The Day I Went Back


Wainwright’s Favourite

Many years ago, in the first half of the Nineties, on a whim I decided to commit myself to playing every album I had – CD, vinyl, tape – during the year. When you live alone, you can do oddball things like that. I can’t remember how many albums I had then, but it was probably more than 400. That’s a lot of listening: I got to the last album somewhere in the early weeks of December.
Three or four years later, and a substantial number of additional albums in my collection (I was a considerably more voracious acquirer back then, when there seemed to be more good music) I decided to repeat the exercise. This time, I had listened to everything by the middle of May.
The difference was that, second time round, I was a lot more methodical about the task. I planned, I executed, I zipped through.
I mention this because my fellow blogger George has suggested I write about a particular walk that has a poignant element for me, and my lack of method first time round the Wainwrights was in its way responsible for that day.
I’ve spoken before of how my Dad, Stanley Crookall, introduced me to fellwalking in 1966, and of how reluctant, and complaining, I was. I grew out of it reasonably quickly, or at least that’s what I remember, but I have never forgotten that it was he who introduced me to the fells. I went on to complete the Wainwrights, and a part of that achievement was to do what Dad would have loved to do, and to see all these things that were denied him by the cancer that took him away from the fells, and eventually from us all, before he reached the age of 42.
I would love to set out on another Wainwright Round, go back to all those 214 summits (with especial reference to High Stile, Dodd, Scale Fell and Seat Sandal, from which I have not seen any views). But I know that it’s impossible, and my body wouldn’t let me. I have my doubts about getting to even a low summit again, given the state of my right knee.
But if I were to tackle the Wainwrights again, I would be methodical. There would be a plan, and it would be efficient. Not like the first time round, where planning did not extend beyond a Big Walk for the last day, and trying not to use the same Wainwright book twice.
There would be no holes in the jigsaw ‘next time’, no little fells in awkward corners that hadn’t tagged on to larger rounds, leaving me, as I neared the end of the list, with the prospect of short walks that didn’t amount to a full day’s expedition. Such as Fleetwith Pike.
Everyone who knows Buttermere knows Fleetwith Pike, and everyone who’s looked at even a small selection of Lake District photos knows the stunning view from its summit of the Buttermere valley, with the two lakes stretching out in a line. From the valley, the ridge is an obvious temptation, a straight, steep prow leading directly to the top.
On its own, Fleetwith Pike is maybe a half-day outing, with no real appealing route of return. To make it into a decent day, it was obvious that I should combine it with Haystacks, circuiting the short Warnscale valley, and returning via Scarth Gap. I have been to Haystacks before. It had been one of the very earliest fells I had climbed, or rather, we had climbed: the whole family.
My Buttermere walks were always done from Keswick, and for something at the head of the valley, I would cross Newlands Hause, pulling up at the top to allow my engine a chance to recover from that final steep pitch, after the bend, where there was never time to get out of first gear, and then that steep descent to Buttermere Village, riding on the brakes the whole way, which was why I would never drive over Newlands from the Buttermere end.
The only freely available parking at Buttermere by the Nineties was in Honister Bottom, and I had to go a good half-mile to find a suitable spot. The sun was well up the sky, and I had clear blue conditions and a fair amount of heat to face.
It was one of those days that started heavy-legged. There’s very little preliminary to the ascent: you leave the road and immediately you’re zig-zagging, in the lea of the fell, past Fanny Mercer’s white cross. I found it a struggle until I was out on the ridge.

