The Last Walk

I could appreciate what had spooked the Scottish fellow as we neared the top of Browncove  Crags. We were fully exposed to the easterly wind now. Fortunately it was blowing us on to safer ground rather than towards the vertical drop of the crags. It was hard work though, with some of the gusts blowing us a few steps sideways. I could see Lower Man over to our left. We weren’t that far away now.

Just before Christmas, I walked through the entrance door of the care home and saw my Dad doggedly stumbling across the home's communal area, hands grasping his walking frame. His eyes were focussed a few yards ahead. His shirt was unbuttoned to his waist and he was sweating. I sat him down, buttoned his shirt up and did what every Englishman would do in such circumstances; I made us both a cup of tea. A carer told me that he had been walking up and down the corridor all day. He was tired and so I walked with him back to his room and bed. That would be the last day that I’d see my Dad walking. Apart from a couple of brief forays in a wheelchair, his remaining days would be confined to  bed. Obviously it was a sad occasion, but I was so glad to have accompanied him on the final part of his last walk. 

We reached Lower Man. I’d suggested a specific spot on Helvellyn to my brother that was away from the busy summit and potentially more sheltered. We made our way towards it. The wind subsided gradually as we got further away from the summit ridge. At last my Dad reached his final destination. It was a great spot and I'm sure he would have been happy with it. There was a tremendous view westwards over layer upon layer of Lake District fells. We sat down out of the wind and my brother retrieved my Dad out of his rucksack. We had a short break and had a few minutes of contemplation, whilst admiring that magnificent Lakeland view before us. 

It was still very windy and I wasn’t completely sure how successful scattering the ashes would be. My brother had first go, with Dad roaring out of the bag like the air turbulence from a Typhoon jet. I reckoned at this rate, my Dad’s final resting place could be anywhere between Helvellyn, Scotland, the Dales, Wales, and the Peak District, with potentially some in Ireland too. I distributed the second portion of the bag. This went successfully at first, until there was an unexpected wind vortex backdraft that swirled the ashes back into my face. Some went into my mouth and made me choke a little. I’m pretty sure I'm not the first person this has happened to. My Dad would have appreciated the dark humour of it. My sister-in-law was more successful in emptying the final contents of the bag, avoiding any backdrafts. At last my Dad had found his resting place, although to be honest he probably could have been blown anywhere in the world in that gale. I rather liked the idea of that.

Helvellyn

I split up from my brother and sister-in-law. They had decided to return back down to the carpark on the same path that we'd come up. I decided to extend the walk and follow Helvellyn’s ridge to Dollywagon Pike, and then descend to Grisedale Tarn. I started the climb to Helvellyn’s summit. A few minutes later, I was surprised to find that I was the only person standing next to its trig. On most days there would be a crowd of pilgrims paying homage to it. I looked down the vertical east face to that awesome view of Red Tarn at its foot. Over to my right, I could see a few tiny figures making their way over Striding Edge. ‘Crikey, they must be brave to attempt that on a day like this’ I thought.   

My Dad took me up to the summit of Ben Nevis many times during my childhood. We would always follow the tourist route. On one occasion the Ben’s summit plateau was covered in a thick mist. I was amazed when the mist turned whiter and then a thick bank of snow appeared. The tourist track disappeared into the snow. My dad looked for a way up the snow bank that must have been at least three times higher than me. He couldn’t find a way up and I remember feeling relieved. Although my Dad had an impeccable  moral compass, his navigational one was non-existant. How we never ended up in Five Fingers Gulley on our Ben Nevis excursions, I'll never know.   

Helvellyn’s stone shelter was busy. Walkers had encamped on the leeward side of its walls getting some respite from the wind. There were plenty of people on the path between Helvellyn and Nethermost Pike. Most of these were doing the Wythburn Church route. Apart from the strong wind it really was a perfect walking day. At the col between Helvellyn and Nethermost Pike I looked along Striding Edge and still saw one or two people making their way across. They must have had lead in their boots to survive this wind.    

My first memory of walking with my Dad was in Scotland on a day out to the Falls Of Glomach. I'd guess that I would have been around 5 or 6 years old at the time. I presume he’d parked at Morvich and taken my brother and I on the 11 mile out-and-back walk to the waterfall. It had been a boiling hot day and I remember the pleasant coolness of the trail through the tree plantations near Morvich. I remember playing in the water pools at the top of the falls, oblivious of the sheer 113 metre drop just downstream. Health and safety weren’t at the top of anyone’s agenda in those days. On the return to Morvich it became unbearably hot. We stopped at a beck crossing the path and my dad dunked his head fully into a pool to cool off. I had a go next. I opened my eyes in the pool and looking to one side I saw a curiously distorted image of my dad with a bright sun behind him. I remember it being so cool and refreshing.

Nethermost And Dollywagon Pike

I trundled along the well worn path between Nethermost and Dollywagon Pike. It offered a spectacular view over the Grisedale Valley  to St Sunday Crag, a fell I would be walking over tomorrow. After Dollywagon Pike’s summit cairn, I started to descend. The lower I got, the more the wind dropped and walking became easier. Grisedale Tarn glistened below me and the north face of Fairfield looked forbidding on the other side of the valley. It was getting hot now and I stopped for a drink of water. 

