Cloud Walking In The Lake District

I hadn’t intended to post yet more holiday snaps.  Honestly, I hadn’t.  Afterall, it was only  recently that I walked, and posted about, the Dales Way and a Lakeland walk.  But, on my return to the Lake District, Jim and I experienced something quite special, even awesome (if that word can still mean what it should mean) when climbing a mountain called Blencathra.  But more of that in a moment.

Once again, the Lake District was in show-off mode.  Blue skies, playful cloud, far-reaching views and unabashed sunshine.  OK, so on some days the cloud didn’t lift and our friend Tracy, Jim and I would peer though swirling mist in the hope of getting a glimpse of something other than the tips of our noses.

Looking north from the flanks of Haystacks.

An ascent of Great Gable revealed little other than views of about fifty feet;  another climb to the summit of Haystacks was similar.  Though on the latter the cloud thinned as we got lower.  At least we got a peek down at gorgeous Buttermere;

Jim looking down into Buttermere Valley.

a valley, we hadn’t visited before.

But on other days, the sun shone, the cloud romped and billowed and we had views!

Realisation hits Tracy that we're heading all the way up there.

Even on a steep, un-remitting climb up Grisedale Pike (as part of a horseshoe walk called the Coledale Round) …

… the sunshine and playful clouds acted as a hook, pulling us on and up.

The ridge leading to the summit of Grisedale Pike.

Well, they did for me.  Jim and Tracy lagged behind; chatting.

The view from the summit of the Pike was ever-changing as banks of cloud broke over the fells and washed down into the valley of Coledale.

Tracy walking through cloud as she approaches the summit.

Islands in the stream.

The way back down with views over Keswick.

The following day, Jim and I set out to climb Blencathra.  I hadn’t trod upon its steep slopes for twenty-five years but as excited as I was, the day didn’t hold much promise.  Dull and grey cloud lay heavy over Keswick as (leaving Tracy behind to have some girly time; manicure, pedicure, that sort of curious thing), Jim and I set off.  But as we climbed up on to the ridge of Hall’s Fell (one of many possible paths to the summit), the cloud grew whiter and lighter and slowly the sun fought through the mist.

Looking west: the saddleback of Blencathra with the Scafell range, Pillar and others on the horizon.

And then with a slight puff of wind -  all was revealed;  vast blue skies and an infinite, unbroken duvet of white cloud.  We had climbed through, and were now above, the cloud layer.

The Helvellyn range.

Because the day had had such an unprepossessing start, no one else had bothered to climb Blencathra at the same time as us; during the hour or so we were at the summit …

Me - having a moment.

… we didn’t see a soul.  Not one.

And another.

I have never experienced a cloud inversion (formed by warm air trapping and holding cooler air below) quite like this.  We have climbed above cloud before; most notably on the summit of Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak) in Sri Lanka, but that was much, much higher at 2243 metres – Blencathra is only 868m.   In Sri Lanka, I think, the height alone was sufficient to take us far above the cloud; here in the Lakes, the inversion did most of the work for us.

To have a view usually reserved for the passengers of air-liners high above and with only the very tallest mountains in Cumbria peaking above the blinding cloud, this day, this moment was, dare I say, awesome.

The ridge of Hall's Fell disappearing down into the cloud.

Out of a six-day break, we were up on the fells for five – clambering up a mountain or two on each.  On our final day we huffed and puffed and grimaced to the top of Skiddaw.  There was no panorama to be had from the summit cairn (despite us waiting patiently for the cloud to lift) …

Team Berghaus - on the summit of Skiddaw. An AG, Jim and Tracy.

… but then that gives us an excuse to re-climb on a day when the view will extend to the Solway Firth in the north, westwards to the Isle of Man, south to the central and Coniston fells and over to the east, the Pennines.  Not that I really need an excuse to continue travelling to the Lakes and to continue climbing and re-climbing the fells.  But it is always nice, having struggled to reach a lofty peak, to have a view.  A view and a sandwich.  Yes, that is always nice.

Priory Picture Post # 20

I know that I have posted photos of a grass snake before (see -  ‘Grass Snake‘) but when I noticed one today (twice the size of the one I saw last September), I was rather excited.