Fleetwith Pike

Narrow ridges of this kind, thin trails amid the grass and rock, are great to follow, especially with that kind of view behind if you feel the need to halt for a breather. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy the ridge as much as I have others: it felt just that little bit too unremittingly steep, and although it was better to be out in the open, it was still a breathless day. Nor was I gratified that the path kept more to the Warnscale side of the ridge: Honister Bottom may not offer the best views, but Warnscale has a devastated look to it, as if it is the scene of some quasi-nuclear bomb test that has left a blight on the ground.
But persistence always brings the summit underfoot, and this was where the day changed, for the better. There was a breeze, and the air felt fresh now, and that spectacular view behind, with which I was so familiar already, but photos can never measure the scale of such sights. Still, I was peeved that the sun was shining too directly into my lens to make taking my own shot viable.
Fleetwith’s neat, bare summit was not bare of walkers. In fact, it was a bit like a tea party up there, like a Helvellyn summit crowd crammed into a smaller compass. I found a small patch of unoccupied ground, lowered myself onto it and dove into my rucksack for my sandwiches.
When I got up to move on, I was at last alone. I left the pack at Fleetwith’s summit behind, and strode off to descend the grassy decline to Dubs Bottom. I always preferred having the fells to myself, and I could now relax into sole possession of the afternoon.
En route to Dubs Bottom, I passed Black Star, the ‘summit’ of Honister Crag, and contemplated for a moment stepping aside to reach its summit. The thought amused me, that a mere walker like me could so easily reach the top whereas all the climbers were making it difficult for themselves, but then I realised that that wasn’t the point. It’s walkers who pursue summits: to climbers they’re the least interesting part of the crag.
Dubs Bottom was an interesting place, a wide depression studded with levels and derelict buildings from the old mining days. Beyond it, I could see the ground rising to the Old Drum House, at the stop of the seriously stiff ascent from Honister, the road to Great Gable, or Moses’ Trod, or the descent to Ennerdale by Loft Beck, so well used a thoroughfare yet almost invisible in Wainwright because it lends itself to no ascents.
Though it was no part of this walk, I crossed the dip and went up to the Drum House, climbing onto its platform and surveying that odd plateau that lies between the Buttermere and Ennerdale Valleys, and the way the Gable path turns towards the low ridge and seems to spring forward along its base. I’ve done that each time I’ve sweated up from Honister: by the time you get to the top, you need a few moments breather.
I turned back towards Dubs Bottom, which needed to be crossed at a diagonal, from the near right corner to the far left corner, to escape onto the fellside and the ridge of which Haystacks in the primary part. There were paths through the old workings, and I switched from one to another, like a child following a maze with invisible walls.
I emerged onto a path snaking in and out of the outcrops along the front of Haystacks. It moved up and down, and in and out, never the same for ten yards straight, and giving no glimpse as to what was ahead. I didn’t have Wainwright’s proverbial raging toothache, and I suspect I would have been giving it the major part of my attention if I did, but this crossing had immediately etched itself into my short list of paths I would happily go back and walk immediately: Ullock Pike to Long Side, the Corridor Route being other examples.

Blackbeck Tarn

The best part came when I crossed the entrance to the cove that holds Blackbeck Tarn. Everyone sees Innominate Tarn as the jewel of Haystacks, but one look at Blackbeck, glittering in its sheltered bowl, the Tarn’s boundaries swelling towards the back of its expanse, and I was hooked. I’ve never been one for camping, being too fond of guesthouse beds in which to rest myself after a hard day’s fellwalking, but I could imagine the joy of an early awakening on the grasses above the reedy banks at the far end.
After Blackbeck Tarn, the winding path continued to weave up and down, but far too soon I was emerging onto the broad back of the fell, and could see across the head of Ennerdale to Great Gable, and Pillar. From there, it was just a gradually ascending way, passing Innominate Tarn’s shores (I cannot remember whether Wainwright had adorned it then) and on to the nearby summit, which surprised me by merely revealing another, and higher outcrop.
I had been here before, nearly thirty years before. I remembered that we’d not been able to see Innominate Tarn from the summit and had moved on to the other outcrop to see it, with the ring of high Ennerdale fells as its backcloth, but no further.
Part of me still can’t believe we had ever been there at all. My family were wedded to the quarter of the Lakes from Ambleside to Wasdale, and apart from the traditional wet-Friday trip to Keswick, never ventured further. I hadn’t even seen Haystacks until the previous year, when, for my benefit, we spent a non-walking rain-soaked day going round the Western Lakes, and I saw Ennerdale Water, Loweswater, Crummock Water and Buttermere for the first time ever, four new Lakes in one day, and we escaped by going over Honister Pass, between writhing clouds and towering cliffs, and this from my Uncle who normally wouldn’t take his cars over anything more steep than Dunmail Raise.
And here we were, in Buttermere, parking opposite Gatesgarth Farm, bound for Scarth Gap and Haystacks. I can only assume that it was its status as Wainwright’s favourite fell that brought us there. The pass was supposed to be one of the easiest in the Lakes, but once again our family maxim applied: ‘if Wainwright says it’s easy, it’s hard: if he says it’s hard, it’s bloody difficult!’
Enough so that, at the Pass, in a precursor of the stomach problems that would limit our expeditions in the Seventies, my Uncle stayed behind, leaving only the four of us, mother, father, daughter, son, to scramble up the gully and find our way to the summit.
My Dad was 39 in August 1968, fit, healthy, active. He was looking up, and ahead, to the high fells. His younger child, my sister, was older every year, and the range of our walks would be growing with her. His son had stopped whingeing if you so much as asked him to lace up his walking boots. No, he wasn’t as impressed with Haystacks as he’d hoped to be: to him, Lingmell, our second and highest top to date, was more the mountain top he envisaged. Idly, he suggested he’d prefer his ashes sprinkled there.
That November, we got away, just the four of us, for a couple of days in a small cottage in Grisedale Forest. I remember walking down the road to see Forge Force Falls on the evening we arrived, I remember lying in the top bunk in a crowded bedroom we all shared, feeling so much part of everything as my parents talked below, and I remember following the Grisedale Forest on our last day. There was no fellwalking as such.

