Dave Hewitt goes south of the border to find foot and mouth alive and the landscape unwell
The world's priorities seem to have changed somewhat since I spent the second weekend of September in the Lake District, a break intended as part-holiday, part-research trip.
For all that foot and mouth disease has remained high on the news agenda for seven months, and for all that the disease (and its accompanying access hassle) has yet to be eradicated, it suddenly risks overstatement to use the word "crisis" in describing something which doesn't involve skyscraper mayhem on clear blue televisual mornings.
But foot and mouth does remain a crisis, albeit a differently paced and far less tragic one, and it deserves continued coverage no matter how much weightier affairs might intrude. So I must shove recent events to the back of my mind and press on with the planned subject matter, hard though it has been for any of us to properly focus on domestic issues this past while.
I should start by explaining that the Lakes visit was not really tourism, nor was it a purely journalistic jaunt. My partner Tessa's parents live a wonderful house above Coniston, just off the Walna Scar road, so we're routinely down Furness way doing the family-visit thing. Normally the 175-mile drive from Stirling is made every three or four months, but not this year: we hadn't been south of Glasgow since January, and FMD was undoubtedly a major factor.
At the start there had been uncertainty over whether visiting a general area - as opposed to squelching around in specific farmyards - could transmit the disease back north. As long as that was potentially a risk, there was no way we were going. Then, as guidelines became clearer through the spring, it became evident that simply driving down the motorway, or along the Lakeland roads, was not going to transform us into viral carriers. Neither would an off-road walk in one of the English "clean" areas, especially if - as seemed sensible out of courtesy to the beleaguered farming community - all outdoor clothes were bunged straight in the washing machine on return.
No, what kept us away throughout the first part of the summer was not a vague virus-fear, it was something far more basic and immediate: a sense of claustrophobia. The access legalities south of the border have been radically different to those in Scotland, with closure signs telling of hefty fines for infringement rather than the advisory notices seen across the Highlands. Hence when we initially considered going to Coniston, in April or May, pretty much every path of any kind was genuinely closed, with the signs carrying an official, legally-binding imprimatur. And while I was comfortable with the idea of campaigning against this on the grounds of overkill, I drew the line at actively contravening any official closure, especially in an area where, for all the family connections, I'm ultimately what the Cumbrians call "an off-comer".
We could still have mooched around the village I suppose - boosting and bolstering the local economy like good consumers - but it was just too much of a torment to face spending time in Coniston, arguably the most scenic of all Lakeland centres, without the option of venturing off the tarmac. Scotland was bad enough at that stage, and the idea of a busman's holiday to an even more clamped-down area gave me the tremors. So we didn't go in the late spring, and we stayed away even when fell restrictions began to ease around midsummer (a few corridor routes were opened, with staffed entry points). At least a few phonecalls and emailings meant that by the time we did decide to go down in September, we knew that pretty much all the signs had been removed and there was walking to be had.
So the fells were officially accessible again, but I feared a stand-off similar to that in Scotland: having to walk the gauntlet of unofficial and often intimidatory closure signs posted by local land managers. That this proved not to be the case, at least in the core fell areas we visited, was one of the more encouraging aspects of the trip. The first morning, on a stroll down to the newsagents, I came across two large "Fells Open!" signs positioned in eminently sensible places: at the start of the main Coppermines footpath and right in the centre of the village itself. The signs were clear and almost celebratory in tone: there was a map, a list of statutory agencies and commercial sponsors, and the simple assertion that pretty much everything had been reopened as of 1 August. For all that the closures and conflicts prior to that date had been more severe than anything seen in Scotland, this form of signage was without doubt helpful and heartening.
The signs carried a definite sense of walker-understanding, of empathy, of go on, it's OK to climb these hills. This gave the confidence to set out on foot without fear of flak. Scotland, even now, could do with something similar at main entry-points, something that would trump the myriad misanthropic attempts at closure. Imagine how helpful - how empowering - it would have been, when the tenants at Auch and Castles were being so obstreperous, to have drawn their attention to a large, official, unequivocal notice just along the road. It reflects badly on the various Scottish councils and land agencies that they chose to fudge, faff and appease rather than to act decisively once given the nod by central government.
