CHAPTER 15: CARLISLE & PEEL AND FINAL BATCH OF MOUNTAINS

A and I could see nothing wrong in taking a 420 mile round trip to do a bit of Christmas shopping. Our wives felt otherwise, although when we pointed out we'd be able to complete our penultimate cathedral their opinion of us shifted from totally insane to daft. The journey was not too bad actually, at least on the way up. On the return there were signs warning of a lengthy traffic queue on the M6 so A thought it would be a good idea to call in at the motorway services and wait until the queue had dispersed. Whilst an hour's break in a Costa with hours of travelling left to do didn't fill me with great joy, the thought of then returning to an even lengthier queue left me keen to scupper his plan. I succeeded and the queue turned out not as be as bad as we'd been informed. I tried a similar approach after watching Leicester lose in the pouring rain in Southampton and that time it was a total disaster as we crept along for about two hours of 'I told you so,' as we tried to escape the city boundaries. When he suggested the same after another defeat at Middlesbrough, I went with the flow and actually his waiting game paid off - not that I admitted that to him. This was our first ever visit to Carlisle, a city we have revisited on two separate occasions. The first was when we completed our final walks along Hadrian's Wall National Trail that had begun the year before. The four of us stayed in our caravan again, calling in Carlisle each day to buy our sub of the day lunch from Subway. The walk was much gentler that the strenuous central part of the wall and eventually followed the banks of the River Eden as it snaked out of the city to Bowness-on-Solway on the Solway Firth. The second time we were walking at right angles as we completed our south to north of England walk. 

The Christmas shopping took up a very small part of our time in the city, with the remainder spent eating and drinking, visiting the cathedral and exploring a wonderful bookshop that occupied a number of floors in a row of adjoining properties. They had an extensive collection of books and, being fairly off the tourist trail, the prices were all fairly reasonable. I had a defined route within bookshops. The first stop was always books on the history of London. This then widened into a general perusal of the history section before moving to the maps and travel books. In the days before the internet, I would then devote some time to seeking out unusual general knowledge books that I could use when putting together quizzes, another of my little hobbies. If time allowed I would then search the sports section for anything on Leicester City - this inevitably resulted in failure unless the bookshop was in Leicester. Of course this all changed after the team won the Premier League in 2016 with plenty of books being devoted to the 5,000 to 1 miracle. A would locate himself in the crime section where he usually remained for the duration of a visit. However, something in this Carlisle bookshop tempted him to explore other sections and, as I was just getting settled into a box full of Ordnance Survey maps, he appeared at the doorway in a highly excited mood, waving a large hardback book at me. 

"Look at this, look at this," he urged me, opening the book at the title page. I couldn't see what he was so aggitated about until I noticed his finger urgently jabbing at an ink stamp in one corner. It was a book that had originally been in his Leicester school library and not only that, he was the one who had signed it in, helping out as a senior student in the school library: it bore his signature. What were the chances of that? He was beside himself with excitement and so my reaction of complete indifference was probably not what he was expecting. He tried several times to enthuse me with his discovery but there are only so many shrugs of the shoulder and indifferent replies a man can take and eventually he retreated back to the section he'd found the book in and returned it to the shelves. Now a lesser man would have held a grudge over my response and so I was duly impressed when I received a phone call from him about forty minutes later. He informed me that he was now on the pavement outside the shop with the owner who was about to lock me in for the night. Apparently someone had been round the labyrinthine building to inform customers that the shop was closing but we had somehow missed each other. To his credit A stopped what could have been an interesting situation developing by asking the owner to delay his locking up until he'd summoned his friend from the inside. I didn't deserve such treatment. A few months after our visit, A actually purchased the iconic book from the shop for an inflated price plus postage and I'm pleased to report that following my earlier rather unfeeling reaction in the bookshop, I greeted his purchase with renewed disinterest spiced with ridicule and sarcasm.

We had made the cathedral the first stop on our itinerary, arriving mid morning. Entering the cathedral precinct, we were struck by its unusual appearance, being constructed of red sandstone. It is one of the smallest cathedral in England, large parts of it being destroyed by Scottish Presbyterian troops during the English Civil War with a lot of the stone being removed to reinforce Carlisle Castle. The city had grown up as a settlement surrounding Hadrian Wall's largest fort and it was probably Henry I's desire to bring some stability to this troubled border area that he created the see of Carlisle in 1133 and the abbey, church, founded just eleven year prior to this, became its cathedral. Little of this original building survives with a fire and a tower collapse being the main reasons for reconstruction during later centuries. It had many gems inside for us to discover. The first was the fabulous choir ceiling, the barrel vaulted roof having a design of vivid blue squares trimmed with gold. Although this was completed in Victorian times, it is believed to have followed the original medieval colour scheme. There were some genuine medieval paintings on the back of the choir stalls, the four vertical strips depicting the apostles and the lives of St Anthony, St Augustine and St Cuthbert. On the reverse were a set of 46 misericords, complete with a variety of carvings including what seemed to be the obligatory woman beating a man. 

