
Awakening // Lake District // PW4

Awakening // Lake District // RW4
In the morning, zips just don’t seem to obey sleepy human hands; fumbling fingers trying in vain to emerge from cocooned sleeping bags. Early morning light is gentle and warming – worth the effort in teasing open the tent, stumbling out and often staring in wonder, at the surroundings. This is the joy of wild camping, sleeping in wild places and waking from slumber to dreamlike vistas.
I’d woken early when the surrounding hills were softly encased in thick mist, drifting slowly into the valleys beneath. Paths meandered further up the ridgelines, past tarns and into the hidden peaks. A gentle breeze carried a crisp chill, along with distant birdsong and the rustle of nearby tall grasses. Strong winds and a splattering of rain during the night had played a cacophony of notes on the tent fabric; eerie sounds bringing vivid flashes of imagination of what lay beyond. This release from the ordinary brought with it a sense of awe.
As the stove heated water for tea I left my friend to sleep – it’d been her first wild camping experience and the day before had been long. Harrison Stickle, High Raise and a long loop round to find a spot high on Base Brown fells as night swooped in. Weary, aching limbs had been refreshed, along with motivation for the day ahead. Slowly sipping the tea, I pondered the sublime views across the Lake District.
In the morning, zips just don’t seem to obey sleepy human hands; fumbling fingers trying in vain to emerge from cocooned sleeping bags. Early morning light is gentle and warming – worth the effort in teasing open the tent, stumbling out and often staring in wonder, at the surroundings. This is the joy of wild camping, sleeping in wild places and waking from slumber to dreamlike vistas.
I’d woken early when the surrounding hills were softly encased in thick mist, drifting slowly into the valleys beneath. Paths meandered further up the ridgelines, past tarns and into the hidden peaks. A gentle breeze carried a crisp chill, along with distant birdsong and the rustle of nearby tall grasses. Strong winds and a splattering of rain during the night had played a cacophony of notes on the tent fabric; eerie sounds bringing vivid flashes of imagination of what lay beyond. This release from the ordinary brought with it a sense of awe.
As the stove heated water for tea I left my friend to sleep – it’d been her first wild camping experience and the day before had been long. Harrison Stickle, High Raise and a long loop round to find a spot high on Base Brown fells as night swooped in. Weary, aching limbs had been refreshed, along with motivation for the day ahead. Slowly sipping the tea, I pondered the sublime views across the Lake District.


Less than a century ago, these fells and much of the moorland across England was off-limits, guarded by gamekeepers for the enjoyment of the land-owning lords only; whose lands had been amassed since the middle-ages through pledging money, loyalty and armies to the king or queen of the day, paid for by taxing local peasants. What we would call bribery and corruption nowadays. The mass trespass of Kinder Scout in 1932 in the Peaks had started the right-to-roam movement and this ability to wander the wilds was the gift they had passed on.
Great Gable towered almost overhead, our first climb for the morning, beyond which I knew lay the tough slog up Scafell Pike, the highest peak in England, at 978m. From here, we’d follow a series of ridgeline peaks until Bowfell (902m) would allow escape to the meadows below depositing us back at our beginning. Except I knew this would have changed my friend; the first night sleeping in the wilderness always seems to, bringing an openness to new experiences and some of our childhood wonder back.
Less than a century ago, these fells and much of the moorland across England was off-limits, guarded by gamekeepers for the enjoyment of the land-owning lords only; whose lands had been amassed since the middle-ages through pledging money, loyalty and armies to the king or queen of the day, paid for by taxing local peasants. What we would call bribery and corruption nowadays. The mass trespass of Kinder Scout in 1932 in the Peaks had started the right-to-roam movement and this ability to wander the wilds was the gift they had passed on.
Great Gable towered almost overhead, our first climb for the morning, beyond which I knew lay the tough slog up Scafell Pike, the highest peak in England, at 978m. From here, we’d follow a series of ridgeline peaks until Bowfell (902m) would allow escape to the meadows below depositing us back at our beginning. Except I knew this would have changed my friend; the first night sleeping in the wilderness always seems to, bringing an openness to new experiences and some of our childhood wonder back.