Lake District countryside
Moisture dripped from the branches of the dark conifers and the musky scent of spruce hung heavy in the air. We rested for a few minutes in the lea of the hostel wall, while I adjusted the pack. Once a shepherd's bothy, the old building has changed little over the years and is one of the few real youth hostels left Rent a spare room for London Olympics 2012.
Originally founded with the purpose of providing cheap accommodation for impecunious youngsters, the Youth Hostels Association, like so many organisations, has lost sight of its ideals and geared itself to the motorist seeking a cheap holiday. Hostel grounds, once filled with Raleighs and Sunbeams, are now cluttered with Fords and Minis and, instead of maintaining an overnight charge common to every hostel, the association has evolved a system of tariffs according to amenities provided. The Y.H.A. handbook resembles a Michelin Guide, with its star system of grading, and instead of a map and compass, the modern hosteller needs a pocket calculator. Lonely outposts, like Black Sail, accessible only to walkers, cyclists and horse riders, remain as memorials to the true spirit of hostelling.
Beyond the hostel, the thin brown ribbon of Scarth Gap Pass climbed high above the forest, disappearing into the cloud between High Crag and Haystack. As we approached the foot of the long climb which would take .us to Buttermere, some absentminded god opened the wrong valve and water cascaded in vicious torrents, sending us scurrying for the shelter of the trees. Hailstones as big as golf balls bent the branches of the trees almost to snapping point and made the ponies stamp and snort as they thumped into their unprotected faces.
It would have been asking for trouble to go over the pass in that weather, so we set off down through the forest in front of the storm, like pebbles driven along a river bed. Water spilled from my saturated boots and dribbled from the stirrups in a continuous stream, but, although I was soaked to the skin, I was tolerably warm.
The track through Ennerdale Forest is often described as being long and tedious, but to me it was a joy. Despite the awful weather the going was easy for the ponies and I could relax in the saddle without having to worry about bogs, or to lead the way through boulders and scree. The Forestry Commission has been on the receiving end of a great deal of criticism over the way they virtually took over Ennerdale and carpeted the fells ides with rows of conifers, where sheep once grazed. Whatever the arguments were against establishing the forest in the 1920s, there is no doubt in my mind that what the commission is doing today is good, and in the best interest of those who seek peace and beauty in a valley where the motor car is not welcome.
A mile or two down the forest road the rain eased off, then petered out altogether. The low clouds began to lift and a gap in the trees revealed the full magnificence of Pillar Rock, suspended above the forest like a fairy castle in ancient mythology. A shaft of sunlight pierced the mist and, as the air on the valley floor warmed, it rose, and carried the clouds with it, high above the fells.
Originally founded with the purpose of providing cheap accommodation for impecunious youngsters, the Youth Hostels Association, like so many organisations, has lost sight of its ideals and geared itself to the motorist seeking a cheap holiday. Hostel grounds, once filled with Raleighs and Sunbeams, are now cluttered with Fords and Minis and, instead of maintaining an overnight charge common to every hostel, the association has evolved a system of tariffs according to amenities provided. The Y.H.A. handbook resembles a Michelin Guide, with its star system of grading, and instead of a map and compass, the modern hosteller needs a pocket calculator. Lonely outposts, like Black Sail, accessible only to walkers, cyclists and horse riders, remain as memorials to the true spirit of hostelling.
Beyond the hostel, the thin brown ribbon of Scarth Gap Pass climbed high above the forest, disappearing into the cloud between High Crag and Haystack. As we approached the foot of the long climb which would take .us to Buttermere, some absentminded god opened the wrong valve and water cascaded in vicious torrents, sending us scurrying for the shelter of the trees. Hailstones as big as golf balls bent the branches of the trees almost to snapping point and made the ponies stamp and snort as they thumped into their unprotected faces.
It would have been asking for trouble to go over the pass in that weather, so we set off down through the forest in front of the storm, like pebbles driven along a river bed. Water spilled from my saturated boots and dribbled from the stirrups in a continuous stream, but, although I was soaked to the skin, I was tolerably warm.
The track through Ennerdale Forest is often described as being long and tedious, but to me it was a joy. Despite the awful weather the going was easy for the ponies and I could relax in the saddle without having to worry about bogs, or to lead the way through boulders and scree. The Forestry Commission has been on the receiving end of a great deal of criticism over the way they virtually took over Ennerdale and carpeted the fells ides with rows of conifers, where sheep once grazed. Whatever the arguments were against establishing the forest in the 1920s, there is no doubt in my mind that what the commission is doing today is good, and in the best interest of those who seek peace and beauty in a valley where the motor car is not welcome.
A mile or two down the forest road the rain eased off, then petered out altogether. The low clouds began to lift and a gap in the trees revealed the full magnificence of Pillar Rock, suspended above the forest like a fairy castle in ancient mythology. A shaft of sunlight pierced the mist and, as the air on the valley floor warmed, it rose, and carried the clouds with it, high above the fells.
