LONESOME PINE

I TOOK A DEEP BREATH as I entered the murky gloom that smothered the peat hags on High Tove. The mist was so thick it could have been spread on top of a trifle; but an hour ago, down at Watendlath, bands of low autumnal sunshine had thrown slivers of steely grey light across the picturesque tarn.

Fence lines were now the only way to navigate. A sharp 90⁰ bend was called Eddy Grave Stake – had someone once been permanently stuck in the mire? Wainwright’s soggy descriptions of this damp whaleback between Borrowdale and Thirlmere were spot on, and I can happily confirm no drainage work has taken place since he first passed this way in the 1950s. Shivery Man, a nearby name on the map, suddenly seemed quite appropriate.

GOLDEN ISOLATION

The morning had been quite different. The seasonal colours on the east side of Derwent