word 'awesome' is, eugh, horrible devalued word. And then I realise it's not being used tritely here: if that’s not awesome, what, in England, is? If we don’t now call those views awesome, is that because we’ve seen too many other higher mountains in other countries? Yes, that view is awesome.
I feel a hymn coming on.
O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hand hath made.
... When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the beck and feel the gentle breeze:
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Yes, I did stand on top of Skiddaw south summit momentarily surrounded by no one and sing part of a hymn out loud. I'm not actively religious these days, but I love the big old hymns. Methodist upbringing.
About 11am, a little later than the forecast had said, low-flying clouds arrive, moisture steaming of the mountain's flanks and forming into small eddying clouds. Along the broad sweep between the south summit at the to summit they sweep up form western flank, cutting off the view. I've encountered this in the Julian Alps but I haven't explored my own back yard to meet it here before.
The final approach to the summit is increasingly crowded as people come up from the other faces. Some are clock-watching; one father and daughter couple have a chat while they catch their breath, ask my to take a photo of them with their hands on the trig point, and hare off in another direction. I don't understand the attraction of peak-bagging. I understand the completist aspect, of course, but not the enjoyment of doing it. I want the time to stop and wonder, not to tick off the next summit. I'm only here today for the curiosity of the high fell and the desire to see the firth from here; really I'd rather be over there in the much quieter, but lower, back o'Skiddaw fells, with the wheatears and the last swallows of summer.
The clouds are still largely obscuring my village, so I hide out in one of the summit sheepfolds away from the crowds, eat my lunch and wait for it to lift.
As I pass Little Man from below on the return leg, the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter. In King's Cross there are police helicopters every night – that's situation normal. And for the year and a bit before the migration the London hospital I worked in had a helipad on the roof - a helicopter is bad news but situation normal. In Cumbria – bad news, not situation normal. The air ambulance circles once then lands carefully just over the saddle behind Little Man, and it’s the best part of an hour before it takes off again.
Lonscale Fell is much more deserted than the Skiddaws, and the day is getting hotter. After soggy bog on the way, what looks like bog around the east summit turns out to be dry and cushiony - very comfortable for September sunbathing. As is the heather mattress a little further down - mostly finished flowering, but springy and comfortable. Although the 45 degree angle might make sleep tricky.
Across the valley, there are ten parascenders hanging out. From my heather bed I'm reminded of a former colleague's story. On a countryside adventure with a partner, they decided to take advantage of the solitude (and no doubt the heather bed) to get intimate. They didn't notice the parascenders - but the parascenders noticed them. As they found out in the pub that evening. Blushes.
After a steep barefoot descent, I'm surprised to see a huge number of cars parked - they seem to have overflowed the designated parking area and parked in a field, surprisingly. The path swings back a bit to cross Whit beck, taking the cars out of view. After crossing the beck, I'm approaching the corner which will give on to the car park when I suddenly hear a galloping sound. A moment later, a pack of hounds turns the corner towards me at full tilt. As a child I read that if confronted by a stampede of elephant, the correct procedure is to stand still pretending to be a tree (I was never sure whether I should stick my arms out or not) and the short-sighted elephants would just go round you. This also works with Lakeland foxhounds.
Note: Six hours. Baseline 5hrs for 13km plus 700m of ascent; add half an hour waiting for the cloud to lift to see the firth and half an hour sunbathing in the heather.
I don't think of heather as being a particularly Lake District plant. I think of it primarily as Highlands and, if pushed, Peak District. I included heather in the colours for my Dancing on the Fells blanket, but wasn't entirely convinced. I'm obviously wrong here - just look at the Skiddaw massif in August - and need to reprogamme myself. I decided it was time to walk up Skiddaw, partly in search of the heather, partly to see the view of the fell from the firth, partly to walk one of the high fells for the first time: my first Furth.
