29 and 30 May 2010 - Our mission : to explore the North-Eastern fells some more, and stage our first wild camp. We’d thought about wild-camping before, and heard a bit about it from fellow travellers. For those who think ‘all camping is wild, nay, crazy’ then a short explanation : wild camping, camping just anywhere as opposed to a designated site, is legal only in Scotland and Dartmoor, but ‘tolerated’ in National Park areas such as Snowdonia and the Lakes. The ethos is Leave No Trace as well as to remain as unobtrusive as possible so as not to spoil the experience for other hikers, sheep and the landowners.

Why wild camp? The benefit of not having to deviate from your planned route for starters, but the main draw is to camp high up, and awake refreshed and ready to nip up to that big peak after taking in the fabulous morning vista. Spotted the holes in our theory yet? Read on…

We planned our route to begin and end at Ambleside, where we were confident of finding an overnight parking space. Our overnight destination was to be Angle Tarn, which we first met on the Coast to Coast route last year and noted as a good spot for camping. We also had a desire to walk along the High Street Roman road on the first day, and then on the second day to return via the Helvellyn range. So in effect two high-level ridge walks which should afford us great views, a pretty camp spot and a famous peak to boot. (note: we climbed Helvellyn just three weeks ago, but saw nowt from the top due to a big cloud. No harm trying again eh?)

Jon had misgivings about the weather from the off, preferring to set off on Sunday thinking the forecast to be better. Zoe insisted on beginning on Saturday, so that we’d have the Bank Holiday Monday to recover, and also holds the view that if every time we walked, it was sunny and clear, where’s the challenge? (she is a maniac of course)

So Saturday we parked by the Pier in Ambleside, thanks to a tip-off from the helpful staff at the Youth Hostel where we thought we’d try for a cheap or free parking space.

Fuelling up at the pier café with ham, eggs and chips, we made a start with our heavy packs at 12.30. We at first got distracted by the shops at Ambleside, bought a new Harvey’s waterproof map of the central fells, bringing the total maps carried to three, and a couple of boxes of juice.

Headed up Wansfell and away from the ambling, circling crowds in Ambleside. As per usual, fifteen minutes from civilisation and we had only crows, sheep and a stiff breeze for company. We dropped down again to Troutbeck and up again to Garburn Road, an old drovers track leading slowly up and North towards the High Street range.

It began to rain. We entered a cloud. The views became rather same-ey, being rather white and misty, with a stone wall just to the left. The North Eastern Fells, rolling and pitching like a stormy green sea, crowded with precipitous crags, hidden dales and gleaming tarns, eluded our view perfectly. The monotony broken only by the shapes of two roe deer looming out of the shade maybe ten feet away.

Travelling now on an almost exact Northwards bearing, we crossed the peaks of Yoke, the fantastically named Ill Bell, then down and up to Froswick then High Street. Famous for its Roman road and for having once been a racecourse (yes, really). By this point it had become a proper slog so we hurried on to the Knott, where we began to search for camping spots as we were lower down and out of the cloud now. We were happy to stop wherever we could find a sheltered spot, as it was now about 7.45 and we were tiring. One spot we found overlooked Hayeswater reservoir very prettily and was close to a clean stream but Zoe had reservations about how windy it might be, being situated on the side of a straight valley (valleys like this often become wind tunnels in feisty weather) so we decided to press on to Angle Tarn, which is protected on three sides by crags.

Having sufficient water is of great importance when wild camping – they haven’t got around to installing taps on the fells yet. As we tramped across rough ground to rejoin our path, we crossed a pretty little stream which tumbled over a series of rocks. It was a good bet for clean, healthy water as no (official) footpaths crossed it and it came out of the ground only a little higher up than we stood. Jon collected some water near one of the falls and we moved on, happy in the knowledge we had cooking water for our breakfast.