Forge Force

Dad was complaining of pains in his left shoulder. Back in Manchester, he went to the Doctor. He was in hospital more than not over the next twenty months. He never saw the Lake District again. Haystacks was his last walk.
That’s not the place of sentiment for me. That came a couple of years later, crossing from the last Wainwright to the one that had been the First, unlovely, ungainly, unlikely Middle Fell in Nether Wasdale. As I arrived at the summit from the back, the party there was packing up and leaving. I walked round for the next half hour, talking to those who would never come back as I had come back, this once and only time.
But Haystacks is still one of only three tops where I can look the memory of my Dad in the eye and stand equal to him. Me and you, Dad, me and you.
I scrambled down to Scarth Gap and set off for the valley. I can’t remember if this descent came before or after the one I made after completing the High Stile range, which was the one where I sat down on a pathside stone to look at the very strange goings on in the wide green fields below, that I finally realised was the filming of an episode of One Man and his Dog.
Sadly, I never saw the broadcast episode, so I have no idea to this day whether I managed to get myself into the background of any shots, and add to my small stock of TV background shots.
And I drove away over Honister.

Cloud and Isolation in the Western Margins


Some places in the Lakes are simply not easy to get to. Most of the main valleys have roads of some kind or another in which the walker who doesn’t want to spend hours tramping the roads can get to within reach of the fells, the major example of which being Ennerdale, which has been out of bounds to non-Forestry Commission traffic for decades.

In more recent times, lovely, remote Swindale has been made access only, thankfully after I had enjoyed the ascent of the only Wainwright that can only be directly approached from its distant valley head.

Grisedale is another valley that has long been denied access for the tourist driver, but the road only extended a mile into the valley before the ways took to the fellsides, and if you can’t manage a walk of a mile on the way to the fells, you should hang up your boots in shame.

Some fells, however, are just a long way away, even in such a compact area as the Lakes. But if you consider the geography in the west, in that green and grassy domain I call the Western Margins, the valleys spread particularly widely towards the sea, and there are silent and empty hinterlands that make access from the coastal side a long and slow business. And don’t forget Blengdale.

Working towards the end of the Wainwrights, I had to find a way of getting to Haycock and Caw Fell.

Their relative inaccessibility had been obvious to me for years, having been reading the books since the early Seventies, long before the mad ambition to climb them all had ever come into my head. Wainwright himself had picked out Caw Fell as a long distance trod, six miles there from the Cold Fell Road, and six miles back. This still came over as intimidating, even when I had demonstrated the ability to cover longer distances, over rougher and much more interesting ground without collapsing in my tracks.

I’d even walked the first part of that approach, on another day n the Western Margins, Grike round to Lank Rigg, and it didn’t looked remotely difficult underfoot, and yet Wainwright made it feel like a major expedition into extremely lonely and isolated country, just waiting to trip you up.

And it wasn’t as if the ‘shorter’ approach, from Ennerdale, looked in the least bit appealing.

If it were to be done, it looked as if it would have to be done from Haycock and back. And that looked as if it would be best done from Wasdale, via Nether Beck.

This was something of an unusual walk for me. I was unfamiliar with Nether Beck, except for the fact that it and Over Beck debouched into Wastwater in a very short space. Most expeditions involved a fairly immediate climb into the hills, up some sort of ridge aimed for my first fell of the day, but Nether Beck, as emphasised in the long, thin map extension in the Haycock chapter, had little to do with Haycock. I would be starting along a narrow, confined beck valley, with a long way to walk before I even came near to, let alone saw my first target of the day.

