Via Cartmel
A Day Spent Meandering Across Some of Cumbria’s Finest Lowland
Cumbria, April 2024.
Photographs taken on Kodak 35mm film.
The train heaves away down the track, its wheels emanating a cacophony of thunderous metallic clattering. Light rain begins to fall steadily from a sky ironclad with boiling grey clouds, and sizzles on the paved ground about me. I leave Cark & Cartmel railway station on foot and take the pavement beside the road northward.
A roughly 16 km meandering loop across some of Cumbria’s finest lowland lies ahead. That familiar but peculiar mix of excitement, anticipation and nervousness for what lies ahead hatches inside me — I feel it somewhere between the top of my spine and the front of my throat. I’m not sure why. It’s always felt that way whenever I start a journey unknown.
Over a hump-backed railway bridge, a laminated notice fixed to a telephone pole with rusty nails catches my eye. It invites the reader to “come and give those brain cells a workout” at a quiz night in the Lower Holker Village Hall the following Thursday evening.
Just £1 per player, £3 for a hot supper and patrons are invited to bring drinks and glasses. I walk on as idyllic thoughts of the warm scenes and welcomes that will undoubtedly transpire in the local village hall on the evening in question fill my mind.
I approach the Engine Inn pub. A Union Jack lays half unfurled, half wrapped around the flag pole that protrudes from the pub’s façade. It gently rolls, hither and thither in the light south-westerly breeze. The small village shop is receiving its early morning delivery of goods from a box van. I greet the shopkeeper who waits on the path for the next box to be passed out from the back of the van. He smiles and nods back.
Another bridge carries me over the River Eea, which gently slides by beneath. Two blackbirds on the bank, a couple. The brown female sits on the low stone wall and watches the shimmering black male shuffle among the drooping daffodils, his usually bright yellow beak dark with mud as he plunges it rapidly in and out of the wet earth. He pincers a fat earthworm and they both fly off rapidly downriver, chattering wildly as they go. Back to their nest and offspring, I suppose. I move on down the road, keen to make some headway as I leave Cark.
Up the hill and past the iron gates to Holker Hall (spying a herd of roe deer in the distance beyond the entrance to the Holker Estate), I take a narrower lane heading north east. The ground continues to rise steadily. I round a hedgerow and startle a cockerel, both of us surprised to see the other so suddenly. He issues his bellowing wake-up call as I walk on, its staccato cawing seeming to fill all the space around, from the damp earth to the underbelly of the clouds above.
After passing a sturdy whitewashed farmhouse, the road leads to a meeting of three paths. I take the north way, passing through a gate where the road turns into a wide and rocky farm track. The fields open out to the right offering views of the Pennines on the eastern horizon, whilst a long dry stone wall marks the boundary to a wood of leafless silver birch on my left. Their straggly tendrils hang low over the track like a great tangle of nerves without their protective flesh. The track and stone wall run straight and true into the distance and I follow along, climbing the gentle ridge that runs northward towards Windermere.
Across the fields, another fork in the path approaches. The moss-cloaked wooden signpost points the way west along the Cumbria Coastal Way and northward along a bridleway. I stop at the farm gate that guards the westward path and turn and look to the south from where I’ve travelled. Morecambe can be seen in the far distance across the bay, the seawater shimmering in sheets of silver and brown. The rain has moved off to the east. Patches of bright blue sky appear behind soft cotton wool-white clouds, interspersed with grey-wispy remnants of the morning’s rain clouds. The early spring sunshine leaks through the gaps in this skywards patchwork, casting a dazzling light on damp rocks and rainwater pools gathered in the earth’s furrows along the farm track. The effect accentuates each blade of grass in the meadow, turning it from a sea of green into a collection of millions of shimmering points of watery yellow light.
The raincoat comes off and is stuffed into my bag. I pass through the farm gate, heading west.
Not before long, the path curves back round to the north and an escarpment opens up to my left, leading down to a plain that blends almost seamlessly into the vast expanse of the Cartmel Sands estuary. A sturdy viaduct carries the railway line across the estuary and over to Ulverston in the distance. Hoad Tower upon Hoad Hill stands proudly over the town, watchful, the white of its sides illuminated by the post-April showers sunlight.
Ahead of me, How Barrow now rises. Shelves of rock protrude here and there on its southern slope, shimmering blue-grey like steel and surrounded by the lush green grass that grows in earnest now that spring is here. I skirt around to the right, over the shoulder of the barrow, following the little dotted green line on my map. In the fields are small groups of ewe and their lambs; some look only a few hours old. The mothers eye me dubiously and bleat loudly whilst their lambs wildly headbutt their undercarriages, desperate to feed. I pass by carefully and considerately, keeping my distance and not wanting to impose my presence or disturb their morning. A sensible and courteous approach during lambing and calving time in the countryside, especially if you do not fancy a jog and jumping over a wall while being chased by a defensive ewe or cow.
