Saturday 28th September 2024

The night bus deposits me on the corner of Euston Road. First light is at least an hour away and there’s a Hopperesque ambience to the city. A gentle breeze chills the air as I walk the short distance to the station, arriving in good time to take my seat on the 06h03 to Oxenholme. I sit back, put on some music and begin to relax. 30 minutes later I look to the east and gaze in wondrous awe as the night finally uncloaks a glorious sunrise of fetching clarity. A crystalline gradation. Orange to blue.

The train accelerates north. Soft daylight slowly fills the swaying carriage as the stress of a London week falls away. Replaced by a comforting sense of happy anticipation at the impending rendezvous amidst Ambleside’s dramatic fells. My thoughts turn towards the boys. I contemplate our enduring camaraderie. A constant in a world of chaos. Experience, and time, has added depth and breadth to a friendship forged long ago in the schools and pubs of suburban Liverpool. 

I drift, intermittently, into half-sleep as we traverse the backbone of England. Milton Keynes, Stafford, Crewe, Preston, Lancaster and, finally, Oxenholme Lake District where I’m met by the smiling faces of Rob, Pete and Dave who have driven up from Merseyside. 40 minutes later we arrive at Ambleside Youth Hostel where Phil and Les are waiting for us in the faded splendour of its grounds. Hugs and greetings are exchanged and we are soon on our way. Destination Wansfell Pike. 

As ever on these adventures I am carrying my precious Fujica. On this occasion it’s loaded with a roll of Lomochrome Purple XR, a present from my youngest daughter. Lomochrome film stock manipulates the colour on the exposed negative. It’s a departure for a traditionalist like myself. An experimental diversion. I’m looking forward to seeing how it interprets the vibrant hues of the Lake District.

Any lingering negativity and disappointment from the week is left far behind as we begin our day’s walking. Such is the spirit and positive energy generated by simply being here. Hearts and minds are lifted by the exquisite vista unfolding before us. The weather holds. More or less. There is a short spell of rain but it’s touch is light. Ramblers and runners pass in both directions, the benign courtesy of the fells a different world from the capital’s bustling rudeness. We reach our first port of call: The Mortal Man. A favoured hostelry, the jewel in Troutbeck’s verdant crown. Pints are ordered and we raise our glasses to absent friends, in particular Howie, who left us 12 years ago. This pub was the centrepiece of his only Lakes visit, now passed into folklore and remembered with great affection.

Refreshed, we plough onwards. Ascending constantly, we reach the summit of Wansfell Pike just after 4 O’clock. Our efforts rewarded by the breathtaking views. We stand, silently inspired, looking south towards the shimmering surface of Lake Windermere. Misty sunbeams punctuate layers of slowly drifting pale grey clouds, which part like curtains to reveal a turquoise heaven. It’s magnificent. 

The afternoon is a flick-book of panoramic beauty as we descend amidst a landscape of stunning vibrancy. Today’s journey is clearly being directed by Peter Jackson. Someone has dialled up the chroma and time-lapsed the clouds which roll apace as autumnal light gilds the valley before us. 

This is why I get up at 4am to travel 285 miles. 

We arrive, weary but happy, back in Ambleside and the welcome hospitality of The Waterhead Inn. Time to ruminate and reflect on the day’s activity. The verdict is ever thus; each exploration of this beloved terrain imbues us with a sense of joyous gratitude. Having this in our lives is therapy; a soothing balm for the weariest of souls.

The evening sees us dine well. The conversation is lively. We reminisce, as we always do. The fine local ale loosens tongues, problems are solved, humour abounds. At closing time the Gods of the Lakes bestow upon us one final gift; a dazzling canopy of stars beneath which we slowly wend our way, sated and merry, to Ambleside YHA and our lodging for the night. 

We’ve been given a 6-berth room. It is basic but comfortable. Our larking about and the institutional bunk beds suggest the mise en scène of a 1950s Ealing Comedy set amongst the crew quarters of an errant cruise liner. Eventually order prevails as we prepare to turn in, and before long the late-night playlist is on, the lights are out, and we’re sailing away to another distant land. 

Until the next time.