Nevertheless, this made the early walking quite easy. The path was distinct, the valley mostly straight, and whilst I didn’t gain much in height, I was swallowing up distance easily. Though I did have some concerns about the cloud line, which was showing signs of hovering on or about the ridge. There was little to show me where I was, the valley being quite enclosed, and any view back to Wasdale soon hidden by the curve of the valley.

At Pots of Ashness, where the valley took another turn, I has the choice of a steepish ascent to the flatlands above and approach haycock directly, or to take the more roundabout route, further up the valley, to gain the ridge at the col between the fell and Scoat Fell, further east.

Being in no rush, I took that route, which began to steepen after the outflow from Scoat Tarn. I kept looking out to my right, hoping to catch a glimpse of the tarn in its bowl, but never gained enough height to see it.

The clouds were threatening above and, by the time I got to the col, the last twenty feet or so had been within their folds.

No matter how experienced I got, I never liked walking in clouds. I never escaped the underlying fear of not being able to see where I was, and potentially falling down a cliff, but even in areas of clear tracks and guaranteed easy route-finding, I always felt enclosed, hemmed in. I walked to be out in the open, up in the hills, to see ahead and behind and all round, and in cloud on the tops, I lost the sense of being on the tops. The cloud was a ceiling above me, pressing down.

Nevertheless, the cloud had drifted clear once I reached the summit, and I had the uninterrupted view that I wanted. Despite its height, Haycock’s distance from the surrounding valleys means it doesn’t offer the greatest views, except over Blengdale which, paradoxically, was the main thing I wanted to see.

After my Dad died in 1970, I inherited his membership of the Ravenglass & Eskdale Railway Preservation Society. His dad was born in Ravenglass, the youngest child of the Station Master on the main line, and in the early Seventies, our name was still recognised in the Village. We never let a holiday go by without a trip on the Ratty.

The River Mite had been added to the Rivers Irt and Esk as the Ratty’s third steam engine, and in the early Seventies, there was talk of building another engine. It was suggested that, in order to fit in with the other engines, any new train be named the River Bleng. I’d never heard of this river before, and on asking discovered it to be a tributary of the Irt. Reading the Western Fells identified its whereabouts to me, and its valley’s size and reputation. It had remained a point of curiosity to me ever since, but I had never been anywhere before from which I could see Blengdale for myself, until now.

I was both impressed and seriously unimpressed. Haycock was the ideal viewpoint, standing at the very head of the valley, which was broad and green. But my instant response, which I can reproduce more or less verbatim was “my God, what flaming idiot let the Forestry Commission into Ennerdale when this bloody useless waste of space was available?”

There is a Blengdale Forest much further down the valley, and which has a surprisingly favourable reputation, especially among cyclists, but I defy anyone to look upon the open, empty, featureless spaces of the long upper valley, fill it in their imagination with dark, dank straight lines of trees, regimented across the valley and not conclude that it looks so much better like that.

I was now as close to Caw Fell as I was ever going to get in normal circumstances, and especially when I was still working towards completion of the Wainwrights. The traverse was a mile each way, an inescapable there-and-back-again, and especially after the initial steep descent on rough ground, the walk deteriorated with every step. I pulled myself up onto the flat top of Caw Fell, wandering along in parallel to the fence, but the actual highest point was as impossible to determine without military-grade surveillance equipment as it is on Branstree.

Strangely, the view from caw Fell, circumscribed as it was by the breadth of the summit, was more memorable than that from Haycock. I could see how the ridge declining towards the Western Margins turned abruptly north after Caw Fell’s top, rising over the equally ungainly Iron Crag, whilst behind me the highlight of the view was of Haycock itself.

It was a fortunate trick of geography that Caw Fell’s top was situated at that point where perspective makes the fells look their grandest. Haycock soared, a massive dome, raised above the head of the valley, it’s summit wreathed again in clouds, preventing me from taking the photograph I wanted. Seen from that angle, Haycock was noble and grand, and looked a damn sight higher than in reality it was.