The radio news show is discussing distractions from taking a hands-free phone call – but what about distractions from seeing a buzzard take off and hover over the field beside the road? The first autumn skein of geese flying in? The mountains on a beautiful early autumn morning? Entering the National Park, the view of the back of Skiddaw causes me to pull off the road just to look at it.
 |
| Autumn morning Skiddaw |
On the last stretch of the road to the car park, a Temporary Road Surface sign, which I don’t place too much store by. I had forgotten: when I was a child I thought “temporary” meant “bumpy” because in Cumbria, a temporary road surface was a lumpy one. In this case, “temporary road surface” means “not much road surface at all”. It’s obviously a post-Desmond issue – but having experienced some post-storm roads in Africa, that one really ranked up as a strong contender for the worst road surface I’ve ever encountered. And I encountered it too fast, not having interpreted the sign correctly. Swearing followed.
 |
| Temporary road surface |
I assumed that before 9am was early enough to still be able to park , but the parking area was close to full already, noisy and smelling of bacon cooking. The British junior hill-running championships were due to start around 10am. Not only do you need to check the fell weather forecast when planning a trip to the high fells, but also the fell running forecast (and I don’t have a twitter link for that). The marshals have arrived now to set out the course, which is exactly the route I will be taking, as far as Skiddaw Little Man – solitude and serenity will be in short supply today.
 |
| Shepherd's memorial |
500 metres of the 720 of ascent are in the 3km between the car park and Little Man summit, and getting them out of the way at the start dealt with high fell anxiety - can I do it? Yes, no problem!
 |  |
| Central fells with heather | Derwent water without Keswick |
The walk book says: “Little Man is a great lunch spot with awesome views”. My instant response to the word 'awesome' is, eugh, horrible devalued word. And then I realise it's not being used tritely here: if that’s not awesome, what, in England, is? If we don’t now call those views awesome, is that because we’ve seen too many other higher mountains in other countries? Yes, that view is awesome.
 |
I feel a hymn coming on.
O Lord my God! When I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works Thy hand hath made.
... When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the beck and feel the gentle breeze:
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
Yes, I did stand on top of Skiddaw south summit momentarily surrounded by no one and sing part of a hymn out loud. I'm not actively religious these days, but I love the big old hymns. Methodist upbringing.
About 11am, a little later than the forecast had said, low-flying clouds arrive, moisture steaming of the mountain's flanks and forming into small eddying clouds. Along the broad sweep between the south summit at the to summit they sweep up form western flank, cutting off the view. I've encountered this in the Julian Alps but I haven't explored my own back yard to meet it here before.
 |  |
| Inversion over Bassenthwaite lake | Westwards |
The final approach to the summit is increasingly crowded as people come up from the other faces. Some are clock-watching; one father and daughter couple have a chat while they catch their breath, ask my to take a photo of them with their hands on the trig point, and hare off in another direction. I don't understand the attraction of peak-bagging. I understand the completist aspect, of course, but not the enjoyment of doing it. I want the time to stop and wonder, not to tick off the next summit. I'm only here today for the curiosity of the high fell and the desire to see the firth from here; really I'd rather be over there in the much quieter, but lower, back o'Skiddaw fells, with the wheatears and the last swallows of summer.
 |
 |
 |
| Salehow beck/River Caldew | Towards Skiddaw house YH, with heather | Salehow beck/River Caldew |
The clouds are still largely obscuring my village, so I hide out in one of the summit sheepfolds away from the crowds, eat my lunch and wait for it to lift.
 |  |
| Firth from Fell over Skiddaw flank | Firth from Fell over Skiddaw north |
 |
| Firth from Fell with Blencathra |
As I pass Little Man from below on the return leg, the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter. In King's Cross there are police helicopters every night – that's situation normal. And for the year and a bit before the migration the London hospital I worked in had a helipad on the roof - a helicopter is bad news but situation normal. In Cumbria – bad news, not situation normal. The air ambulance circles once then lands carefully just over the saddle behind Little Man, and it’s the best part of an hour before it takes off again.
Lonscale Fell is much more deserted than the Skiddaws, and the day is getting hotter. After soggy bog on the way, what looks like bog around the east summit turns out to be dry and cushiony - very comfortable for September sunbathing. As is the heather mattress a little further down - mostly finished flowering, but springy and comfortable. Although the 45 degree angle might make sleep tricky.
 |  |
| Derwent water with bog pool | Lonely fells |
 |
| Glimpsing Thirlmere over heatherbed |
Across the valley, there are ten parascenders hanging out. From my heather bed I'm reminded of a former colleague's story. On a countryside adventure with a partner, they decided to take advantage of the solitude (and no doubt the heather bed) to get intimate. They didn't notice the parascenders - but the parascenders noticed them. As they found out in the pub that evening. Blushes.
