Showing Kat Derwentwater (April 15th 2007)

Uncle Tony's got a girlfriend.

She's Polish. Katarjena (I think that's how it's spelled!) She's nice.

He brought her to the Lakes for a holiday.

We showed her Derwentwater, a pub, Swinside, a pub, Loweswater, a pub, Gilcrux, a pub, West Newton, a pub, Allonby, a pub.

I think she may have the impression that Hairy is a dypsomaniac.

We didn't actually get a picture of her or U.T. this time but we will, we will...

The Derwentwater stroll was the one Hairy did, in a previous entry, and had the mountain of cake and ice cream at the Shepherd's Crag cafe. You guessed, we did exactly the same, although Kat eats like a bird and we had to finish her cake!! Yahoo.


Snappers on the shore.
On the way there were a huge number of snappers waiting to photograph the ferry, so Io and I went for a splash putting ripples in the nice smooth lake surface. Tut, tut, naughty, naughty. It was funny though.


It's a song by the Drifters (almost) 'cept we're not under it!
We caught the ferry back from Brandelhow (as usual) and got splashed ourselves as the ferry was going into the wind and we had chosen to sit in the open front.



And yes, before you ask we did call at the tram man in Keswick first, and he gave us some bacon bits. He's a very nice man.

No heart problems at all (April 13th 2007)

Blencathra.

From Mungrisdale! There's nothing wrong with Hairy's heart, if he can do this. In under two hours from the start! It's about four miles of ascent this way!

It was great. I love the back of Skiddaw fells, they're so kind to my aged paws, as they're mainly grass. This route up Blencathra isn't one of the more touristy and therefore it is usually deserted - today was no exception. We met nary a soul until Foule Crag, but that is just a spit from the fell top.

We parked along from the pub in Mungrisdale and headed out along the beck that leads to The Tongue. We were at the top of Bannerdale Crags in under an hour. He must've known about our planned revolt and decided to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. It is grassy and fairly gentle, so you can yomp on. (I bet even the bof brother in law would have managed it, too - well, maybe not!).

Me in front of Foule Crag.

We met fell runners at Glenderamakin Col. Ancient ones! Must've both been in retirement time, easily. They'd just swarmed down the route we were heading up. (Foule Crag.) Not to be outdone, we swarmed up. The height just flew past and before you knew it we were on top, looking down at the loonies clinging to Sharp Edge, with their teeth, and cacking their pants. H. had a chat with a bloke sat at the path top. He was a teacher from Manchester who, judging by the whiff, had just climbed S.E. too! I don't think Hairy guessed.

Luckily there was loads of water in the tarn just past the quartz cross, so we could have a big, big drink. Then at the top of Hall's Fell ridge we had our snap.

Really hazy background, isn't it?

It was a great day. Hot, sunny and really warm. It would've been even better if there'd been anything like decent visibility - but you can't have everything. We pottered about on the summit for about half an hour, visiting each of the separate tops. H. was really, really happy. I don't know why. I guess it was the climbing that does it. The whiff was just whistling off him like steam, for ages.

The summit was busier than Whitehaven's market on a Thursday morning. (Less chavs though!) There were wrinklies who obviously weren't past it yet; there were little sprogs who must've been dragged up by their boot laces and loads of fit looking outdoory types!

There were even one or two of those dozy buggers who carry a baby up in a rucksack, as though the baby appreciates it at all! I think it's just a kind of showing off - "Look at me.. I'm a virile bloke who can still carry a heavy weight up a mountain." What total prats they are. More bloody fool you for bringing it up to show off, when the chabe would be happier at a child minder, it wouldn't even know the difference! That's what I think, anyway. Hewmings do the most moronic things.

Even Hairy has his moments. Luckily, going down S.E. didn't figure in his plans. That would have been a moronic moment worse than rucksacking a baby. His moronic moment was deciding to go up Souther Fell after strolling down Scales Fell.

It's us with Blencathra right at the back and Bannerdale Crags immediately behind us. It's a good job you can't read the caption on Hairy's Reduced Shakespeare Company T shirt, it says: "I love my Willy!" That's why his hand is over the writing in this photo, but the truth will out, as they say!

Why Souther? We didn't need to. But he did it anyway. I guess it sort of completed a logical circuit and it meant we kept height until the very last minute instead of wandering down a valley bottom for two miles back to the pub.