One of a healthy population of grass snakes (Natrix natrix) at The Priory.

And very pleased.  While I can’t say that I approve of their diet (frogs and toads), I am only too happy to have such an impressive resident in the gardens.

Though I don’t think he was quite as pleased to see me.

Spring Lambs

I went up to see Margaret the other day.  (In case you don’t know, Margaret farms the land on three sides of the Priory estate).  I hadn’t seen her for a while and, as well as having a natter and cadging a cup of tea, I had some bulbs to collect.  We  do joint orders for autumn and spring bulbs and it is generally easier to have deliveries made up to the farm rather than down to the Priory.  So, with the prospect of dahlia tubers, snowdrops-in-the-green, lily bulbs and some other stuff I couldn’t quite remember,  I bundled Solo (my terrier) into the car and pootled up the drive, through the Priory gate and along the road to Margaret’s farm.

I like going up to the farm anyway but it’s particularly nice at this time of year, as the ewes are lambing.  I always go over and have a look (wouldn’t you?).  Next to the cow-shed and beneath a wide roof, the ewes are corralled behind metal hurdles amongst bales of straw.  However many times I see new-born lambs, it’s always a delight.

Lambing, this year, has been fraught for Margaret.  The Schmallenberg virus, a new livestock disease, has arrived in England, carried in by midges from across the channel.  In sheep, it causes miscarriage and very nasty birth defects; no wonder Margaret was worried.  Thankfully it hasn’t affected her small flock, at least not this year.  Normally she really enjoys lambing season despite all the disrupted nights when (having checked her CCTV), she sees a ewe in labour and rushes outside in case a helping hand is required.  Sometimes she has to tug a bent-back leg into its correct position or use the small lambing rope to pull out a stuck newcomer.

But despite her best efforts, and for various reasons,  she has lost seven lambs this year (she didn’t lose any last year), and she told me that this has left a pall over what is usually a happy and exciting time.

A nap in warm sunshine. It might be classical music that is relaxing them. Margaret leaves a radio tuned in to Classic FM by the lambing pens.

Still, at least the  lambs that have been born are very healthy.  And certainly very pretty.

Sussex sheep learn to smile at a young age.

I have just ordered one of their one year old siblings for my freezer.  But I didn’t tell them that.

Last year I did a quick post of M’s spring lambs (see ‘ Gratuitous Lamb Photos’), only it was earlier in the year.  This was because a visiting workman noticed that one of M’s sheep had got separated from a nearby small group.  Obligingly he opened a gate to re-unite them.  The lone sheep though was, of course, a ram and purposefully kept apart (much to his displeasure and frustration) from the eye-lash batting, coquettish ewes.  The result?  Some lambs born a month earlier than Margaret had planned.  And a very self-satisfied, smug ram.

But this year there are no happy accidents, and the new arrivals will soon be scampering around the pasture between the farm and the Priory; making me smile.

Margaret could never be described as the shy, retiring, blushing type (unlike me) – so why she’s wearing this rather attractive and charming lamb veil is bemusing.  But it is fetching (and fashion-wise) very, very of the moment.  Might get one myself.

Busy, Busy, Busy

When not gallivanting around the north of England, I’ve been gardening frenetically these past few weeks.  Why, I’ve barely had time to file my nails and flick through ‘Hello’ magazine.

Some jobs are annual tasks, such as …

The Long Borders are full of allium and tulip promise. Since this photo was taken I've pruned the cornus in the foreground.

… the mulching of the beds.  I normally try to get them all finished during the winter but I seem to be playing catch-up this year.   I also finally got round to …

… digging the vegetable beds and adding three barrows of compost to each; except the one that holds, frankly, disappointing over-wintering onion sets.  I also added two barrows of manure to four of them – from the infeasibly large manure pile out on the drive.

Working through my bin of compost. The pale green lump by the spade is duckweed. Note to self - it doesn't break down (who knew), so don't bother composting it again.

I’ve used up most of my leaf mould now.  It went as a mulch on some of the beds (the kidney beds in particular) and on the young beech hedging.  With the leaf mould all but gone, I started to use the compost that I made last year.  I’m terribly pleased with it.  It is almost entirely composed of grass cuttings but regular turning and the adding of green waste, paper and cardboard has made it into the above.