After a steep barefoot descent, I'm surprised to see a huge number of cars parked - they seem to have overflowed the designated parking area and parked in a field, surprisingly. The path swings back a bit to cross Whit beck, taking the cars out of view. After crossing the beck, I'm approaching the corner which will give on to the car park when I suddenly hear a galloping sound. A moment later, a pack of hounds turns the corner towards me at full tilt. As a child I read that if confronted by a stampede of elephant, the correct procedure is to stand still pretending to be a tree (I was never sure whether I should stick my arms out or not) and the short-sighted elephants would just go round you. This also works with Lakeland foxhounds.
Note: Six hours. Baseline 5hrs for 13km plus 700m of ascent; add half an hour waiting for the cloud to lift to see the firth and half an hour sunbathing in the heather.
Tuesday 20 September 2016
To the Sea!
Dead King Ed - Creeks and curlews - time and tide - cow-whispering
Late afternoon of a late August day waiting for the non-delivery of a new fridge, I took the carpenter to the seaside to see his marshes. The monument marking the place where King Edward I died in camp on the marshes is not that interesting architecturally, but it's historically important and it's down our road-end, on our marshes. This is where I came on referendum day, watching the sun set between England and Scotland.
We walked down our lanes of hawberries, blackberries, elderberries, past the strange long-eared sheep, the strange bulldog-faced barrel-shaped sheep, the strange big-balled sheep.
The monument is a 19th century copy of an original dating from 1685, marking the spot where King Edward died whilst attempting to cross the firth to hammer the Scots once again, despite a long illness. His body was returned to St Michael's church where it remained for a week before setting off to Westminster Abbey for burial. Unexpectedly, the gate in the monument was unlocked, and we inspected the Victorian graffiti before heading out across the marsh, through the wary cows to the sea.
The rough marsh is crossed by creeks and creek-ponds, some narrow and easily jumpable, others wider and acting as paths to the sea. The wider ones have cow crossings - for the buffalo of the Solway-Serengeti, too muddy for humans in sandals - and occasional bridges. A snipe takes off suddenly from one of the creeks, copying the wheatears that take off from grass hummocks as we get too close. The rough grass suddenly changes to smooth grass, but it doesn't look remotely smooth enough to make a football pitch, or a tennis court, from - we understand that Solway turf is used at Brunton Park, old Wembley and Wimbledon.
As we reach the beach, the creeks get wider, with proper saltmarsh vegetation, now looking more like north Norfolk. The beach-edge consists of mudcliffs 6-8 feet high, with big chunks fallen off, settled, grass growing on one side, seaweed on another.
We cross the rippled muddy sand to the channel of the Eden, looking at the birds beyond - mainly gulls with curlew behind; eventually we see lapwing too. As soon as we reach the riveredge we realise it's moving outward quite quickly - the tide must be coming in.
This far up the estuary, the tide comes in in only two hours, and then takes more than 12 hours to go out again.
Heading back inland, the carpenter tries his hand at cow-whispering, and a herd of bullocks follow us back to the fieldgate.
Late afternoon of an early September day mother-in-law minding, I took the carpenter back to the sea to brighten his mood. Sunnier than our previous walk, this time we went from Boustead Hill, where the road is much nearer the shore, leaving the car parked on one of the scrapes beside the marsh road.
The tide was low but felt to be turning - from time to time the tide, river current and breeze combine to make striking wave patterns going upstream in the middle of the river channel. After a while two great crested grebe come down the river and ride the waves - we imagine them doing this every day just for a laugh.
And the cows licked the car.
Late afternoon of a late August day waiting for the non-delivery of a new fridge, I took the carpenter to the seaside to see his marshes. The monument marking the place where King Edward I died in camp on the marshes is not that interesting architecturally, but it's historically important and it's down our road-end, on our marshes. This is where I came on referendum day, watching the sun set between England and Scotland.
We walked down our lanes of hawberries, blackberries, elderberries, past the strange long-eared sheep, the strange bulldog-faced barrel-shaped sheep, the strange big-balled sheep.