We encountered more moronic actions at the bottom, some total arsehole had blocked off the path down to the pub and put up signs saying it wasn't a right of way. It damn well used to be! People who block paths like that deserve to have their throats ripped out on sacrificial rocks like Long Meg and her Daughters!! We'd both do it for free. Hairy was so pissed, he didn't even bother to go for a swift drinkie at the pub.

(Well, to be fair he was going to see the Halle Orchestra at the Sands in the evening, and probably didn't want to end up snoozing through Carmen!)

Wasdale's Nether Regions (April 11th 2007)

Yet another wrinkly stroll (probably for the Screature) which took us to a pub for lunch. How unusual is that?

We parked up by Wastwater and strolled away from utopia, I told Io there was probably going to be a pub involved but she was sure we'd be going up a giant by a sneaky route. She's a half full sort of puppy. (That's half-full of brain not a half full glass, optimistic type!)

Io trying to catch her lunch!! You should see the on that got away.

There were lots of interesting whiffs to be found and sure enough we ended up in Nether Wasdale, home of two pubs, one of which has a micro brewery. Sadly for the H.ster the Strands hotel, home of the Strands Micro, wasn't open! So we had to decamp to the Screes Inn instead (a difficult trek - just across the road!).



We had lunch (or they did, and we got titbits again) and they had some second choice beer. Yates once again!

Io and The Screature contemplate the wisdom of dropping their pooh-sticks on the downstream side of the bridge!

The stroll back was much better. We had the giants in sight all the way back and we found the outfall of Wastwater which was dead picturesque. There were lots of seats along the path, designed for wrinklies, no doubt, but even we sat and watched the clouds roll across Yewbarrow and Great Gable for ages. (Well, it seemed like ages to us!)

Eat your heart out Heaton Cooper.

Wastwater was pretty cold, but great for a quick splash about. There were even some hewming sprogs having a paddle and swim - sometimes they do the silliest things. (It was a very warm day for April, really.)

Yet again it was another wrinkly doddly stroll. Has the H.ster's heart condition finally caught up with him? There may be a revolt on the cards...

Mean, moody and magnificent and that's not the scenery I'm talking about.

Meg and Lacy (April 10th 2007)

A three expedition day today.


The S. went to do retail crafting therapy in Penrith, so H. took us up the Beacon, he often does this while The S. is busy spending money in town.

Then... something new for us, but obviously not for Hairy as he knew where he was going, we went to a stone circle (the first of three over Easter) Long Meg and her Daughters at Salkeld, near the river Eden. It was really good and we nearly got to sacrifice H on a slab, but the spoilsport wouldn't let us rip his throat out and offer his body up to the gods. I think Io would've liked to have done it, too!
Here. I'm singing "Papa was a rolling stone". Io thought it was funny!


There were lots of weird smells all over. Strange hewming ones, when they have funny chemicals going off in their heads, type of smells. Weirdo whiffs, Io calls 'em. It was pretty strange as none of the hewmings that were there looked like their heads were doing unusual things to them but you never can tell with hewmings. There were some right old smells too. Stuff that could have been dinosaur related, according to Io, but I think she was just getting overexcited about nearly chomping Hairy's neck open.

2 cute Weimaraners prepare to do a quick trachaeotomy on collapsed owner!

After this we went to another strange spot, actually on the banks of the Eden. Lacy's Caves. They were dug out of the cliffside by a bored chap in the eighteenth century, apparently. Although, I bet he got some of his blokes to do it, not him wielding a shovel at all! They were all these room type things, a bit like the Druid's Caves at Birchover, in Derbyshire, near Hairy's Mum's house. These were all red cos of the rock colour, the Druid ones are millstone grit and a greyish brown colour. Not as pretty.


Lacy's caves have their own open air pool - it's called the River Eden.
The smells here were the usual hewming stuff: wee, pooh, bonking etc. They tell us off for doing it all over the place and they're just as bad themselves. It int reight!



It's strange but we were more tired having done three titchy things than if we'd been up a giant! We pushed the zeds all the way home and well into the evening. Perhaps it was all them smells from long ago that tired out our olefactories.

More Tea, Less Beer! (April 7th 2007)

Oh no, what a Great Cockup! The Snooty Fox at Uldale doesn't do lunchtime fud anymore (except for Sunday!).



