Walking In The Lake District In Winter

Doubts trouble my mind, as I lie cocooned in my sleeping bag. It’s -5°C and I’m shivering, despite wearing every item of clothing I have with me. The water in my bottle has frozen solid and I’m exhaling like a cloud-breathing dragon. Maybe wild camping the Cumbria Way in winter wasn’t such a good idea?

On day two I wake pre-dawn and hike in the dark up to Tarn Hows, an estate partly bequeathed to the National Trust by Beatrix Potter. I can almost sense the icy landscape slowly coming to life. The frozen tarn begins to glimmer. Sunlight catches the frosty dusting clinging to the trees’ bare branches. I’m alone, except for a stag I spot bolting through woodland and the amazingly confident, red-breasted robin that comes to say hello – and share the peanuts I’m tucking into.

I know Narnia is fictional, but it feels like I’m walking through it. I reach River Brathay at midday, a renowned beauty spot with arresting views across reed beds to the lumpy, craggy tops of the Langdale Pikes. It is a clear, crisp, sunny winter’s day. The river is a mirror. Half-mesmerised by the flawless reflections of the snowy peaks, I can’t tell where reality starts and the mirror-image ends. As darkness descends, I set up camp. I have the rugged, vast hollow of Langstrath – Lakeland’s longest uninhabited valley - to myself. Pitch tent. Check. Boil pasta. Check. Inflate sleeping mat. Check. Collect water from nearby beck. Check. Watchin bewilderment as the sky swirls a million shades of pink and brushes the mountainside with ever-changing colours. Check. 

Bacon sandwiches, crunchy flapjacks and two lattes are my reward for reaching the cafe at Grange the following morning. I need the energy for the miles ahead along the western shores of Derwentwater to Keswick. I’m feeling fatigued and am grateful for the lack of gradient. Devised by local ramblers groups in the 1970s, the official Cumbria Way route is predominantly a low level, flat walk. Some guidebooks offer mountain alternatives for those who prefer summits to the valleys, but there’s no chance I’m volunteering for any additional uphill graft.

Before I realise it, I’m in Carlisle, standing in the majestic Cathedral Quarter. No-one notices the relief on my face. No one congratulates me on the accomplishment. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve finished, I’ve broken my winter wild camping duck, I’ve survived – and it has been a Lakeland experience to rival the best summer can offer. Perhaps this whole thing was a good idea, after all?

The walk’s biggest climb is still ahead of me too. It’s pitch-dark by the time I’m at Grainsgill Beck at the foot of the ascent. I can see the profile of Lingy Hut – a small, wooden bothy that will be my home for the night – on the skyline. 30 minutes later and I’m hopelessly lost. Where on earth is the hut? I’m boot deep in crunchy snow and totally disorientated by a white-out. To make matters worse, my phone battery is dead, so I can’t check my navigation app, and I left my tent with a friend in Keswick in a foolish bid to reduce the weight of my backpack. I’m going to have to survive the night out in the open. Panic descends and, in a frenzy, I start rushing around in all directions. And then – finally, joyously, luckily – I stumble across the shed. Disaster averted.