Or a Congenial Start to the Day, Lamb Rescue Fail and a Swamp Monster…
We cook a late breakfast outside on the cadac and then take a civilised amount of time to eat it.
A very civilised amount of time, although to be honest much of it is spent chatting with several more members of the Millie fan club.
Millie finds this a much more congenial way to start the day as it is already past midday before we are ready to move out.
We continue the easy feel to the day by taking a footpath to Lanty’s Tarn behind Patterdale Hall. This wooded oasis seems surprisingly remote.
It is full of large tadpoles and Millie finds a deliciously dehydrated one left high and dry on the bank. She crunches it down with great relish.
We decide to continue on down Grisedale, the valley between Birkhouse Moor and Deepdale Common. Above us loom Grisedale Brow on one side and Birks Crag on the other.
We follow the path of Grisedale Beck to the end of the valley. At one point we come upon a lost lamb which Darrell tries to shepherd back to its loudly bleating mother.
Total lamb rescue fail.
Grisedale Beck leads us deeper into the mountains. Streams abound and at one Millie digs deep into the bank to emerge muddily triumphant – with a black stone clamped proudly between her jaws.
We pass the Ruthwaite Climbing Hut and take a track up between Dollywaggon Pike and St Sunday Crag to emerge at Grisedale Tarn. The clear water is alive with small fish.
There is not a soul here and the peace is total.
Millie blunders into a swamp to emerge black and stinking and she really does not appreciate being chased and caught to be cleaned off.
Finally almost white again she rolls on her head to get dry.
As the sun drops below Dollywaggon the air cools dramatically and we wrap her up and pop her in the pouch, much to her obvious relief.
We come back along a path on the other side of the beck as the shadows lengthen along the valley. The light is incredible and each ridge, rock and tree is picked out in exquisite relief by the golden rays.
Back above the campsite we see a lot of vehicles have arrived in the camping field. Darrell suspects gypsies but it looks in fact as if some suitably active outdoor event is taking place.
A bare chested runner clad only in the skimpiest of shorts passes us.
“Gay”, whispers Darrell under his breath. “Definitely gay”.
Well, I suppose there may be someone in Glenridding who didn’t quite hear him.
We sit out late and watch the light fail.
Another perfect day.