Hairy had planned a walk past Chapel House reservoir to Uldale to have a snack with the Screature, which came unstuck as he was living in the past. [He used to live in Torpenhow, years ago, and the Fox did light lunchtime snacks then- of which he often partook!] The sands of time have marched on and now either less tourists or lethargy on the part of the publican means there's no grub at the Fox - except in the evenings.


H. wearing posh wellies at Chapel House. He didn't need 'em!
Hairy's ears got a bashing as they arrived famished. (The S had been "de-badgered" at Will's hairdresser's in Cockermouth and was ready for a good nosh. Hairy gets scalped there too but he doesn't need his roots doing!)



Luckily for the H.ster, the craft shop has a tea-room which does rather tasty fud so his ears weren't too bashed. Plus, we were able to sit with them at a very convenient outside table and snaffle tit-bits they passed down to us. Yummy! According to them both, this is the best tea room for views in the whole Lakes as it takes in the complete panorama from Carrock Fell in the east to Skiddaw and beyond in the west. Naturally H. could name them all - show off. (We could've too, as he's taken us up all of 'em in the last few years.)


It looks so inviting, doesn't it? I didn't go in though - as if...
The stroll was easy peasy, so it doesn't rate a mention really. It's a good wrinkly doddle stroll.

Tea by the river (March 25th 2007)

I was wrong. The Screature can't have been at Coniston doing things with string for the weekend, as on the next day (after GC) she came with us to Hesket Newmarket for a pre-lunch stroll, to Caldbeck and back.

I guess it's really a wrinklies walk as there are no steep bits. You can't get lost and you can go for "a nice cup of tea" half way round! Still, on a sunny Sunday in March it's a pleasant change from being hauled up Great Cockup (snigger snigger).

Being at a low level, the smells sort of linger longer. I suppose they don't have as much breeze to waft them away. We started at Hesket Newmarket. It's where Hairy used to go every Wednesday night to the Crown Inn's curry club.

(You might have guessed. It also brews its own beer. Predictable really, given H's taste. BUT it's also been visited a coupla times by Charlie Boy. Yup, the Queen's son has popped in for a swift half and chat with the locals when the pressure of being the heir apparent gets too much for him. I don't think he's bought a round though.)


Passing through the throngs of Godsquadders on their way to a pray-in at Hesket chapel, we soon found ourselves alone again and heading for the Cald Beck. It's really peaceful and on a sunny day quite warm. We found a great picnic spot but had no fud for a picnic, so we just splashed about in the river while H & S played pooh sticks off the bridge - badly! There just wasn't enough water and the bridge was too skinny! You need a really wide bridge like the one in Caldbeck, to play properly - cos just when you think your stick has been taken by an otter to build its home, there it comes bobbing along. On their bridge, by the time they'd turned around the sticks had already gone!



Io manages a clear round in the cross country section!

H then took us on the muddiest path in the Lakes. He kept saying it was the muddiest path over and over, which got very tedious and made me feel like biting his bum. They were in wellies so I don't know what the fuss was about, anyway.

In Caldbeck, the S did the retail therapy bit in Priest's Mill, while H went and got tean cake and sat in the cafe garden, waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

I don't think the S does it deliberately, it's just that when she goes shopping she enters a new temporal reality where real time no longer exists.

H had drunk three cups of tea and ett his cake before she arrived. Luckily he'd kept her tea warm by wrapping his hat and spare hat round the teapot to make an ad hoc tea cosy. It worked! [And yes, I did say "spare hat" - don't ask.] There was more retail on the way back, at the old Blacksmith's gifte shoppe (!). It's a good job there aren't tea shops and retail therapy joints on the fells, we'd take all day getting anywhere.




Guess where we had lunch? No. Not the Crown. H had booked 'em in for Sunday Lunch at the Sun at Bass again. And, we got more treats from the landlady - she's really, really nice!

What a Great Cockup! (March 24th 2007)

I didn't believe the name when I heard it. Cockup! Great Cockup!

But according to Hairy a "cock" was short for woodcock and "up" meant valley, so Great Cockup is Great Woodcock Valley (from the old English).

Not as much fun like that, is it?

How to look silly in the Fells. Lesson one...

It's in the crinkly bits behind Skiddaw, where the H often goes and never meets anyone (except world triple jump champion Jonathan Edwards and his son near Longlands! See the Great Scafell entry!)