The monument is a 19th century copy of an original dating from 1685, marking the spot where King Edward died whilst attempting to cross the firth to hammer the Scots once again, despite a long illness. His body was returned to St Michael's church where it remained for a week before setting off to Westminster Abbey for burial. Unexpectedly, the gate in the monument was unlocked, and we inspected the Victorian graffiti before heading out across the marsh, through the wary cows to the sea.
 |
 |
| Marsh, cows, monument | Marsh, cow, monument |
 |
 |
| Referendum day |
Dedication |
 |
 |
| 189- | 1885 |
The rough marsh is crossed by creeks and creek-ponds, some narrow and easily jumpable, others wider and acting as paths to the sea. The wider ones have cow crossings - for the buffalo of the Solway-Serengeti, too muddy for humans in sandals - and occasional bridges. A snipe takes off suddenly from one of the creeks, copying the wheatears that take off from grass hummocks as we get too close. The rough grass suddenly changes to smooth grass, but it doesn't look remotely smooth enough to make a football pitch, or a tennis court, from - we understand that Solway turf is used at Brunton Park, old Wembley and Wimbledon.
 |
 |
| Creek pool | Creek pool |
 |
 |
| Cow creek | Saltmarsh |
As we reach the beach, the creeks get wider, with proper saltmarsh vegetation, now looking more like north Norfolk. The beach-edge consists of mudcliffs 6-8 feet high, with big chunks fallen off, settled, grass growing on one side, seaweed on another.
 |
 |
| Mudcliffs | Lump |
We cross the rippled muddy sand to the channel of the Eden, looking at the birds beyond - mainly gulls with curlew behind; eventually we see lapwing too. As soon as we reach the riveredge we realise it's moving outward quite quickly - the tide must be coming in.
 |
 |
| Touching my toes | Surrounded within 1 minute |
This far up the estuary, the tide comes in in only two hours, and then takes more than 12 hours to go out again.
 |
 |
| Before | 25 minutes later |
Heading back inland, the carpenter tries his hand at cow-whispering, and a herd of bullocks follow us back to the fieldgate.
 |
 |
| Sulky cow | Determined cows |
 |
 |
| Strange sheep | Family portrait |
Late afternoon of an early September day mother-in-law minding, I took the carpenter back to the sea to brighten his mood. Sunnier than our previous walk, this time we went from Boustead Hill, where the road is much nearer the shore, leaving the car parked on one of the scrapes beside the marsh road.
 |
 |
| Fells from Firth | Birds and sands |
The tide was low but felt to be turning - from time to time the tide, river current and breeze combine to make striking wave patterns going upstream in the middle of the river channel. After a while two great crested grebe come down the river and ride the waves - we imagine them doing this every day just for a laugh.
 |  |
And the cows licked the car.
Tuesday 6 September 2016
Of bikes and bends
ToB2016 - TdF2012 - Milk Race - Howgills - driving - that roundabout - the race - driving again - remembering to stop, remembering to go out every day, just to see and smile
Today was the Tour of Britain 2016 in Cumbria, with a route taking in many of the places affected by the winter floods. Presumably a stage was already allocated to Cumbria before the floods (given the geography, we've got to be odds-on favourites every year to have a stage), but perhaps the details were planned out later. My plan was to see it in two places, Carlisle and Ambleside, and if I got to Ambleside in good time for 13:00, to help out on the Struggle. Not helped by a tyre blowout last night, my ETA was 13:05.
Driving into Carlisle and suddenly seeing team buses outside Tullie House and Radio Cumbria suddenly makes it feel real. I've seen them in Paris and London, but not on my everyday streets. I've seen a mountain stage of the Vuelta in the Sierra Nevada, I've seen finishes in Paris, London and Ipswich, but this is the first time I've seen a stage start.
I used to be an armchair cycling nerd, keeping performance spreadsheets for Tour positions. I watched through most of the drug years then switched off when the disqualifications simply became too much and the races became a farce. I missed the rise of British cycling and the fall of Lance Armstrong.
Now I don't recognise most of the riders - some of the names are familiar from the Tour de France, some of the teams have been around in one form or another for years, but I don't recognise the faces - so I can be interested in the process of signing on and shuttling between team bus and cars and the public space without knowing who they all are. Yes Cav and Wiggo did pass me at almost touching distance and no, I didn't photograph, or touch, them. Here they are in Paris 2012 instead:
Met my colleagues on the millennium bridge over Castle Way to watch the neutralised race pass under us in both directions. The leadout club riders from Border City Wheelers and Watchtree have already peeled off, probably at the Crescent, and there's no 20km, 160 vehicle-long caravane publicitaire sadly - so it's a lot of motorcycle outriders (many happy to wave at the crowds), a commissaires's car, the peloton and then a long, long string of race cars and one ambulance. (And in Ambleside, an ice-cream van.)
