Find the Bridge - Failure :(

Never has an entry in the Purple book filled me with such varying emotions as that of the one marking the book's first anniversary. The task of finding the bridge was as lovingly random as pretty much every other entry but, like most of the big entries, required an awful lot of planning.

I first saw the picture of the bridge in a small touristy mag at work. The bridge itself was unimpressive which made the view behind it look even more spectacular. The only words as to its location on the page were 'Lake District (stock photo).' Guessing stock photo wasn't a name of a region in the lakes I added my own words to the page - Find the bridge. It was close between the bridge seeking and the 75 mile canal walk from Bath to Reading for what would be used to celebrate the anniversary of the book, while the latter still sounds big and will definitely be attempted in the near future, the idea of the bridge sounded like a much bigger step up. The more I looked into it, the bigger it started to become. The Beautiful Lake District covers 885 square miles and has 800 bridges to choose from. First realising how close to the border the lakes are, then the number of bridges I was starting to panic. After some frantic online searching I found what most closely resembled my bridge in an area called Styhead Gill, around 1 1/2 miles away from Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England (and also in the book for things to see and do). Thinking I could kill two birds with one stone I started to get quietly confident.

They say travel is all part of the experience but the vast majority of this was done on the 3 trains that got me there. No major incidents aside from the 2 god botherers I was stuck with, one of which looked like the soothsayer off Carry on Cleo. The only thing of interest was the discussion I overheard by two blokes about some guy who had lost it and shot 5 people somewhere in the Lakes...

The train finally gets into Windermere, i'm already fed up of carrying the beast, the new 65 litre backpack I got as my old trusty one wasn't up to the job. After a couple of days it feels like part of you but until that time your shoulders despise you for it. First stop was naturally England's biggest and most famous lake (which for all you fact finders is just called Windermere, not Lake Windermere. Only one of the lakes actually has 'lake' in the name. Boring but true ;) ) I got into a rowing boat and awkwardly made my way out for a row. Think Peter crouch attempting ballroom dancing awkward and you'll get the picture. It didn't help that I had to row the wrong way around because it was only me in the boat. So beautiful though, i'd fallen in love with England again, this place was pushing South Wales for looks. The rest of the evening was spent looking for a place to camp. It was going to be on Windermere lake's edge until I realised I still had a long way to eventually travel. It was at this stage I started getting texts from various people about the shootings I'd heard mentioned earlier. Turns out some nutjob had shot several people and then himself and not a million miles away from where I was. Funnily enough i'd also heard of 4 people getting struck by lightning up in the lakes a week before. Think I must be some sort of dreaded omen, beware the curse of Rossifer wherever he travels...

On the way to Ambleside every bit of greenery had one of the dreaded signs, either Private land, No Camping or the dreaded National Trust sign. Eventually I see a field by a hotelwith none of the 3 signs. After scaling the wall I find a place that's also nicely hidden by the trees in case of any nosy parkers on the street. It all seemed perfect until a certain barking deer came along which just wouldn't bugger off. It was bad enough hearing him in the day time without having what sounded like the hound of the baskervilles in deer form at 3 in the morning. Still all went well including the tinned tuna and Vimto for tea and Nutri grains for breakfast.

Day 2 was hard, i'd never felt so physically tired since walking the north coast of Jersey and never for such a prolonged period of time. After seeing the classy looking bridge house at Ambleside I headed to Rydal then Grasmere. At this stage I was still optimistic of reaching the bridge and maybe even getting close to Scafell Pike, England's highest peak. After seeing the welcome sight of both a hot lunch and a cuppa in Grasmere I set off for Langdale Beck, a guarenteed walking route close to where I wanted to go. Despite my (quite honestly crap) map showing me the route looked easy enough it was harsh to say the least. That was until I got to Rossett Gill. I think evil just about covers it; uneven ground, hot temperature, beast still on my back and a bloody big slope that didn't seem to end. Luckily I had the first of many chance encounters with helpful people. The first with the friendly foreign dork pointed out I was no where near where I thought I was (crap map). After semi smugly getting out his proper OS map he proceeded to point towards the path I needed to take to go where I wanted to end up. The second encouter was with the middle aged woman who found me my 2nd camping spot. "Oh I bet you're going to Angle Tarn with the other bloke" she said. I was now. After much cursing and soul searching I get to the top of the hateful Rossett Pike and spot the gorgeous aforementioned tarn, a small lake with the said bloke and his son pitched over the back. It seemed he had picked the perfect spot as where he had sheltered silence, I had a blustery awkward spot complete with northern twats who wouldn't bugger off for an hour. Barking deer one minute, then this ;)