The cloud was now lower and thicker than before, and I had to go back that way to return to Nether Beck. I contemplated contouring around the head of Blengdale, keeping below the cloud-line, and below any of the crags. But there were no tracks and whilst the ground looked to be without difficulties from afar, I knew from past experience how wearing it was to traverse angled ground for any length of time. And having the emptiness of Blengdale for company did little to recommend it.

In the end, I climbed back up to Haycock, though I found that I could bypass the summit rocks and skirt round to the long descent towards Pots of Ashness and the damp looking plateau between Haycock and Seatallan.

The latter had actually been part of my initial plans for the day, thinking to sweep up three relatively unprepossessing fells in a single walk. However, on looking across towards the long ascent necessary to reach Seatallan, I have changed my mind. My rule of thumb is that if a ridge route involves 500′ of additional climbing, it should be classed as a separate ascent, and factored accordingly.

Omitting it today actually worked to my advantage. It was not all that long after that, in conversation with a fellow walker, he asked which Wainwright I was saving for last. I hadn’t even considered that before but a short review of the two dozen or so remaining made it clear that, for purely personal reasons, Seatallan would be the ideal choice.

Descending towards the flat (and wet-)lands, with the long and tedious rise of Seatallan beyond confirmed the wisdom of omitting that part of the walk. At that time of the day, setting out on a 700′ ascent was the opposite of wisdom.

There were no paths across the wetlands, but I had picked out the point where I would need to descend to Nether Beck and kept that in sight once I was down to the level. Crossing between the streams and rivulets was slow-going but without problems.

And then it was down the steep slopes to the beck, and the narrow path down the narrow valley, reversing the sights I’d seen behind me in the morning. Once again, I was in confined quarters, and it was just a retreat, with the car and getting my boots off as the goal.

It was a strange day, in a part of the Lakes which held no intrinsic appeal to me, yet despite the interference of the cloud it was a very satisfying and memorable day. Caw Fell in particular was very strange to visit, the sense of being so very far away from anybody else, and that gently curved but flat top on which, despite the nearby wall, I felt a tremendous sense of exposure, as if I were at risk of being swept to the edge of the top and over it and down.

Needless to say, I’d love to repeat that walk, and see if the same sensations affect me.

