Binsey: because everything starts somewhere
Recce #1
It fits. My first recce of a route for Scree was accidental. In fact, it wasn’t what I’d hoped to do in the slightest. The idea had been to run a loop in the hills behind Skiddaw en route to visit my Dad, with whom I’ve been in a Covid bubble, for Christmas. Longlands Fell. Great Sca Fell – the ironically named, rather smaller (less exciting?) foil to its local namesakes. Meal Fell. Great Cockup (yes, really). Hardly the Lakeland fells that one might immediately identify for a grand day out. But wonderful running country nonetheless, and a great place to escape what I anticipated might be the Christmas Eve crowds. If only I’d anticipated the road conditions. I’d been so busy renovating my house that I hadn’t quite realised how cold it had been, so the sheet ice on the 20% gradient road towards the start of the route took me entirely by surprise. Not a great surprise, either, since the only way out of there was a half mile reverse along narrow roads in my VW Transporter van, with a dodgy wing mirror (note to self…)
I’d been running late as it was, and by the time I finally reached a road junction and was able to turn around, my options were running out. Well, apart from Binsey that was - and there she was, sitting proud and stout straight ahead. I’d planned to make a start on Scree in the New Year, but I’d already had the idea of my looped route which has become Loopy Binsey for a few months now. And frankly she was the only fell that I had any chance of exploring in the time left available. Binsey. A small round pudding bowl, with two routes up and down which cut almost straight lines from road to summit. How was I going to satisfy my need for a good long run on that? Binsey. As Alfred Wainwright put it: ‘Binsey is the odd man out. This gentle hill rises beyond the circular perimeter of the Norhern Fells, detached and solitary, like a dunce set apart from the class…[her] outline is too smooth and gently graded to attract much attention, and its ascent from most directions is an easy trudge lacking in excitement.’
Yet wasn’t this exactly why I’d chosen her for my initial experiment? My aim? To walk around Binsey as many times as possible, while travelling uphill at all times, without reaching the summit. Why? To challenge the need for targets (aka summits). The need to go longer and faster, and to climb the biggest hills in the best areas. To find out if it were even possible? I’d established on the OS map that my route was legally allowable in terms of access laws, but would land management practices such as walls and fences come in my way?
I left my van at the parking spot just off the road to Uldale, and set off instinctively clockwise. A small trod took a diagonal line across to the corner of a wall, before contouring more gradually around the fell. At first I followed this, glad to be on a small path rather than bashing through bracken and heather. But soon the path began to contour downhill, requiring me to continue through the undergrowth. In fact, it didn’t take long before I started obsessing about whether or not I was going uphill. Over-compensating. Losing sense of what was uphill and what was down. And then berating myself for failing when the crags at the west end of Binsey caused me to take a few steps down! I had barely been going for twenty minutes, and my recce was already broken! I stopped. Began to laugh. Was I genuinely worrying about this? I took a moment to look around. To Skiddaw behind. To Bassenthwaite Lake, and the Coledale and Newlands fells beyond. Then continued. As I neared the summit I noticed a couple enjoying the view, and decided against performing a few final micro-loops around both the cairn and them for the sake of appearances, and made straight for the highest point.
One loop. That was it. I’d managed one paltry loop, when I’d hoped for at least three or four. What if someone else did the route and beat me? I sighed, looked at the view for a while, then ran back downhill at speed. Lockdown Christmas was calling.
Recce #2
Who knew? Boulder, St Anton, Binsey? Less than a fortnight later, I was back at Binsey, and in the meantime it had turned into a snowboarding resort! The main path had turned into a piste, and there must have been at least two dozen boarders enjoying the snow.
With decided self-consciousness, I set off on this occasion anti-clockwise, literally off-piste. The heather was knee deep, and laden with a good few inches of snow, making the going slow. Unsurprisingly, no one had come this way before me, and it didn’t take long for me to wish that I hadn’t either. It was a stunning day. Ferociously cold, with a strong breeze and no lack of clouds, but also sunny, with an incredible low winter light. If only I weren’t walking away from this, towards the dark side of the fell. If only I were in those fells, over there, I thought, looking over to the Skiddaw range. Wouldn’t that be far more fun? Of course, the hill over there is always sunnier.
Despite views beginning to open up across the Solway to Scotland, my mood dipped markedly as I trudged through the deep snow in the shade of Binsey’s northern flank. My entire route to the summit, even by this circuitous route, was unlikely to exceed two miles, but it felt relentless. Pointless. But wasn’t that the point? I thought, looking up for a moment. Ahead, a barn owl hovered low above the snow and bracken. I looked down. The bracken and grasses at my feet themselves had written messages in the snow, inviting deciphering. The wind blew the snow from my tread, and then filled it back in behind me, inviting me to keep going.
The sun set as I reached the summit, after another single circumnavigation. As it dipped below the horizon, the temperature dropped even further, and suddenly. I thrust my hands deep into my pockets and watched the snow being bleached all shades of pink and orange, until the cold became unbearable. Despite the weight of my sack and all my photography equipment, I ran back down the hill again to the van, whose locks had frozen solid. So now what? All the snowboarders had already gone home for the day, and all that was left was me, the cold, and my quickly fading sense of initiative.