Not that everything in the Lakes was wonderful, however. Staying with Tessa's folks meant listening to Radio Cumbria each morning over breakfast, and there was much talk of the Penrith Spur, the ongoing FMD hotspot which had caused a swathe of eastern fells around Shap and Haweswater to be closed again. Regardless of the truth of the old fellwalkers' assertion that "east of the Kirkstone doesn't count", the closure of land so nearby cast a shadow over the whole area. The disease was still out there, a cloudbank brewing on the horizon, threatening to move in and overwhelm central Lakeland again.
(In passing, and at risk of moonlighting as a media commentator, I must briefly describe BBC Radio Cumbria, which is unlike anything I know in Scotland. The station's regular FMD coverage was good - and hearing the single-county figure of 885 cases once again put the zero-case Highland reaction to shame. But other than that, gah, what a soul-sapping radio station it is. No offence, but we're talking Alan Partridge territory here. Hour upon hour of easy-listening "classics" - Nancy Sinatra, Neil Diamond etc - interspersed with soporific, interchangeable presenters anchoring brain-numbing phone-in chit-chats. One of the worst features is an interminable round-up of the Cumbrian weather, featuring a succession of calls along the lines of: "Hello, Doris here; it's drizzling over Grasmere but I'm sure it'll brighten later." It's like a retro version of that Radio One Friday-night feature in which incoherent clubbers leave mindlessly manic messages on the station's voicemail. It wouldn't be so bad if the weather reports varied, but drizzling in Grasmere usually means drizzling in Clappersgate, Legburthwaite and Threlkeld, denizens of which inevitably call in once Doris has had her say.)
Anyway, back to the actual hills. Two good half-days were had, even though the expedition I really wanted to make fell victim to the Penrith Spur. (And east-Cumbrian pubs, tearooms and B&Bs - quite aside from the farmers - must be wondering if there is to be any end to this.) When writing about trig-point bagging on the Uists in June, you'll recall that mention was made of another slightly quirky (OK, downright bonkers) hill scheme, and it was this that suffered here. I'll explain the game more fully another time, but basically I'm aiming to climb all 22 of the 149-metre SubMarilyns during 2001, then all their 148m equivalents in 2002, and so on down to 140m in 2010, God and geopolitics willing.
A SubMarilyn, in case by some extraordinary chance you don't know, is any UK hill which just fails to achieve the all-round drop of 150m achieved by the 1552 actual Marilyn summits in Alan Dawson's great list, and there is a 149m subbie, as we aficionados like to call them, in the Lakes. This is the easternmost Harter Fell, the High Street one as opposed to its tor-topped namesake near the head of the Duddon. Both Harters are off limits just now, but the one I wanted had, frustratingly, been briefly available before the Spur pushed in. I'd have settled for the easiest, dullest route, ignoring the Haweswater crags and simply plodding up from Kentmere via Nan Bield, but it wasn't to be - although the instant my Cumbrian spies tell of it having reopened again, I'll zip down for a quick raid in case the opportunity passes once more.
So I couldn't climb Harter Fell (and I'm not exactly making brilliant progress with the 149ers generally - only four of the 22 ticked off thus far). Two good outings were had however, starting on the Saturday when Tessa and I met Ann Bowker, down from Portinscale for a saunter round the Goat's Water horseshoe: Blind Tarn, Dow Crag, Old Man, Boo Tarn.
Ann Bowker is a hugely experienced hillgoer (Munros, Corbetts, Grahams, the highest known total of Marilyns and indeed SubMarilyns) and she&£8217;s useful to talk to about Lakeland matters. Her self-confessed favourite hill is dear old Skiddaw - much in evidence on her "Mad about mountains" website - and she's suffering withdrawal symptoms from not having been able to climb it for over half a year. To be kept off a major hill that rises within walking distance of your house must be psychologically as well as physiologically frustrating, and she's itching to get back.