And then off to drive down the motorway to Kendal and then Ambleside to avoid road closures. All the team buses have been directed down Warwick Road and I'm shortly in front of the Team Wiggins motorhomes. (Motorhomes. Not buses.)
I pass Penrith before the riders do, as they've gone for a slow schedule. They'll go past my old house, just like the Milk Race used to every two years when we were kids. Then it was a routine and I don't remember a sense of occasion like we have today... but I was young and it wasn't a sport that was followed in our household then (football, rugby, cricket...). A near-neighbour who was a local character is interviewed on Radio Cumbria - still is a local character, 35 years on.
The Wiggo motorhomes reappear in my rearview mirror going up Shap, and I find myself between trucks and vans, allowing them to overtake before ignoring their instructions and turning off at junction 39. I continue to 38. My mum worked in Tebay, and I used to get the National Express coaches to drop me off at the truck stop here so I could get a lift home rather than going through to Carlisle.
I've never been on the A685 before, let alone driven it. Like Stuart Maconie in August's Cumbria Life, the Howgills just here are the definitive sight of home for me. Ten years or more ago, the carpenter was doing his degree dissertation about landscape and memory, collecting data online from friends and their friends, about favourite landscapes. Mine was always this point where the Howgills and Shap Fell (now the extended National Parks) come together over the Lune gorge south of Tebay, blowing kisses over the motorway and railway, because then I knew I was home, whether I got off at Tebay, Penrith or Carlisle. The carpenter, bringing me back for good this summer, knew exactly when to welcome me home.
I made good time on the motorway, but I can't see making it to Ambleside in time for my volunteering slot - but I'm having a great day anyway, and enjoying driving an unfamiliar route. After I pass through Kendal in the opposite direction to that the riders will be taking later, I remember why I haven't driven round here before: here's the roundabout where I failed my first driving test, my only test in Cumbria. When I finally passed, I would drive up from Brighton for a few years, but barely moved the car once it was parked outside my parents' house. The last few weeks, driving roads both familiar and new to me, has been more fun than I expected. The only road numbers I knew before were M6, A6, A66 (and I've lived on two of those) - now I'm learning the full set of A59Xs and more.
I get to the university campus in Ambleside at 12:59, and park up at 13:05. I'm impressed at the accuracy of my ETA, but sorry to lose out on volunteering. Still, I can watch the big screen coverage and see the race as they enter the Struggle, so it's not all bad.
Back home via the A591, familiar as far as the turning to St John's in the Vale, so although I have been on the stretch to Keswick (on a bus, I think), it's much less familiar. The cloud lifts and the light over Catbells drags my eyes away from the road. We are lucky to live here and I have never truly appreciated it before. I turned off to Applethwaite and took time out just to see the view. What I need to keep learning is to take time every day to go out - to the firth, to the fell; to the sea, to the river, to the lake - even when the weather is bad, just go out even for a few minutes. Ten minutes on the marsh last night (even though I fell into the mud and punctured the tyre) left me happier than I had been all day.
See the mountains and smile.
Today was the Tour of Britain 2016 in Cumbria, with a route taking in many of the places affected by the winter floods. Presumably a stage was already allocated to Cumbria before the floods (given the geography, we've got to be odds-on favourites every year to have a stage), but perhaps the details were planned out later. My plan was to see it in two places, Carlisle and Ambleside, and if I got to Ambleside in good time for 13:00, to help out on the Struggle. Not helped by a tyre blowout last night, my ETA was 13:05.
Driving into Carlisle and suddenly seeing team buses outside Tullie House and Radio Cumbria suddenly makes it feel real. I've seen them in Paris and London, but not on my everyday streets. I've seen a mountain stage of the Vuelta in the Sierra Nevada, I've seen finishes in Paris, London and Ipswich, but this is the first time I've seen a stage start.
 |
| Team buses at Radio Cumbria! |
I used to be an armchair cycling nerd, keeping performance spreadsheets for Tour positions. I watched through most of the drug years then switched off when the disqualifications simply became too much and the races became a farce. I missed the rise of British cycling and the fall of Lance Armstrong.