I continue through the fields, northward along the ridge line. I crest a small grassy knoll. Without warning, but 10 feet from where I stand, a buzzard rises from atop a dry stone wall running along to my left. It was perched, surveying the landscape with sharp, honey- ringed eyes before I invaded its world. A female I guess due to her mighty size as she effortlessly beats her broad wings and climbs into the air — she finds a thermal and begins to glide, rising at a remarkable pace in giant spirals. She swivels her head, keeping an eye trained on me the whole time. For a fleeting moment, it is difficult to discern if she is climbing into the sky above, or if I, with my feet upon the earth, am falling away from her. She calls. A long and haunting and beautiful sound that fills the world around me. Another call meets it from the west. I turn and see a wake of buzzards circling up even higher. She glides away to join her kind. I stand watching, then I smile and walk on. The map indicates Scroggs Wood ahead.
Through another swinging gate in a wall, I pass. A length of frayed blue twine is fastened around the hinge end of the gate, with a rock knotted at the other end. The rope passes over the top timber of the gate and its nestling post, ensuring the gate closes itself thanks to the pull of gravity, regardless of whether who it is admitting is a considerate shutter of gates or not. A simple but clever thing of utility that many of us may never notice, but still deserves a moment of appreciation for its ingenuity.
I walk onward across the next pasture. Dappled light continues to fall across the land, pushing through the gaps between pure white clouds above. The sounds of high bleats fill the air as ewes call to their lambs. A chaffinch scuttles among tufts of grass under the shelter of a hillock. The delicious smell of wild garlic drifts by, buffeted by the light breeze.
I close on a length of dry stone wall that strikes out northward. Its path is arrow- straight, except for where it gently curves around the trunk of an oak tree. The old and prodigious tree has character. It has stories to tell. Its catkins are yet to appear, but it won’t be long now. Longer days have started their march north. The wall beneath the oak’s branches still holds a selection of last autumn’s fall — brown, emaciated oak leaves hide among the wall’s crevices, protected all winter long from the winds. I stand and gaze at the stone wall, turning my head left and right, observing its course from south to north. The way it curves around the oak’s twisted trunk can be overlooked easily, but at some point, skilled minds and hands had to plot that subtle deviation. The angle of each course of stone deflected perfectly to create a gentle cup around the trunk. I could have walked past this, oblivious. I’m glad I didn’t. There are thought to be upwards of 160,000 miles of dry stone wall across this country. They crisscross our landscapes as unnoticeable as pylons and telephone poles, burnt into our perception of the land so that they become something taken wholly for granted, but each stone has been laid carefully, with thought and purpose. They deserve our admiration and care. Another 40 metres or so along the wall there’s been a small collapse, stones spilling out onto the grass where the wall has failed. On the far side, round timbers have been hammered into the earth and spanned with metal wire mesh to cover the gap that now lies in the wall. A quick and essential modern repair that’s needed by extremely busy farmers, but still a shame. I walk on, wondering if the dry stone wall will ever be repaired and its modern counterpart removed.
“They crisscross our landscapes as unnoticeable as pylons and telephone poles, burnt into our perception of the land so that they become something taken wholly for granted, but each stone has been laid carefully, with thought and purpose. They deserve our admiration and care.”
I reach the northernmost point of the day’s journey and turn east, climbing a stile that lifts me up and over the stone wall I spent so much time in adoration of. I consult the map and stick to the green dotted line across the open field as best I can. The land opens out now on my right. A coppice of tall trees borders my left, each trunk standing close to the other, forming a seemingly impenetrable wall of branch and bramble.
I notice a flash of something large, deep russet, moving about the field, beyond a high fence, at the edge of the wood ahead. I halt and watch. A small herd of roe deer were moving along the tree line but have now stopped, they noticed me first. Their eyes are all trained in my direction, nostrils flaring, detecting my scent on the breeze. I stay as still as I can. My binoculars are in my bag, out of immediate reach, but I have the 200 mm lens on my old film camera that hangs off the strap of my rucksack. I slowly focus it towards the herd and snap a photo. Almost instantaneously, they begin to move back towards the shelter of the trees, clearly not too keen on letting me move any closer. Their hooves splash in water and clatter on stone and squelch in mud as they leap one by one back into the wood.
Onwards and soon I approach a cluster of buildings. Speel Bank farm, the map tells me. The path turns south here and I cross some open, boggy fields. Ewes and lambs are all about. Eyes again trained on me as I pass, sceptical. I strive to keep my distance, not wanting to impose myself. Dispatches from across the Lake District in print and on television often express an opinion of tourists, including walkers, as being an unwelcome nuisance. This has resulted in a certain level of self-consciousness whenever I visit the Lake District — the place I love so much and hope one day to call home. Especially when walking through farmer’s yards via public rights of way, and through fields of livestock with their young. I try to be as respectful as I can — always close gates, stick to the path where possible, keep dogs on a short lead, don’t gaze through windows into farmsteads. But, sometimes still I get those feelings of being an imposter, an incomer, an invader — which I suppose I am. I try to convey my respectfulness in every chance meeting with locals, hoping that it is noticed and received well. If I’m honest, I don’t blame them. If I was in their shoes, I can’t be sure that I would be any different.