Anyway, the Screature was at Coniston Museum again, doing things with string (sewing) and we were footloose and fancy free for the weekend. He could have had loose women, loud music and vast quantities of alcohol but he settled for a nice stroll up a mountain, instead. [Actually, I don't think the LW, LM & VQA are on his radar!]

We got passed by a clump of yomping chaps at the start of the walk who went straight up the Burn Tod path. I had a little chuckle, cos we were heading in roughly the same direction but the path we were on didn't do masses of climbing just to come back down again! They were a-striding out for England, but round the bend we were back in front of them! He He He

I love it when that happens.

Anyway our walk was taking us round the foot of Burn Tod to Trusmador and then up the back of GC. It was brill. Totally deserted until Trusmador, then we hit a mini Piccadilly Circus of the fells. There were bods springing up from everywhere! The H.ster claimbed a bit of the side of Trusmador, found a comfy ledge and had a sanger while we counted the hewmings below. Sixteen people came through while he was stuffing his face. I'm not sure how many saw us, perched, vulture like on the towering sides of the coll, waiting to fire our ambushing arrows down on them, but we certainly saw them. And heard them! The acoustics must be weird cos you could hear, really clearly, everything they were saying to each other. Sadly it was all dull stuff, no plots to kill the king or let enemy U-boats know shipping movements, or interesting things that we could have ambushed them for.

Trusmadoor without people.

When a mum and her three brats came screaming down off Meal Fell we knew it was time to go. GC is another of those fell top cricket pitches. No crags or rocks or interesting stuff. Great smells, and some long dead unfound grouse. H thought the views were great but, you know, a view is just a view to a dog! You can't really smell it!

We found a grouse butt (Io thought it meant its bum!) which was lined with stones. Very posh. H saw Chapelhouse reservoir and thought about making it part of a walk for The S. at Easter. It smelled different to Overwater which was odd as they are fed by the same river. Perhaps its the manmadeness of Chapelhouse that makes it smell different.

Lunch was ett at the Sun Inn, Bassenthwaite Lake. A great spot. Hairy ordered extra chips for us and when they came out, the landlady had brought us some bits of bacon too. She's nice! We sat outside on the benches and some touristy types started talking to Hairy and then feeding us the remains of their lunch. They were nice too! They wanted to know if you could walk to St Bega's church, so Hairy was able to tell 'em a good circle walk that went there and through Dodd Wood. We took The S's bof brother and family on it last summer.

Here I'm singing "The Hills are Alive with the Sound of Music!"

A very mini localised blizzard (March 18th 2007)

We went to Hairy's mum's house for a visit. On the Saturday he made a startling discovery, the Nag's Head's owners were moving! Shock Horror! No more meat and tatie pie or liver and onions! Well, not to fret, as they say, they've only moved about two miles down the road to the Plough at Low Bradfield. Panic over! Bradfield Ales will be going with them.

In order to celebrate, H took us on the walk we did when we found a wasps' nest. We did that in the summer of 2004. Just before the two of them went to Australia for two months and left us in doggy prison! That was the fourth time they've done that to me! (The same number as happened to Great Aunt Gaia!) But I digress.
This is the other pub in High Bradfield it's the Old Horns and does great food and beer too! It was too early for beer when we got moving. The dynamic duo are leading the way. Well, I am - it looks like Io's off on a wander.

It was really sunny when we set off, but no sooner had we left the safety and shelter of High Bradfield church that it started snowing! Yes, I did say snowing. Cute, fluffy, little flakes that spiralled down delicately onto Io's nose. Where she ate them! It stopped after a bit.

That is, after a bit of standing inside a holly bush so we wouldn't get wet. (He'd not brought his waterproofs! The loony!) As we walked under Rocher Edge, you could have believed we'd made the whole think up. Unless you looked across to the Strines Inn. Or rather, to where the Strines Inn should have been, as a huge (nay ginormous) grey cloud full of snow was edging its way along the two reservoirs, heading for Agden (the one next to High and Low Bradfield).

Crossing stiles in a single bound is just one of my many acomplishments... Look, it's sunny again! I don't believe it!
Hairy put a spurt on then and we zoomed across the grassy paddocks under Rocher Edge, then along the old farm tracks by the ruined buildings, crossing the main Bradfield to Bolsterstone road and eventually we arrived at the moorland area of Agdenside. Here, the snow hit us. Just as we were stranded in no man's land with no cover or shelter anywhere.

