A lake district escapade.

Christmas 2023 my lovely wife had given me a fantastic present, one which would take me along a memory lane.

We were heading into the quietest part of the fabulous Lake District and onto a fantastic miniature railway that I had not been on since I was a little one.

The Ravensglass to Eskdale railway has been in some form of use since around 1873, originally built as a means of transporting valuable Iron Ore from the village of Boot to the Furness coast and onto onward to Barrow in Furness via rail line.

We had decided to make a bit of an outing with an overnight stop in the beautiful Eskdale valley the night before, with bags packed and an air of adventure off we set only 20 minutes later to be stopped on the M6 not more than 20 minutes outside of Birmingham by a car fire, a tad selfish of the person but still (joking).

Time passed easily as we zoomed up the motorway with somewhat of a surprising ease and before long we were entering Morecambe, now its worth noting I had not been here for around 20 years, maybe more and as we entered the outskirts I laughed as I realised very little had changed, in fact nothing had changed and the only thing time had done was close down a few more building and made the rest appear as if it had been through a recent war.

We parked up in what was the main town car park, once as I remember being quite a buzzing center of the town, I regaled Kerry with my memories as we wandered through the erm, interesting indoor market, where traders plied their goods and people could not do with enough phones cases.

We took a walk along the sea front passing the art deco hotel which seemed to be looking its age these days, I remember a few years ago when it first opened and it was slightly and still is at odds with a town slowly fading away like many Victorian hay day towns.

We spent a little time in a delightful cafe on the pier, before taking a little time looking out to see, I was able to see Piel Island and the coast road so familiar with many a childhood memory before wandering off again, we walked past the Old railway station now a pub and I told Kerry about the many times we had come into Morecambe via here, the old trains allowing us to stick our heads of out the windows, moving trains in the old days eh.

Strolling along the seafront, the town was certainly showing its age with many places closed or closing and yet still there were many places that I had been into as a kid that had not changed a singled bit, withstanding the movement of times and fads to remains forever in that 80s esq style.

Kerry being Kerry wished to head into the local charity shops which were a treat for the eye before we partook in the tourist tradition of grabbing some novelty rock, we were then treated to a rather nice showing of local flesh. A man in an electric buggy who had just been buying a hefty bag of sugar products to help his already ample frame keep its less than athletic shape, we one looked closer they were treated to a rather full frontal view of the persons nether regions, having not bothered to pull up his tracksuit bottoms for the last year leaving everyone to see what he did not have to offer.

Still this was momentarily put aside for what is the most well known attraction to Morecambe, the statue of Eric Morecambe in honor of the towns most famous resident, with snaps taken off we trotted again heading into the vast emptiness of the Western Lakes.

We threaded along the all to familiar A590, the only road leading away from my home town of Barrow-in-Furness, when asked we would always say the longest road to a cul-de-sac in Europe, one does not simply pass through Barrow on the way to somewhere more exciting, but forced to endlessly drive into a less than stellar finish.

We turned off eventually at Greenodd, the road was once the main route towards the Western side of the Lakes District, so narrow was it that once a large truck carrying a propellor for a new submarine built at Barrow, struck the corner of a building partially demolishing it.

We traversed the less travelled back roads of the Lakes, ones the tourist seems at odds with travelling them, unable to break away from the trap spots of Windermere and Coniston, incidentally I never enjoyed these places as a child, they were always oddly full of tourist from the far east, snapping pictures of what to most is mundane, pavements and cobbles, lamp post and most likely dog crap.

Only in England can places be named so interestingly named, little villages called Beanthwaite, Wreaks end and Bigert Mire spread out in a vastness the traveler would be surprised in such a hot spot of tourism. From these remote spots you were offered an amazing view across endless mountains un-spoilt by the hands of man.

We were soon coming upon our BnB for the evening, unfortunately Kerry being a southerner, (a southerner is to me anyone south of my home town Barrow, this would also include the town not more than 10 minutes down the road) was unable to understand my pronunciation of place names and after a short while and some interpretation I was able to spell out Bower House Inn to her.

We pulled in, checking in and grabbed our keys to settle into our lovely little pub with a view of the Muncaster fells, the last time I saw this was during Projectparkrun2019 and at the time I was nearly drowned in the torrential rain that swamped me as I crossed the tops.

