Rannerdale at Dawn
Buttermere Valley, Lake District, May 2024.
I walk south along the eroded track as it snakes over the shoulder of the ridge that rises to the fell above on my left. I climb gradually with the land. The lake opens out on my right, to the west. The satisfyingly pyramid-shaped mountain rises ahead as I crest the low hill, and the small vale at the foot of the mountain now comes into view. The valley rises gently to the southeast, narrowing as it goes, guarded on three sides by ridges of rock that carry up to the surrounding summits.
It is before dawn, blue hour. Thousands upon thousands of bluebells carpet the slopes and valley floor. Thickets of golden yellow gorse sit amongst the sea of blue, and their sweet scent of coconut rides the morning’s gentle breeze. My nostrils flare as I take in the comforting smell. Jackdaws hop about the ground, mischievous, cackling. A single rook stands upon a rock, indifferent to its cousin’s calls, its rough grey beak cocked to the side as it watches me intently, wondering about my intentions.
Further along the path, I come across a simple wooden bench and sit, looking back at the vale. This place will be assaulted by waves of the new day’s visitors before long, all eager to lay eyes on this bucolic site that comes about for a few weeks in late spring. Dawn offers only a brief respite. For now, though, I see a solitary figure approaching from whence I have come. A woman wearing a red fleece clutching a flask with two hands, steam rising gently from its rim. As she gets closer, the smell of coffee mingles with the scent of bluebells. She has a slightly whimsical look of delight on her face. “It’s worth the early wake-up call!” she says as she passes. “Aye, it certainly is”, I reply. She continues along the path and passes out of sight beyond a rise.
I sit for a while longer, present in the moment. A robin alights upon a branch nearby, watching me hopefully. A meadow pipit jerks upwards from the undergrowth, its calls rapidly cascading in frequency. A breeze flows down from the slopes above, sending rippling waves through the ocean of flowers, their lolling heads shimmering blue and purple, almost iridescent. The first of the day’s sun rays are now catching the high peaks above, illuminating the summits in golden light. I stand, and I walk on.
Further up the valley, through a gate and over a bridge, Squat Beck tinkles gently beneath, a sign of recent fine weather and little rain. The sun still sits behind the ridgeline ahead, yet to rise above it, creating a soft orange glow that grows gradually and melds seamlessly into the deep blue of the higher sky, impossible to distinguish where the warm tones shift to blue. The night is slowly peeled away to reveal the new day. Shadows are shortening. A seam of intense gold tracks the contours of the ridge; soon, the sun will burst over that horizon and paint the valley below. I arrive at the saddle in the connecting ridge between Whiteless Pike and Rannerdale Knotts. This day’s journey takes me northward to the Pike, so I turn left and tramp onward and upward.
The muscles in my legs begin to burn slightly, and my heart quickens in response to the steep incline. The path is clear, made by hundreds of thousands of footsteps that have come this way before mine. A solitary Herdwick ewe would prefer not to share the hillside with me and dashes away down the slope to the saddle below with surprising speed and agility, immediately returning to munching the fellside grass as she slows and stops. I continue to gain height and then reach a small plateau. Turning back, I gaze down into the valley where I sat on the bench earlier. From my new vantage point, I can survey the scene in its entirety just as the last of the shadows retreat down the mountainsides, and the valley is coated in warm orange light. From this distance, the individual bluebells have melded into vast, hazy patches of blue and purple on the lush green, grassy slopes. The beck winds through the ravine and down to the lake. A solitary Hawthorn shimmers white. Drystone walls crisscross the undulating land. Skeletal oak trees yet to gain their leaves stand tall. The hairs on my neck stand on end as a slight tingle rises up my spine. I am a working-class man, bred and shaped by a post-industrial urban town, but places like this, wild places of intense natural beauty, are where I feel at home. This is where I feel alive and connected to the earth. Where life makes sense, and some semblance of purpose becomes clear. I wish I knew how to bottle this feeling up to serve a dose to some of my fellow humans. The ones who throw litter through car windows and onto the roadside. Those who care nothing for wildlife, nature or our environment. Those who prefer to selfishly consume and burn rather than grow and contribute. Those who choose to steal from tomorrow instead of building for the future.
I stay at the edge of the plateau for a long while. The shadows retreat completely and vanish as the sun rises high. The golden aura melts away, and the bright light of the day covers the entire land. I can see more and more people moving along the path below into the valley. They look as small as ants from up here. My daze is broken by the sound of soft footsteps approaching from behind, coming down the ridge. I turn and see two men descending the mountain, large, heavy packs upon their shoulders, making their way down from the lofty campsite where they spent the night. We nod greetings as they gaze upon the view down into the valley. We share knowing looks, not needing to comment but understanding a shared appreciation of the solace these places provide to people like us. They continue down, and I continue up to the summit of Whiteless Pike.
By A. Milne
Buttermere Valley, Lake District, Cumbria, England. 14/05/2024