Now, you remember the madness mentioned in an earlier entry? Well, I don't know if it was that kicking in, or just the plain desire to stay dry, but hairy took off like Io with her bum on fire. He was running over the moorland path, leaping heather and tussock grass. Dodging millstone grit boulders. Until we made the edge of Agdenside wood, in next to no time. Here, we went through the gate, and in the lea of the wood under an overhanging pine tree branch, alongside a drystone wall, we sat down and waited for the snow to stop.

It was just like that horizontal rain on Sail Fell in Cumbria, except here it was horizontal snow. It didn't last very long, (about 15 minutes) but it left everything white over and for the fifteen minutes of Arctic weather you couldn't see the wall at the far side of the field! We were snug bug ruggly under the tree branch, next to the wall, in the lea of the wood but I wouldn't have liked to have been out in it!
This is the wondeful sheltering spot. It kept us dry for 15 minutes, so here's its fifteen minutes of fame! Hairy sat on the sticky-out stone to the left of the post. (That's too much detail, really, isn't it?)

Once the humungous cloud had moved over, heading towards Damflask and Sheffield, the sun came back out again, and apart from the obvious scattering of white stuff everywhere, you'd never have known it had been snowing. Even more so by the fact that after about half an hour only the snow that wasn't in the sun was left, all the rest had vanished!

Even weirder, in Oughtibridge, on the other side of the hill, there'd been no snow at all. Not a sausage! The Screature didn't believe old Hairyface until he showed her the pictures!



Here's a picture taken after Hairyface gave his head a good scratching!

The H.ster surprised me with his running. I didn't think he was up to it, or fit enough - to be honest. I guess it must be climbing all them bumps with us that does it. Certainly you could tell he knew what he was doing, but then he does claim to have run a couple of marathons in his youth. I guess that means we're the ones who are responsible for his health and fitness. A pair of doggy fitness instructors, that's us! [NO. I said Doggy, not Dodgy!]

We were Sailing.. (March 4th 2007)

Wowzer.


The Screature was at Higham this weekend, so in a fit of inventive genius, (did I really write that?) the H.ster decided we'd go for a swift stroll up Sail Fell before picking her up after lunch on Sunday. Round, up, down, back. Bang. One hour. Tops.

Well, yes, we did the whole round, up, down, back, bang, in an hour. But not tops. More like bottoms, cos old mother nature wasn't playing cricket with us at all.

It howled a gale. So much that even we found it hard to keep our footing on the top. (And we do have two extra, compared to Hairyface!) Then she threw horizontal water at us. Not rain. Rain falls downwards, this came sideways. It stung my ears. I was so pleased when we turned the corner and had it at our backs instead of in our faces.

This is me watching the weather while Io just poses. If he'd looked at the sky instead of taking pictures, H would have seen what was coming, too

The H was all redfaced and shiny. He was really enjoying it. He kept opening his coat out and letting the wind catch it and blow him along. (I believe I may have mentioned his mental age in a previous entry!)

It was the first time we'd been up here too. Io wasn't happy at getting all wet and cold, but H promised we'd be back when it was sunny. And calm. Then we could walk round the field archery course his mate Simon had set up across the valley. (That's hairy Simon, who used to have the band.)



I was tempted to be sarcastic, but I refrained because I am refined! (Anyway it looked like it could be really pleasant if the elements weren't against you.) Here's a view across the end of Bass. Lake towards Binsey. The rain was just waiting round the next bend...

He's mad! He's mad! (Feb 24th 2007)

He puts on stupid hats.
He says really daft things. (In funny voices.)
He wears seriously silly trousers.
He drinks beer, but wees out twice as much as he's drunk.
He's diabetic but is addicted to chocolate.
He's a loony.

When we go walking if there's something to climb on, over, under or round, yep - he does it.
He'll jump across chasms, swim in lakes, climb up sheer rock faces. He's had a heart attack, but has that stopped him?

No!

How old is he? Well ... I ain't gonna say, but it's not young! (OK, he's not quite a wrinkly, yet!)

When we went to Loweswater he spent ages on a rope swing that went out over the lake.

A rope swing! We were so embarrassed.

Luckily, Loweswater is dead quiet and not many people stroll along it during a wet morning in February. Bl**dy good job.

