Easter, but no bunnies. (April 10th 2006)

Easter was a dry, snowless time in dem bumps.

We used to get white stuff at Easter, I'm sure we did, when I was just a pup and the Big dog was Phaedy-poo. (OK her real name was Phaedra, but that's what the Screature used to call her - Phaedra didn't appreciate the babyishness of it at all, but that's hewmings for ya - no consideration for your feelings!)


Now I'm the Big dog I can't remember much snow at all, except at Crooksie's (that's Hairyface's mate with the retrievers) their house is over a thousand feet up and gets lotsa snow.


I'm blathering a bit here, aint I? Sorry.


We did a fair few things really.


Rushed round a bit of Whinlatter we don't normally do. That's the bottom end, where there are some ponds and stuff. (A bit touristy, says Hairyface, that's why we don't normally bother.)


The usual Kirkstile Inn jaunt from Crummock. We got to roast ourselves in front of the fire while Hairy stuffs his face and pours Grasmoor Gold down his neck. He didn't have a dessert though, which showed restraint.


A briliant day up Tallentire Hill. Passing the spaceship on the fell side. (Well that's what it looks like!) Also ended up in a pub that day - The Horse and Jockey at Parsonby. Where we roasted ourselves in front of the fire and Hairy stuffed his face and poured Jennings Dark Mild down his neck. It's a brilliant little locals pub, and Hairyface has turned out for their quiz team!


(Oh, in both pubs we got some chips!!)


The be all and end all was not going up Lingmell!


Hairy's mate, Uncle Tony, came up and we zoomed off to Wasdale to go up Lingmell. That's me showing Io how to look cool with Great Gable being covered in mist.



Well, what a disaster, we knew summat was afoot when we met this daft bloke with just a guide book for a map trying to find Scafell Pike. The guide book had a little pencil sketch in it and that was all. He couldn'ta found his backside with it never mind Scafell.


We watched him come right down off the Scafell path to ask us the way, we were still in the valley bottom then! The idiot then took off up the wrong side of Piers Gill, intent on Hari Kari.


It was Piers Gill which did for us.


I am ashamed to say that I wussed out, big time. Only about hundred metres from the summit and I couldn't get up this sheer rock face. At all! Ever! It was a giant step for man and a bl**dy suicidal one for dogkind!


Hairyface tried putting me on the lead and pulling me up the face. As if that would work!


He then tried going up first and calling me. No way, Jose. I wasn't going up there. There was nothing for my claws to catch hold of! Uncle Tony suggested carrying me but that meant they didn't have any free hands to use the hand holds with and Hairyface nearly fell and almost dropped me. It only needed someone to suggest stuffing me in a rucksack and hands would have been bitten! Luckily, they were too sensible for that idea.


We tried various canine climbing configurations for about half an hour before they had to admit defeat and turn round.


I just couldn't do it.


It was simply a wall. About thirty foot high. Some scrambling for the hewmings and away. BUT a four foot long dog can't stretch as far as six foot hewmings. Hairy got really scared at one point, but not the usual "pooh the pants" type scared, he was scared for me - thinking I might fall down Piers Gill. I've never smelled it before and I was right touched as he was frightened that I might hurt myself. I don't think I'd've been so silly as to plummet down the gill, honest!


I felt so bad when they gave up, knowing it was my fault, especially for Uncle Tony. He doesn't get up dem bumps much and likes a big stroll with Hairyface when he's here.


You could smell the disappointment pouring off him. Hairy wasn't too bothered really. He's like that - pragmatic I think they call it. Io was all of a dither too. They hadn't tried with her at all, reasoning that as the Big dog, if they worked out a way to get me over the rock face, then they could leave me up there, above the rock face, being sensible while they fetched Io. Didn't happen.


They plodded back down Wasdale, past the little church and went to... guess where? Yup, the pub. Wasdale Inn. In an effort to console themselves, they tried the entire range of Wasdale Brewery beers (five different ones) and didn't like any of 'em.

A bad bay at Lingmell was had by all.


Still, they did give us most of their sangers because they had a hot meal at the pub, so we were quite content.


And, afterwards, according to U.T. the Yates beer was lovely - the sixth on the bar and one they'd been saving as usually it's not kept well. (It's brewed just down the road from Gilcrux at West Newton - which meant we could go to the brewery tap for a tasting later in the week. And we did.)


Hairy says we'll do Lingmell from the otherside next time. No nasty climbs for YT.

What's on the Pics: Whinlatter ponds with two rather attractive Weimaraners.
Tallentire Hill looking towards Gilcrux with Scotland in the distance.
Me in Wasdale as the King of The Castle.
& finally, Io and me on a bridge. Lingmell is sort of to the right of Io's bum and, on that scale, about five inches away. Who says dogs can't give directions?