Tea that night was a lovely Steak pie and mash and then off to bed for a good nights rests and tomorrows adventure.

After a stout breakfast and little wander across the fields behind the pub, we headed into Ravensglass for a short stroll before out train journey began, Ravensglass is an odd little place, a port town dating from at least the Roman period if not before, an important place where exotic goods would be delivered and then transported onwards to the rest of Cumbria and beyond, now it stands still, quiet in its sea side clothes. I had finished here on my epic Yorkshire and Lake District crossing, a gorgeous BnB my home for the night before an extraordinarily long train ride home, the Bnb no longer a place of rest for the weary traveler, a likely victim of the COVID epidemic that saw much of the industry hit and suffer.

As we walked the little road that was the hamlet, we could hear large explosions emanating from the MOD target range nearby, they certainly gave one a startle, I stood on the sands and soaked up the sun, wind and smell in a moment of bitter sweet memory, remembering how fit I was once was, what I had achieved and everything that had happened since.

We were soon at the station and after a quick tour of the museum in which I learned about a few new characters that society at large seems to not be aware of, we were shown to our private carriage, lush red velvet seating only seen the most splendid Victorian palatial homes, we tucked excitedly into our goody bag, Kerry happy that Prosecco, crisps and wine were all packed into a rather lovely tote bag, (I think it is a woman’s thing, tote bags).

The train wound it’s way through little valleys and villages, mountains enclosed us at each turn offering a view that could easily rival those in the alps and to think this was once the daily life of the miners working hard at quarries all day.

With a brief stop off and Dalegarth and a rather delicious lunch, we retraced our steps back to Ravensglass and what a treat, something to make this old body of mine feel that little bit younger. I had never considered myself a train guy before, definitely not one of the types with warm lemon tea and Jam sarnies taking notes of each and every number that comes past, but what is there not to enjoy about a tiny little train.

We headed off up towards Hard Knott pass and the Roman fort there, I knew Hard Knott pass as being routinely voted as one of the most difficult roads in the UK to traverse, now when I posted the video on Youtube, a kindly sole remarked that It did not look difficult, that I had 0 confidence in my driving abilities and that they would happily take their 7.5 tone camper over there in the summer. I chuckled at this remark, the person had clearly never been anywhere like this and seemed to have joined that day just to make that comment to me.

We started our ascent, step and winding for around 10 minutes, with first and second gears being fully used to their maximum rev range, before a pull in and explore of the Roman fort.

When I am stood within ancient places of habitation, I always try to put myself in the mind of the person occupying the area, what must if of felt like stationed up here seemingly beyond the boundaries of human civilization. It seemed even today with our car but 5minutes away that we were a world away from people and problems, wind howling along and up the pass whilst barely anything but sheep moved around the surrounding hillside.

Winter here must of been somethings these poor fellows had never imagined, coming from a warm Mediterranean climate to one so harsh that it could only be retold through tales and folklore.

After a wander, we headed off again and this time it became that little bit more challenging, with the mid section of this road being the most tricky, now it is worth noting that Hard Knott pass is only the second road in the UK to hold the 33% gradient hill, the other being a road in the Yorkshire Dales, but it is not the 33% that makes it difficult more the camber and corners where all but two wheels maintain contact and if not for the lightness of the vehicle i’m sure we would struggle to gain momentum here.

Kerry offered up some comedy value, as we drove along, my concentration at an all time high, where I was accompanied along the way by screams and shouts of terror, ‘I’m going to die’ being shouted at one point, even funnier was breeching the top where neither of us were unable to see over to the other side so had no idea if anything was coming the other way, holding our breaths we finally made the descent and with plenty of slow speed and breaking we were at the bottom and met with the most amazing view across the valley with barely a whisper of human habitation to be seen.

We decided that a brief stop off at a place we were always threatened with as kids, Tebay services, a place that could best be described as having survived an apocalypse and now lived on the misery that travelers brought hoping to find some semblance of peace, or that was how I remember it looking when I was a child.

Along the M6 and treated once more to the majestic hills before we drove into the service station, now it was model of upmarket service stations, much like that of Gloustershire services, where a farm shop served local amazing produce and employed only local people, local to here was a 50 mile radius though.

We ate, drank tea before our little 24hrs was over.