We awoke October 4, after another stormy night, now in Coniston Water, to a strange, brilliant, golden orb in the sky; a strangely blue sky, too. It was not raining.
With this good fortune we decided to walk again among the fells, this time up the Old Man of Coniston, the 3,000 foot peak that towers above Coniston Water. We got as far as lunch, gathering grey clouds, and a few drops of rain. Unlike the Brits, who seem to spend their lives in mountain gear shops, buying water-proof garments and gear, and then, occasionally, using them, we elected not to use ours and to walk back down the Old Man, after only getting 2/3rds the way up. It did not seem a worthy peak to me, in the impending inclemence, and, although the trail was very good up to the slate quarry, it became difficult, more so than we thought prudent for Vicki's Routeburn-wrenched knees. (Was it just a year ago we were landing at Lukla and beginning the march up to Namche Bazaar, Tengboche, and Kala Pattar?). Our descent was lengthened by another extended bout of blackberry picking. But now we are learning the meaning of the British term “September blackberries.” They look ripe and lucious, but best to leave them for the birds and insects, and winter. It never did really rain.
With this good fortune we decided to walk again among the fells, this time up the Old Man of Coniston, the 3,000 foot peak that towers above Coniston Water. We got as far as lunch, gathering grey clouds, and a few drops of rain. Unlike the Brits, who seem to spend their lives in mountain gear shops, buying water-proof garments and gear, and then, occasionally, using them, we elected not to use ours and to walk back down the Old Man, after only getting 2/3rds the way up. It did not seem a worthy peak to me, in the impending inclemence, and, although the trail was very good up to the slate quarry, it became difficult, more so than we thought prudent for Vicki's Routeburn-wrenched knees. (Was it just a year ago we were landing at Lukla and beginning the march up to Namche Bazaar, Tengboche, and Kala Pattar?). Our descent was lengthened by another extended bout of blackberry picking. But now we are learning the meaning of the British term “September blackberries.” They look ripe and lucious, but best to leave them for the birds and insects, and winter. It never did really rain.
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The Old Man of Coniston, seen from town |
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A six-foot high fence crosses the valley before the mountain |
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"On belay!" Sunday morning rock climbing class at Coniston |
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Tailings from the huge slate quarry, disused since 1955 |
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View back toward town |
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Coniston Water scenery |
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Not all that far away, the Irish Sea |
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