"There were rumours that Skiddaw would open this weekend," she said, "but this now seems unlikely. When it does, I want to be among the first up." Generally, she's pessimistic about prospects for the autumn, fearing that FMD will indeed nudge back in with the damper days.
The Skiddaw saga has been one of the oddest and least satisfactory aspects of the Lakeland policy on FMD closures, as no one seems able to say why it remains closed. The situation is akin to the less enlightened parts of Scotland, with smallholders round the Back o' Skiddaw holding the National Park authority to some kind of bureaucratic ransom. There have been no outbreaks of the disease in the area for a long time, and there seems no logic in the fells to the south of Keswick and the Whinlatter Pass being freely open while those just a step away to the north are securely closed. The extent of the tensions and disputes within the relevant authorities became evident when Radio Cumbria broke off from a discussion of knitting patterns to remind listeners that the new leaflet on path-reopening (presumably an expensive production) was already in error in saying that Skiddaw was accessible.
Anyway, we discussed all of this and more as we strolled round our Saturday fells, and it was good to see that numerous walkers had returned, even if the overall totals were substantially down. The main fell-gate car park was only a third full, and while the paths were inevitably mobbed by Scottish standards, there are usually three or four times this number on a sunny late-summer Saturday. Skylines are rarely empty in the Lakes, but they're emptyish just now. (To see pictures of this outing, go here)
It was the Sunday that showed just how quiet the hills have become this season. No one else fancied a walk, preferring a tearoom trundle instead, so I was dropped at Wasdale Head from where Kirk Fell, Pillar and Steeple took me over to Ennerdale. A grand day, as traverses so often are, and Ennerdale - in which I'd never set foot before - had a distinctly Scottish feel. What was really unLakeslike, though, was the solitude. Again the hills weren't empty - they never are, here - but in five hours up top I met fewer than 20 fellow walkers. These western fells are invariably quieter than those further east - it's remarkable how the hairpins of Wrynose and Hardknott keep the masses at bay - but it really was quiet this time. Again, there can only be one cause of this: a great many holidaymakers are staying away, afraid of booking only to find the paths still blocked off. And while it's undoubtedly pleasant to swan about such fine ridges without feeling the need to nod a greeting to oncoming walkers every couple of minutes, I for one would happily see normal service resumed without delay. The Lakeland fells are - or at least should be - people hills.
Finally, having referred to trig points earlier, I should briefly mention the weekend's bleakest moment. I'm physically and temperamentally incapable of driving more than a couple of hours without pulling into a layby and popping up some hill or other, and so a great many Borders and northern English hills have been climbed en passant over the years. This time, though, the Borders / Dumfriesshire strip felt too iffy for guaranteed quick-dash hills on the way back to Stirling, so a simple roadside trig point was targeted instead.
The 61m pillar on a backroad north of Gretna looked ideal, so we parked half a mile along from Milligansbush and walked back. There was no immediate sign of the trig - such map-trivial pillars are often embowered deep inside hedges - but normally I'd have hopped into the field for a proper search. Not here, though. It wasn't because of any No Access signs - there were none. No, my heart simply wasn't in it. The gently undulating farmland had an utterly desolate feel, even though the sun was continuing to shine as it had all weekend. This was a near-dead landscape: normally every field would be filled with sheep, hundreds of them, but this was FMD's version of ground zero and so there were none. A few cows could be seen away over yonder - how had they been spared? - but other than that it was empty, abandoned, barren, bleak. No one was around, and no one seemed bothered: every roadside gate we saw had been left open, and this seemed symbolic of what had happened here. There was no stock to keep penned in and nothing really to work for, not this season at least.
The blighted, hollow-eyed feel of the place got to us, and we hurried back to the car and steered for the motorway. It wasn't until near the top of Beattock that we saw a sheep again. Seven months on, foot and mouth disease is still very much part of the landscape.
Dave Hewitt
21/9/2001