I was wondering what was up, when we went past the usual car park for Crummock and the Kirkstile. He was off on a voyage of discovery. (Well, not really as he has been here since 1991, so he does know it pretty well, I'd guess.)

He was taking us on a voyage of discovery.

A circumnavigation of the faorementioned LW.

It's the piddling one of the three in the Lorton valley, and half of the round route is on the road, which is rotten, but I'm wandering off.

Io and I had not been here before and the new smells were brill. Lots of 'em. At first mainly scared sheepy type smells. But they're always blooming scared. Stupid creatures. Followed by damp stuff type smells. You know, damp leaves, trees grass - that sort of thing. Even the path had a damp dusty smell to it.

Then poohy type smells (sheep again). Then the water itself, it always smells nicer than the big flat stuff at the coast, and it tastes better, too!

He did the usual routine of getting us to sit on benches and snapped away. We're getting dab hands at that, you know. OK, this is a bridge, not a bench, but I'm sure there was a huge fish in there, somewhere.
Then, by the bothy, in the middle of the wood he found the swings.
Well, there was no getting him off them.
He was like a big kid. (He is a big kid!) I mean, look at him here!

We musta been there ages and ages.

Anyway, it turned out not to have been such a bad thing after all. As we got moving again it started to drizzle. Then it rained. Then it poured. Finally buckets of it. Luckily we hadn't even got out of the lake side wood!

Well, having lived like a local for so long he did what all the locals would do. He turned round and we went back to the car! If he'd not been on them swings for so long, we'd have been miles around the lake and probably looked like drowned rats when we got back to the car park.

This is one of the sensible swings. The other was just a rope and a bit of branch. It didn't come out!

As it was we were able to turn up at the Kirkstile, looking fashionably dishevelled, in time for soup and a sandwich and a pint of Kirkstile Gold.

Io and I steamed ourselves in front of the fire.

His madness sometimes has method in it. (To miss quote Hamlet.) (I am an educated type of dog, you know.)

Utopia in Wasdale (February 23rd 2007)

The Screature and Hairyface took us to Wasdale and we went up Lingmell Beck.

This is the bridge over it.

We've done this walk before when Io was a puppy and Hairy brought us in Beasley. Beasley's one of their cars. He's small and cuddly and not used so much now as he's so old (He was born the year before Great Aunt Gaia!). We get the back seat all to ourselves! We roll around and spraunge about, we fall on the floor, look at the view and I get to loll my head over H's shoulder.
The walk wasn't all that far, but enough for them to work up an appetite so they could have a snack at the Wasdale Head Inn. H's vision of Utopia (so he said - I thought they were Todd Rundgren's Band, but hey, I'm only a dog!)
They let dogs into Ritson's Bar (well if they let muddy walkers and children in, why not?) so we could go in and watch them stuffing their faces. That was cruel as they had baked tates, not chips - so we thought we weren't going to get any! Boo Hoo.

They gave us some skins and a bit of filling though, so perhaps Utopia is lying on the floor of Ritson's Bar, having just ett baked taties watching the H.ster sample different ales brewed in the pub and knowing he'll still prefer Yates'!

The walk back took us along the river which we had to cross without a bridge! It's a good job there was very little water in it or the S. would have had a paddy! That Lingmell looks a doddle from this side of Wasdale, I wonder if H will try and go up it again? I'm sure I could do it from this side. Noa problemo!

Amazing Things (February 21st 2007)

One type of music Hairy plays a lot is Celtic Rock. Guitars and bagpipes?

I know, it sounds weird, but there's this one band: Runrig, who he plays over and over, I've got used to them.

In fact he's got every one of their albums, from "Recovery" onwards, copied for playing in the car - and boy does he play them!

Imagine his delight, then, when he discovered the cover (and set design) for one album was a copy of an actual sculpture in Scotland. Just a spit away from Gilcrux, metaphorically!

So in the hills above Langholm town we journeyed to the west, to get a snap or three of this sculpture. It's a memorial to a Scots poet called Hugh Macdairmid, who (by all accounts) sounds a bit of a lad. Or sounded, as he's dead now.

It was easy peasy to find but rather a surprise as it's quite small. As you can tell by our size in comparison.

Still it made him happy. He's vowed to go again, on a sunny day, wearing his tour T shirt from the 1993 tour, so he can be snapped in it next to the memorial. Now I think that's a bit sad, myself. Don't you?