The columns supporting the roof were surmounted with carvings of the labours of the months. These usually show a month by month calendar of medieval life with a heavy emphasis on the agricultural year and are found carved in stone and wood, set in stained glass and painted in murals across Europe, the cathedrals of Italy and France having many fine examples. They are often linked to the signs of the Zodiac or decorated with pagan symbols such as the green man, as is the case at Carlisle. An intricate wood carving, the Brougham Triptych, stood behind the altar, having been carved in Antwerp in about 1520 and the cathedral also boasted a fine 14th century East Window which still contained some of the original glass. We decamped outside again to examine the gargoyles, some of which had been added in more recent times. One is of a policeman wearing his traditional helmet and it honours local bobby PC George Russell who, in 1965, was killed during an arrest at Oxenholme station at the southern end of the Lake District. The gargoyle next to this memorial is the only one in England to feature someone wearing glasses, it being a self portrait of the sculptor. 

The Lake District was another area of the country that holds many memories of holiday visits during my teenage years with my parents parking the family caravan for a few days each year in Whit week at High Lorton, a small village to the west of the National Park. I have returned many times since, on one occasion with A and H when the highlight was my youngest accepting the challenge put down by their youngest to eat raw chillies at a Mexican restaurant in Keswick: that went well. For many years, Sue and I would holiday there with three friends over the May Day bank holiday. The three ladies would journey up during the Friday, visit copious shopping outlets and then retire to the accommodation where much alcohol would be consumed as they prepared a meal for the men's arrival. My friend D and I would travel up after work, inevitably hitting the worst of the Friday night M6 traffic, but taking the opportunity the hours of the road provided to put the world to rights. The reward for our nightmare journeys was a well lit, cosy and comfortable house, a delicious meal and three slightly tipsy women who we felt obliged to join in the alcohol consumption stakes. We would always split our time there with a good deal of chilling out, some sight seeing and walking the myriad of footpaths that cover the whole area. Each year our walks began to get a little more adventurous until we decided to tackle Catbells, the 189th tallest peak in the Lake District at a less than impressive 451 metres. 

Equipped with walking boots, backpacks, sticks and emergency supplies we set off to conquer this beast that rises from the shores of Derwent Water. Unfortunately for our expedition, the day we had chosen featured a very strong wind blowing off the lake and after a few minutes ascent, we were being buffeted about unmercifully. A decision was made to delay our attempt for a full twelve months when hopefully weather conditions would be more suitable for our epic climb. And they were. The walk was not an easy one, with the path disappearing several times on both the ground and the map. At one point we had to scramble up a sheer rock face- alright, it wasn't a very big rock face but what it lacked in size it gained in sheerness. Finally, after much huffing and puffing with plenty of breaks to consult the map, have a drink and take in the splendid views, we reached the summit. Our sense of achievement was blunted somewhat by the presence of lots of families at the top, some with children little more than toddlers, who had skipped their way to the top and we're now running around with boundless energy. We collapsed exhausted onto the grass, glaring enviously at the carefree antics of the youngsters and cursing our ageing joints and aching muscles. Having struggled to conquer peak number 189, we upped the ante the following year by attempting peak number 119, the 637 metre high Causey Pike. This appealed on two counts: it was far less popular than Catbells so unlikely to contain quite so many exuberant children and it rose up from the back of the house we were staying in. It was a hard climb and only D, his sister and I managed the final ascent to the summit but by now D and I had a burning desire to go higher still.

If climbing an additional 186 metres from Catbells to Causey Pike was a bit of a challenge, topping that with another 294 metres to scale Skiddaw, England's fourth highest peak, was a bit daft, but we did it anyway. This was a harder climb over a longer period of time but it was a lovely fine day so we were rewarded with wonderful, extensive views from the top. The path was very clear and there were plenty of people doing the same thing so we never felt concerned at any time. That couldn't be said for our climb up Helvellyn the third highest peak and our destination the following year. The weather was fine when we set off, just some drizzly rain, but an hour into the climb, we lost the footpath and then the mist descended. Fortunately we passed a number of climbers whose shadowy shapes would suddenly emerge in front of us and who were able to put us back on the right path. Towards the summit, we were following markers in the snow but fortunately we'd climbed above the mist so we had a much clearer view of where we were going. It wasn't the most pleasant climb and we were both relieved to descend to the forested lower slopes on an alternative route down the mountain. Maybe we should be trying gentler slopes, or maybe we should go for Scafell Pike, England's tallest mountain and a place that had held a fascination for me since learning about it at school as a seven year old. I had once made my parents drive for miles so that I could catch a glimpse of it and now I was going to add it to my growing mountain collection. 

It was a fine day for walking so we felt confident that we'd complete our goal without too much trouble. As we donned our boots, a fellow walker enquired of us whether he should take crampons. We scoffed at the idea as there appeared to be only a little snow on the tops of the surrounding peaks. How wrong we were. The initial ascent was pleasant enough but before long we hit the snow; a light covering at first, then slightly deeper and finally deep enough to come halfway up to our knees with each step. It was fine where previous walkers had compacted the snow but once in the valley between Scafell and Scafell Pike, all sign of a footpath disappeared. There were plenty of people about but everyone was forging their own paths and we were forced to do the same. Every so often a step into virgin snow would see one leg disappear deep into a hidden hole and on frequent occasions we would slip and fall, the snow making a cold but comfortable landing space. We finally reaching the summit but it had taken about twice as long as we'd planned due to the extra effort needed to lift our feet from the snow with each step. My mountain collection stalled at this point. There was still peak number 2, Scafell, to do but the experience of climbing it's slightly higher brother had blunted my enthusiasm. It may be rekindled but I shouldn't bet on it.