Obscure Corners: The Calder Valley Circuit


The Calder Valley, seen from Whoap Beck in descent

There is more to the Lake District than the Great Walks and the Little Gems that attract walkers and visitors by the bushelful.
Though solitude and privacy gets harder to find by the year, especially in high summer, there are still walks that can offer, for the most part, loneliness and silence.
They may not rival the highest ground for excitement, or the vigour required to conquer the tops, but they offer a change of scene, and they offer visions of Lakeland that cannot be had from the more conventional days. Very few fells in the Lake District, in the Wainwrights are not worth walking. Even those that are not among the higher echelon offer the opportunity for a pleasant day.
Beyond the heads of Wasdale and Ennerdale, and the lesser valleys between them, long ridges reach seawards, grassy summits declining and, eventually, merging into, the West Cumberland Plain. I’ve taken to referring to these lonely, lowly fells – some of them Wainwrights, other relegated to the Outlying Fells, as the Western Margins.
If you’re looking for a pleasant and easy ramble in unvisited country, there is a circuit of the River Calder that takes in the fells on the southern shore of Ennerdale Water, together with Lank Rigg, the fell that Wainwright himself regarded as the loneliest in Lakeland. In sunny conditions, this is a refreshingly peaceful alternative to Great Gable, Pillar and their ever-busy ilk.
The major drawback of the walk is that it avoids sight of the rocky face of Crag Fell, overlooking Ennerdale Water. A start can be contrived from the Ennerdale Bridge area which would compensate to some extent for this, but which would leave to an excessively long road walk back, and can’t be recommended.
Instead, approach Ennerdale along the Cold Fell road, leaving Egremont on the coast road and rising to cross the foothills of the Western Margins. The road has widespread coastal views, although the inland vista is primarily of featureless green slopes.
A hundred or so yards short of the Kinniside Stone Circle – a modern day circle created by a geology teacher in 1925 as an example – the old, rutted mine road descends from a nearby fringe of trees. This is the key to the ascent and there is ample verge parking in the vicinity.
The approach to Grike has changed substantially from Wainwright’s day, with the establishment of another Ennerdale sub-forest on the southern flanks of the fell, reaching up within sight of the summit. The mine road is an easy, gently angled ascent, though much of it is confined within the forest which, being of Forestry Commission design, is glum and dark. In some places, I found the ruts almost impassable due to deep slutch.
Where the road emerges from the fringes of the forest, use a stile to escape onto the open fell to the left and bear uphill towards Grike’s penny plain top, an easy conquest. The views are not spectacular: the bulk of Crag Fell lying immediately eastwards restricts the view into Ennerdale, the lower end of the Lake being the most prominent sight from here. Nevertheless, the first summit of the day is always a welcome point: there’s a sense of achievement to being on any summit, and on a ridge walk there is always the feeling (and often the fact) that the hardest work has been done and the rest of the day can be spent in the metaphorically rarefied air of the tops.
Wainwright used to recommend descending to the continuation of the mine road at this point, to avoid the worst of the damp depression before Crag Fell, but the forest fence precludes this now. And on a sunny day, keeping to the ridge looks the more attractive prospect anyway. I don’t recall much in the way of soft ground to hinder me, but Chris Jesty is adamant that it still exists. Perhaps a sunny summer is the best time to test this?
Crag Fell is the highest point of the walk, and its highlight. Though the crags that award the fell its name are not viewable from this approach, the summit’s closer proximity to Ennerdale itself offers superb, if slightly lop-sided views down into the valley: of the head of the Lake, the deep forests and the relatively staid northern wall of the valley. Bear in mind, though, that Crag Fell’s top is at exactly that wonderful mid-height to emphasise the height and majesty of the surrounding fells.
Lunch is recommended here, to take advantage of the views. When ready to leave, take the path dropping away on the right, heading for the least appealing sector of the skyline, the rounded, unphotogenic Caw Fell.
From here, this lonely and distant fell can be reached in another three and a half miles, though it lacks in appeal except for long distance walkers who like to test themselves. From the Cold Fell Road it’s six miles there, and six miles back, without excitement or intrinsic interest: a long walk with little reward, either en route or on arrival, and lonely country if you sustain an injury.
This walk does not require you to make more than a token gesture in that direction, descending surprisingly steeply through the burgeoning forest before escaping over a stile into the open air, onto the end of the old mine road. At this point, we’re near the bottom of a dip, and the path now turns to the right and climbs, unusually steeply for the day, alongside a wall. Follow this to the¬† wall corner, where wall and path turn away left towards Caw Fell, and instead bear right, across grassy grounds, in the direction of the rounded hump of Whoap.
Whoap’s a bit of an oddity, apart from its unusual name. In The Western Fells, it looks substantial, with an isolated top and falls of 200 feet on either side, enough to suggest it qualifies as a separate fell. On the ground, it’s easy to see that it is nothing but a sea of grass, thick grass, so that the approach and descent are more like wading than walking, and Whoap lacks any kind of individuality. One gets the impression that Wainwright opted not to treat this as a separate fell because he didn’t want to bore himself tramping all over it, and most honest visitors will probably agree.
There are no paths on Whoap because it is carpeted in thick grass, and it will never ever have remotely enough visitors to blaze any kind of track along its placid ridges. But it does offer solitude, and the sounds of the wind and the birds, and  these are often precious things in the Lake District.
Descend from Whoap and climb the opposing slope to reach the littered top of the day’s last fell, the lonely Lank Rigg, scene of Wainwright’s amazing largesse by leaving a two bob bit near to its cairn in 1966 as a reward to one of The Western Fells‘ readers (it had been claimed by 6.00pm on the day of publication). There is little here to excite except solitude and privacy, although some searching under flat rocks may be worthwhile: it has become something of a tradition for walkers to leave coins for other searchers, and if you don’t find anything yourself, you can always play the game by sticking 50p under some likely stone, though it won’t get you the fish’n’chips Wainwright planned to spend his rash bounty upon. The views inwards to the fells are not impressive, but Lank Rigg enjoys a wide sea-vista that creates an amazing sense of space, which is worth the visit alone.
To return, retrace your steps in the direction of Whoap but, once in the saddle, bear left down easy slopes into the valley of the Calder, here in infant form. The valley is shallow and the walking easy, with a path forming on the right hand (northern) side of the river. Follow this until a track appears on the right, rising towards the low horizon. The Cold Fell Road comes as a complete surprise, being about ten feet away and in the process of bending around a corner. There is about a half mile to walk back to the Kinniside Stone Circle and the car.