My Dad didn’t use a map. He followed half remembered routes from his Ramblers' walks and used any cairn as confirmation that he was on the right path. Eventually I learned to use a map and compass and we would explore new routes together. One day, we were taking a break in the middle of the Bleaklow plateau in the Peak District. It was a scorching day (seemingly a memorable feature of our walks together). I drained the last water from my water bottle. It didn’t touch the sides and I said so to my Dad. It was miles back to a stream or our car.

‘Here, drink this.’ My dad passed over a  full cup of water to me. I gulped it all down. I thanked him and passed the cup back. He started to put his water bottle into his rucksack.

‘Aren’t you having a drink?’ I asked dumbly. He was sweating as much as I was and must have been just as thirsty. He’d just given me his last water.

‘It’s okay. It doesn’t matter.’

I walked the stone staircase down to Grisedale Tarn. Its water still sparkling in the midday sun. I had intended heading westwards and descending besides Raise Beck to Dunmail Raise, but I’d made good time and I decided to include Seat Sandal in my itinerary. 

Seat Sandal

I made my way around the south side of Grisedale Tarn to Grisedale Hause. It had been decades since I’d used the steep path on the east face of Seat Sandal. I decided to give it another go  today. I have to say that I found it to be okay as an ascent path; I remember coming down it on an icy day many years ago and it had been a little hazardous. 

My Dad and brother once had a spectacular navigational failure when doing the Fairfield Horseshoe. Rather than following the path southwards  from Fairfield’s summit to Great Rigg, they ended up descending westwards to Grisedale Hause and then up and over Seat Sandal using the same path I was on today. They descended from Seat Sandal, out of the mist, on to Dunmail Raise, wondering where Ambleside had gone. It must have felt like a long walk back to Ambleside from there.    

Occasionally I’d stop and look down at Grisedale Tarn. It formed a classic Lakeland  picture. I could see that an elderly chap was following me up the track. He had silver hair like my Dad and for one bizarre moment I thought it might be him. There was no ‘sweat rag’ hanging from his pocket though  and so I was pretty sure it wasn’t. A group of walkers vacated Seat Sandal’s summit cairn just before I arrived. It must have been something I was going to say.  Seat Sandal is a little lower than the surrounding peaks and so the wind wasn’t as strong at its summit. I started making my way down the gradual slope of the north face of the fell towards Raise Beck. 

Land Of The Giants

The path alongside Raise Beck was a little awkward in places, but when I got the chance to look up there was a good view across Dunmail Raise to Steel Fell. There were some lovely pools on the way down into which I could have dipped my feet if I’d been so inclined. Fast moving traffic on Dunmail Raise seemed a bit of an intrusion after the remoteness offered on the fell tops. The hard work had been done for the day though. All I had to do now was follow the valley northwards past Thirlmere Reservoir, back to the carpark.   

On Burns Night, the care home engaged a bagpiper to knock out a few Scottish tunes in the home’s communal area. I was sitting next to my Dad who was laid in bed in his room. The piper started playing ‘Over The Sea To Skye.’

‘There’s a bagpiper playing Over The Sea To Skye. Can you hear it?’ My Dad’s hearing was poor by now and so we  communicated with him by writing on a small whiteboard. He read my message and replied that he couldn’t hear it. That was a shame.     

In the 1970s, we took our annual family holiday in the Western Isles. We’d often take the ferry trip from Mallaig or the Kyle Of Lochalsh to Skye. Invariably we’d stay near Arisaig on the mainland with that classic view out to sea of the islands of Eigg, Rhum and of course Skye, with its meringue shaped Cuillins. My most memorable walk with my Dad around there was when I was in my early teens. We walked along the north side of the mysterious Loch Morar. It was a perfect day with sun, blue skies and no midges. At South Tarbet Bay, the track headed northwards through Glen Tarbet to  Loch Nevis. In the bay at Tarbet, I remember seeing a universe of jellyfish hovering in the crystal clear water. At the end of the loch was the stunning Sgurr na Ciche. It felt so wild and remote that I think it was probably the first time that I thought of adventures beyond the usual haunts of the Peak District. On the way back, I remember stopping for a break, looking up and seeing a huge stag peering down at us from a crag above. Scotland seemed epic. It was the best walk that I did with my Dad in Scotland.    

It was easy walking along the forestry tracks through the plantations running alongside the Thirlmere Reservoir. The Tree Troublers had cleared some areas and these allowed good views across the reservoir to Armboth Fell, High Seat and Bleaberry. I'd get glimpses of the towering Raven Crag at the northern end of the reservoir. It can seem a long walk through the plantations, but I felt privileged to be able to walk it.   

Up the steep slopes to my right I knew that my Dad would be looking down on me. I’m a firm believer that life is all about the journey and not the destination. It is comforting to know that I had the opportunity to share so many memorable walks with my Dad, and of course, all the other stuff beyond walking. I thank him, amongst other things, for instilling in me a love of the outdoors and sewing a seed for adventure. I’ll continue walking with him in spirit; as I do, I'll be sitting on the shoulders of a giant.