Now I don't recognise most of the riders - some of the names are familiar from the Tour de France, some of the teams have been around in one form or another for years, but I don't recognise the faces - so I can be interested in the process of signing on and shuttling between team bus and cars and the public space without knowing who they all are. Yes Cav and Wiggo did pass me at almost touching distance and no, I didn't photograph, or touch, them. Here they are in Paris 2012 instead:
 |
 |
| Team Sky, Paris 2012 | Team Sky, Paris 2012 |
 |
 |
| TdF Publicity Caravan | TdF Publicity Caravan |
Met my colleagues on the millennium bridge over Castle Way to watch the neutralised race pass under us in both directions. The leadout club riders from Border City Wheelers and Watchtree have already peeled off, probably at the Crescent, and there's no 20km, 160 vehicle-long caravane publicitaire sadly - so it's a lot of motorcycle outriders (many happy to wave at the crowds), a commissaires's car, the peloton and then a long, long string of race cars and one ambulance. (And in Ambleside, an ice-cream van.)
 |
 |
| Commissaires and outriders | Peloton |
 |
 |
| Peloton | Team cars |
And then off to drive down the motorway to Kendal and then Ambleside to avoid road closures. All the team buses have been directed down Warwick Road and I'm shortly in front of the Team Wiggins motorhomes. (Motorhomes. Not buses.)
I pass Penrith before the riders do, as they've gone for a slow schedule. They'll go past my old house, just like the Milk Race used to every two years when we were kids. Then it was a routine and I don't remember a sense of occasion like we have today... but I was young and it wasn't a sport that was followed in our household then (football, rugby, cricket...). A near-neighbour who was a local character is interviewed on Radio Cumbria - still is a local character, 35 years on.
The Wiggo motorhomes reappear in my rearview mirror going up Shap, and I find myself between trucks and vans, allowing them to overtake before ignoring their instructions and turning off at junction 39. I continue to 38. My mum worked in Tebay, and I used to get the National Express coaches to drop me off at the truck stop here so I could get a lift home rather than going through to Carlisle.
I've never been on the A685 before, let alone driven it. Like Stuart Maconie in August's Cumbria Life, the Howgills just here are the definitive sight of home for me. Ten years or more ago, the carpenter was doing his degree dissertation about landscape and memory, collecting data online from friends and their friends, about favourite landscapes. Mine was always this point where the Howgills and Shap Fell (now the extended National Parks) come together over the Lune gorge south of Tebay, blowing kisses over the motorway and railway, because then I knew I was home, whether I got off at Tebay, Penrith or Carlisle. The carpenter, bringing me back for good this summer, knew exactly when to welcome me home.
I made good time on the motorway, but I can't see making it to Ambleside in time for my volunteering slot - but I'm having a great day anyway, and enjoying driving an unfamiliar route. After I pass through Kendal in the opposite direction to that the riders will be taking later, I remember why I haven't driven round here before: here's the roundabout where I failed my first driving test, my only test in Cumbria. When I finally passed, I would drive up from Brighton for a few years, but barely moved the car once it was parked outside my parents' house. The last few weeks, driving roads both familiar and new to me, has been more fun than I expected. The only road numbers I knew before were M6, A6, A66 (and I've lived on two of those) - now I'm learning the full set of A59Xs and more.
I get to the university campus in Ambleside at 12:59, and park up at 13:05. I'm impressed at the accuracy of my ETA, but sorry to lose out on volunteering. Still, I can watch the big screen coverage and see the race as they enter the Struggle, so it's not all bad.
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| Breakaway before the Struggle | Cav leads the main group to the Struggle |
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| Speed |
Back home via the A591, familiar as far as the turning to St John's in the Vale, so although I have been on the stretch to Keswick (on a bus, I think), it's much less familiar. The cloud lifts and the light over Catbells drags my eyes away from the road. We are lucky to live here and I have never truly appreciated it before. I turned off to Applethwaite and took time out just to see the view. What I need to keep learning is to take time every day to go out - to the firth, to the fell; to the sea, to the river, to the lake - even when the weather is bad, just go out even for a few minutes. Ten minutes on the marsh last night (even though I fell into the mud and punctured the tyre) left me happier than I had been all day.
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| Central Fells from Applethwaite |
See the mountains and smile.
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