Oh, the album's called "Amazing Things". My favourite song from it is "Song of the Earth".

Space Ship Over Gilcrux (Feb 20th 2007)

We went to see the alien craft on the skyline.

It's visible from the Aspatria to Maryport road, silhouetted on the horizon, and it looks like there should be little green men milling about underneath it.

Hairy took us to see it and get us zapped by ray guns.

It wasn't a spaceship at all. It's just a load of boring metal. In a sort of circular shape. On legs.

It's got a bloomin' portacabin under it - which is pretty alien I suppose.

According to this big sign, on the padlocked gate, it's an "Air Traffic Control Beacon".

So now we know.

A space ship would've been much better.

Still the round walk, up through Magic Woods and over Tallentire Hill to see it was good.

Live long and prosper!

Through the tunnel (Jan 4th 2007)

It was sunny today! Hoorah
Hairy took us to Buttermere. In his car, not the Screature's. His car's got a bigger boot but it doesn't have air con. You win some...

There was this stupid sheep in front of us as we walked down the lane to the lake. It kept heading towards the locked gate at the end. It wouldn't go through any of the open ones we passed. When we got to the gate the daft thing just panicked and jumped onto the wall. It then stood there bleating as if in triumph. Sheep are very dim creatures. I mean, how sensible is a creature which uses as its defence tactics, stamping its front feet and weeing? Barking is much better - it puts the fear of god into people. (Not that we do it for that reason, honest!)
Look at me king of the stupids!

The stroll is very flat and easily walkable by raging geriatrics. They may take a little longer than us though! Actually there were a few wrinklies about but all of 'em were going reasonably quickly. Hairy stopped and snapped away with his camera but I aint gonna bore you with all his pictures. He thinks he's Lord Litchfield he's more like Lord Such!

Io had a big surprise when we got to the tunnel. She'd never been through it before. Here I am running away from it, pretending there's something big and scary inside waiting to get Io. She didn't fall for it, sadly. She's not as daft as you think, you know!It's one of those unspoken bits of the Lakes that doesn't get mentioned by anyone much. H. snapped away here too, even while we were inside the tunnel, so we got to see what it looked like for a split second. (It was, disappointingly, quite dull and rock-like really, not a twisting, glittering seam of undiscovered gold bearing strata or anything exciting like that to be seen.)

Sorry about the picture of the tunnel. I couldn't stop him. Look, just be glad he didn't post a picture of his car. He wanted to, but I was able to distract him and delete it. (It's only a Kia Rio anyway!)

The mountain at the end of Buttermere, Haystacks, has been on the telly recently with this youngish girly walking up it and waxing lyrical about it. They should have asked me to present it. I'd've done a much better job. "Dogs in the fells" would make great TV, wouldn't it? (We walked Haystacks in October 2005, with Uncle Tony and Wappy Sarah. It rained!)

New Year's Day (Lord's Seat again)

Once again Hairyface decided to walk up Lord's Seat again for his new year treat. Last year we were first up there. This year we were first in the car park (again) and met no-one all the way up through Whinlatter Forest. But... oh no, by the time we got there some chaps were approaching from the opposite direction! They got to the top before us.

Here we are at the viewpoint which is a mere step away from the visitor centre. No one in sight, but we're watching a flight of crows which had just swooped down from the trees with a really loud flapping and swooshing of wings that made the four of them sound like a swarm!

At the summit was another wreath, this time pinned to the ground rather than hung from the post. It needed to ne nailed down as the wind was so strong, if Hairy's hat hadn't been glued to his head it would have been in the middle of next week!

It was very different from last year, there was no snow anywhere and it wasn't sunny either. As you can see in this picture it looks really gloomy, but it wasn't. It's been a very dull Chrimbo so far.

What a swizz! (World Book Week)

I don't believe it!

I've been disqualified.

Out on my (rather cute) ear.

Hairyface's work ran an extreme reading photograpy competition. I entered it.

Here's my entry:

My book is called "Utterly Wonderful Dogs".

Can you believe I was thrown out?

I was disqualified because I am not a member of staff and not a student.

Can you believe it? (Still, Hairyface cutting up a tree while reading: "Are you a miserable old git" didn't win either. And yes, he is!)

The winner was a student reading a book about rabbit care; her Harris Hawk, sat on the bench behind her, was giving it a hard stare.