I’ve also been digging up herbaceous plants and relocating them into gaps in the borders.  Splitting and dividing where they have been large enough to do so, moving plants to more suitable locations and generally striving for more cohesion.  The trick though, is to remember what’s planted where – something I have yet to master; though it’s been fun trying to work out which dormant plant is which.

I finally dug up the Gunnera manicata (see earlier post -  ‘Gunnera manicata’) which was struggling on the east lawn.  It split easily into three parts which I barrowed over to the meadow and re-planted next to another gunnera that is much happier (as much as a gunnera can be happy).

Hopefully, I shall end up with a large bank of huge stately leaves.

And in the space vacated by the GM?  Well, I put in a Cotinus coggygria ‘Royal Purple.’   I’ve been meaning to plant a Smoke Tree/Bush for a couple of years now.  When I saw one recently reduced by 50%, I grabbed it quicker than quick can be, clasped it tightly to my chest and scowled at anyone who came too close.  Here, with plenty of space available, it can attain any size it pleases.

The Priory has a rose tunnel.  Not a gorgeous, elegant rose tunnel but a rose tunnel nonetheless.  It is old and rustic and made from chestnut posts and top-rails.  I would prefer something more architectural and curvy but hey, it is a rose tunnel – not something I’ve ever had the chance to play with before.  Some rotten and some missing posts were replaced last year and it was extended in length too.

I’ve dug nine more planting pockets for David Austin roses and I’m now awaiting their delivery; all disease resistant, repeat flowering whites.  Edging the planting spaces are snowdrops and I’ve ordered more to plant in the newly cut squares.  I’ve had a murderous glint in my eye ever since I first spied the evergreen honeysuckle (above) and was finally given permission (after much nagging on my part) to despatch it.  Hoorah!

A quick unravelling of stems and …

… a maniacal whizz-whizz with the chainsaw and the deed was done.  A few swipes with the mattock and out came the roots.  Hoorah again.

In leaf and flower, the roses will, with luck, hide much of the tunnel structure.

The Iris Bed hasn’t worked.  I’ve tried but have decided that, like the honeysuckle, its time has come.  I inherited three patches of bearded irises with planting spaces in between.  I then added two more patches – creating five planting spaces.  When the leaves were tidy, the irises could look rather good and provided some structure in the bed all year round.

The Iris Bed (with iris leaves waiting to be cleaned up) - September 2011

But the flowering season was terribly short and the amount of time needed to weed in amongst the rhizomes and take off dead shrivelled leaves meant that the bed as a whole was simply too labour intensive.  They had to go.

So the iris bed is to become a new tropical border.  I planted a small one last year and the owner was rather taken with it; so we’ve decided to expand  into this bed.

I spent quite some time digging up irises and some double tulips I didn’t much like (though I re-used a few Carnival de Nice) and then replanted sedums, rudbeckia and other bits and pieces in various parts of the garden.  I’m now almost ready to dig it all over, incorporating manure and compost.  I do though need to remove a few inches of soil;  it is banked up too high against the outbuilding wall and causing internal damp.

Nearby is a relatively new path; looking like nothing so much as a runway.  I’ve ‘painted’ it with watery manure and a broom (fun job) in an attempt to age it and it isn’t quite as shocking as when it was laid.  I’m cutting two new borders along side it in order to soften the straight lines.  Excess soil from the Iris Bed will be incorporated into them when ready.

This is a big job as you can imagine; the path is about twenty metres long and the new beds will have curved outside edges when I have finished.  I’ve got some ideas for the planting plan but I also have a big pile of books and gardening design mags to thumb through for inspiration – while filing my nails.

An Auricula Interlude

I had hoped to write a post about all of the gardening that I’ve been doing these past couple of weeks …

A personal favourite. Auriculas now flowering in the Priory greenhouse.

… but Time, as ever, has trumped me.

And all that has been happening in this very busy period will have to be told in a couple of weeks …

… which is when I’ll be posting again. (I should really have some Mantovani piped through this post – if I knew how).  See you soon.  Dave