To be fair though they were the only twats I came across as northern people are on the whole impossibly friendly. Especially the guy who I met near the end of day 3 in the Walkers bar of a hotel. I must have looked a right satte walking in and as I ordered so much to eat he kinda felt sorry for me I guess and gave me what he called a brick, basically a wedge of energy and yum wrapped in clingfilm.

The plans for day 3 though changed constantly throughout the day. Despite feeling broken after the day before I woke up as good as can be expected. The plan was to leave the tent for now, find the bridge, get supplies, which were running dangerously low, from the village of Seathwaite then back to the tent and see what happened then. I kinda went pear shaped shortly after as becuase of my crap map and inept map / compass skills I had no idea where I was or where the bridge was. In another choice encounter I met up with a cockney geezer and his family looking for Scafell Pike. He had a book that looked like it was written and hand sketched by a legendary british explorer, I half expected the legendary Ranulph Fiennes to have done it. He showed me where he thought my bridge was which rather worryingly was the path I had just walked from. At this stage i've resigned myself to the fact i'm not going to find the bridge this time and went into pure survival mode. I wouldn't say I was panickingbut i had only 1/4 bottle of water on me and 7 oat cookies left back in the tent and had had no phone reception for the last 20 hours.

After getting back to the tent I was in getting home mode by any means necessary. Rather prematurely i'd reached that stage in your holiday where all sight seeing had been done and all you can think about is home but had missed the sole reason for coming on the trip. This desire to get home made the beast feel less cumbersome than usual unless I had started to get the hang of it. Despite Rossett Gill being as treacherous as ever it felt much easier that it did the day before. I even managed to take a wrong turn going on the same path i'd walked previously but this ended up working in my favour. not only did I find the walker's pub with the friendly guy with the brick but i'd found me a bus stop! :) I'd never felt so happy to be on public transport, the bus to Ambleside didn't hang about and then the next one to Windermere was close behind, I was going home.

I never dwell on the bad so i'll get them out the way first; most of my body ached for pretty much the whole time since I started walking with the beast in Windermere to getting home a couple of days later. Also, none of that would have mattered if i'd have found the bridge, which I didn't and am truly gutted I failed to make it having come so close. Looking back though, it was a fantastic trip with so much to take away from it. Yes I was hopelessly unprepared but i'd managed to spend 2 nights out in the wilderness and see some truly outstanding sights as well as those quirky little memories that pictures never capture; the barking deer, the woman howling with her dogs, the red ant attack in Rydal, the sheer delight of a plate of hot food at the Potting Shed cafe & the bloke with the brick at the Walkers bar.

Although I know where I need to go to find what i'm pretty sure is my bridge, i'll still need to do a whole lot more planning next time to do that and hopefully scale Scafell Pike. If i'm looking to take the beast again I can't go back there weighing less than 11 stone, I dread to think what I weigh now! I'll need a poser's map and half an idea on how to use it and may just have to cheat and find the easiest possible route to get to Styhead Gill. To be extra vigilant I might even bring along a group of gurkhas and a mule. On the whole a double edged sword of an experience but one worthy enough to honour the first anniversary of my Purple Book.

Rossifer x



















Big thanks to the oldies, Edna and Pickle who called and texted while I was out, keeping me amused and informed of the rampaging gunman! Special mention to my favourite godparents who are not only the only 2 of the 7 that ever gave a damn but continue to stay interested, if you're reading this I made it made minus any bullet holes :) Also to Lula who had an impeccable knack of texting just at the right time when things weren't going great, you'll probably never know how much the messages helped. x