The going is slow now. The ground is saturated in these fields, the earth chewed up, a symptom of the recent incessant rain, which seems to have decided to take a day off. After a time, the path leads me back around to the northeast and I approach a cluster of houses. Even from a distance the buildings give off the aura of second homes or holiday lets — they don’t have the rugged and inspiring feeling of functionality and hard work that you get from working farmsteads. The path runs right through the back garden of one of these houses before meeting with the narrow lane behind. I turn and follow the lane east, between fields of horses, shetland ponies and sheep. I walk by a metal farm gate where two small lambs lie with their rumps together, lazily watching me through bleary eyes as I pass. An idyllic spring scene — postcard material.
Over the hill ahead, the tiny village of Beck Side comes into view. Smoke rises from chimneys. Jackdaws chatter loudly. A small red Royal Mail van crests the hill and trundles between buildings in the distance. The tune to Post Man Pat instantly pops into my head. I amble along the lane and into the village, still humming the catchy tune as the red delivery van now comes around the corner ahead and passes me by as I stand to the side on the verge. The young Post Woman raises her hand from the steering wheel in appreciation. A lovely little corner of the world to deliver folk’s mail.
I carry on down the lane and arrive at a junction. A weary and weather-beaten road sign indicates that the village of Cartmel lies one and a quarter miles down the way. I gaze beyond the sign, down the valley, and there, above hedgerows and skeletal trees yet to gain their seasonal foliage, rises the squat tower of Cartmel’s 800-year-old priory church. Between me and the medieval architecture of the great priory lies the small Cartmel National Hunt racecourse, out of site from my current vantage point. I know it’s there because of my numerous visits to Cartmel races over the years with friends and family. Trips each May where I spend a few days nestled in the bosom of the quaint village, insulated from the outside world. With the warmth of a beautiful nostalgia nestling deep down inside, I make my way along the hedgerow-flanked lane towards Cartmel.
Before long, I pass the Old Grammar School; an opulent building and now a popular wedding venue, currently up for sale for a cool 2.5 million British pounds — if you have that sort of change lying between the couch cushions. I round the bend in the road and arrive in the centre of the village. First stop — the Cartmel Village Shop for a freshly made-to-order tuna salad bap, then over to the Royal Oak pub for a pint of their finest. I sit on the bench outside, supping and eating, watching the comings and goings in the tiny village square. Not too busy, not too quiet. I peer upwards, thick grey clouds have gathered again, blotting out the sunshine. A brisk wind has whipped up. A trio of house martins dart into the square from around an old stone building, banking as they turn, rapidly slicing through the air and disappearing around a corner as quickly as they came. Early arrivals back to spend the approaching summer in Cumbria. I look around again at the quiet square, there’s a sense that the place is waking up from its winter slumber. The locals preparing to welcome back the tens of thousands of tourists who will undoubtedly arrive in these parts over the coming months. A sense of anticipation in the air, even a slight nervous anxiety.
It feels like the rain could soon be getting back to work; a grey darkness has fallen. The mood has changed. I sip the last of my pint, heft on my rucksack and head off out of Cartmel, taking the southwest way back towards Cark, where I started early that morning. I cross the southern tip of the racecourse and pass through another gate, revealing a straight and true track ahead of me, yellow and dusty, cutting through the green field. As I walk, the clouds unexpectedly begin to break, the greys have moved off to the north and the pure white clouds are back, floating across the blue expanse of sky. Warm sunlight has returned and baths the land in its warm glow. The rain threatened but didn’t follow through. In a field on my right, cows bask in the sudden warmth with their calves. I stop and watch them for a while. Two calves leap and bound across the grass together. Another feeds at its mother’s undercarriage as she continues to walk and graze. All around, spring has arrived. New life begins to live. Trees bud and their branches dance. Cherry blossom floats on the breeze. The hedgerows are alive and birdsong fills the air. Lambs discover their walking legs. Calves learn to bawl. Bees buzz and ospreys dip their talons into the lakes.
Onwards I walk, dropping back down into Cark-in-Carmel. Past the Engine Inn, its punters now sat on the benches outside sipping drinks. Past the small village shop, the shopkeeper now busy serving customers. As I approach the train station, a glint of light in my periphery catches my attention. I look over to my left. Past a children’s play area and across the River Eea, a small row of terrace cottages are nestled along the far riverbank. An elderly couple sit on two metal bistro garden chairs on their lawn. The old chap pours tea out of a silver metal teapot into his companion’s teacup. The sunlight glints brightly off the teapot, reflecting it in my direction. The lady sits reading her book. They both take a sip of their tea. The man looks to the sky and lets the warm light cover his face.
I smile and continue walking, arriving back at Cark and Cartmel railway station, a feeling of intense happiness and elation in my heart. Spring is here again and winter is over.
By A. Milne
Cark, Lower Holker, Cartmel Peninsula, Cumbria, England. 09/04/24