Around The Knott, we entered the cloud again but were in familiar territory, the Coast to Coast path, which we were now following in the ‘wrong’ direction (it’s traditionally walked from West to East, we were heading roughly North-West). Around Satura Crags we found a couple of sheltered places but willed ourselves on to Angle Tarn, where we were met by the sight of a small encampment of brightly coloured tents. Thanks to useful on-line forums, the wonderful suitability of Angle Tarn for camping is now known to more than just a few.

Disappointed, we retraced our steps and followed a sheep path to an area of flattish ground beneath a small crag and protected by a wall on two sides. Cotton grass and reeds gave away its boggy nature but right in the middle, a little hump with a flat top became our resting place for the night. We later learned its name as Brock Crag. By 9.15 Zoe was ensconced in her sleeping bag, trying to shiver off the day’s efforts and dry her wringing wet socks and Jon was digging a ‘dunny’ in case of urgent need in the morning. A word about wild toileting – whisper wherever you like, but if you have to shout, bury it at least 6 inches deep, cover it and carry your dirty loo paper away with you in a bag. Jon’s forethought is impressive. The night did not pass quietly, as the wind decided to up its game quite significantly, causing the guylines to hum. We lay awake glad of the wind, with its drying properties, then glum again as it rained sporadically.



The morning weather was a relief and a joy, the fells revealing themselves to us under fast-moving clouds. Zoe bounded out of the tent and took this photo, spotted our tent yet? When one camps wild, ‘arrive late and leave early’ should be one’s motto, so we guiltily broke our camp at about 8.30 after waking from larksong-lulled sleep. Cold is your enemy in the mornings so we warmed ourselves with a walk on to a rocky area nearer to the Tarn to cook our breakfast and get a look at our neighbours, of whom we counted at least ten.


After enjoying our stream-water porridge and apple juice we descended to Patterdale, stopping to give directions and boast about our wildcamping exploits to a group of Coast-to-Coasters. We know Patterdale with its excellently stocked, bacon-roll selling shop from the oast to Coast route. Second breakfast and lunch snacks purchased, we shouldered the packs and began to ascend out of the valley towards our second day's ridge walk, passing the brightly coloured snaking chain of the Helvellyn-bagging hordes on the way. Through pretty bluebell woods and past the disappointing Lanty’s Tarn we passed Glenridding Beck and reached Sticks Pass, a high natural bowl above an old mining area, through which a beck runs.



From Sticks Pass we planned to ‘sneak up’ on Helvellyn’s summit by way of Raise, which itself is an impressive 883 metres. So 'sneak up slowly and exhaustingly' would be more appropriate a description. Zoe at this point became very animated as a fell race passed us by, windswept and grimacing men and women in shorts getting assorted nods, smiles and shouts of encouragement from the aspiring running nutter herself. Jon tiredly followed and we took in the excellent vistas as far as the Solway Firth and Scotland, and Morecambe Bay, with all the felltops now showing themselves to us beneath the racing, dark, high clouds. Of course, it hailed when we reached the top of Helvellyn, but only a bit.

Walking along the flat expanses at the top of Helvellyn we took in the deep, steep-sided coves to the West and the famous Striding and Swirral edges which form the ‘arms’ of Helvellyn, encircling Red Tarn, way below us. We also noted Nethermost Cove and the vertiginous flank of St Sunday Crag. I’m coming over all Wainwright. In my kind of words, then: It’s pretty, but in a terrifying way, and you feel glad to be able to look down on it and imagine yourself in amongst the rocky edges or swimming about in the glacial water, with your feet still firmly (and sorely) on a rocky path.

Having heard much about Grisedale Tarn, we headed toward it happily, only to find it a rather dull lake in a windy cove. It's famed for it's good camping opportunities but we weren't convinced. We were knackered in the knees and tired after a descent of about 500 metres, and still had about another 400 to go. We left the high passes via Grisedale Beck and what seemed like an endless descent, each step rockier on our battered feet, but eventually reached the A591 road near Grasmere, whereupon we ate a hearty meal at the Traveller's Rest and caught the bus back to the car at Ambleside. What, you didn't think we were going to walk all that way!?