2. Cleator

Inevitably the weather didn’t last. The cliffs were exposed, and when the wind picked up after a little while the dry grass from the fields whipped across our faces, and we got knocked over repeatedly by gusts, until we had to hide behind a hedge and pull on our windproofs. You sort of forget that a six foot bloke with a vast pack on his back is a rather unstable creature. The sky clouded, the afternoon drew on and after an hour or two we turned our backs to the sea, descending with a little relief through sheltered fields and farm tracks and a stop in a waterlogged field where we made Bovril sandwiches then got lost. In front of us rose the neat hill of Dent fell, the first real pull upwards of our trip, and doing sums of the miles and hours we realised we were going to have to go over it in the dark if we were going to make Ennerdale Bridge.

But we never did. Coming down a winding path into the village of Cleator at the foot of the hill, we were accosted by a rotund man with a dog.
‘You don’t want to be up there at night, lads’, he declared, gesturing up towards Dent. As the shadows crept up the side it did look a bit forbidding. ‘You want to get yourselves kennelled up before dark.’ It looked like we would have to stay in Cleator, which did not please us. I was due back at my desk in London in less than two weeks, and apart from the obvious problem of getting behind on our already tight schedule, we both felt inexplicably unpleasant towards Cleator. It was difficult to say why.
‘I think it’s because it sounds like a cross between that bad guy out of Flash Gordon and Cleethorpes’, said Christian. It looked cluttered and depressing. The harpy. In our frustration at the morning’s delays, Cleator became an emblem of the obstacles in our way – a place that had suckered us in and wouldn’t let us leave. Worse, there was no campsite on the map.

We could not have been more wrong about Cleator. In a bid to find somewhere to sleep, I took off my boots and gaiters, already caked in mud, and padded into the village pub. In a poky little room full of old timers the barmaid smiled pleasantly at me.
‘Did you not see the sign outside? It says muddy boots welcome. What can I get you? I’m sorry, we’ve no pies.’
‘I was just wondering if you knew of any campsites round here. We meant to make it to Ennerdale Bridge today but we’ve run out of daylight.’
She looked doubtful.
‘No campsites round here, no. Sorry. There’s a hotel down the road, but it’s quite dear.’
‘You can’t think of anywhere we might be able to put up a tent?’
At this point an old man in a flat cap by the bar pitched in.
‘You can stop in my field if you like. Makes no odds to me.’
The man was a widowed old farmer called Tom who lived in a bungalow down by the river. Across the river was a good flat field, sheltered by hedges, which he owned, and where we put up our tent, looking across at the village on the other side. On returning to warm ourselves in the corner of the pub, Tom sipped at his pint of mild, and along with three or four other retired farm types, quizzed us about our plans. In the Cleator village pub there were no private conversations. Whoever was talking, everyone else in the room was involved. Tom would not accept even so much as a drink by way of thanks.
‘You’re alright’, he said. ‘I’ve got to be off in a sec. Me daughter’s making me a shepherd’s pie.’ When he did leave, it was only for a period of about fifteen minutes, and by the time we’d ordered our second pint, he’d returned.
‘Pie was there but she hadn’t cooked it yet’, he announced to the assembled company.
‘Could you not have put it in the oven yourself, Tom?’ asked the barmaid.
‘Oh no. I haven’t cooked for meself in years.’
‘I tell you one thing’, said another old man, ‘I’ve never washed a pot in me life. When the wife was in hospital havin’ our second I kept all the dirty dishes in the fridge for when she got back.’
A man in a boiler suit walked in and gave one of the regulars a bag of scallops. A brief discussion followed about whether scallops were potato or fish. A large lady breezed in breathlessly.
‘Hey Tom, I thought you’d be here. I’ve just seen two lads putting up a tent in that field of yours.’
‘I know. They’re in the corner.’ We waved, and exchanged more pleasantries with the neighbourhood busybody. A small man with a moustache who seemed to know a lot about fellwalking told us we should aim for Black Sail the next day.

They turned the fire on for us, and with warmth and conversation and beer it was tempting to stay in the pub all evening. This early on in the walk though, our resolve was still strong, and we left after a couple of pints to go and make supper. As I struggled to get my gaiters on in the hallway, Tom popped his head out of the bar.
‘It’s cold out. If you lads get too cold then there’s a spare room at the bungalow. Just give me a knock.’
My Grandpa Braime once wrote a little book called Continental Kindnesses. It was a collection of short anecdotes from a lifetime of adventures in his motor cars and aeroplanes when people helped him out for no good reason, and I reckon among the collections of Irish farmhands, Swiss receptionists, Scandinavian office workers and wordless Frenchmen, there would have been a place there for old Tom.
Down by the riverbank Christian cooked supper. Two days before he’d convinced the checkout lady in Asda that he was completely insane by cheerily loading up the conveyor with 30 packets of Bachelors freeze-dried pasta, and it is true that our menu was perhaps not the most varied. Everything tastes better outdoors though, and the most important question of each and every day was how we would end it. Would it be cheese and ham? Macaroni? Italian herb (this one was described on the packet as ‘delicately seasoned’)? Bolognese? There was a rather suspicious mushroom and red wine one which always seemed to find its way to the bottom of the pile of potential pasta. This evening was carbonara. It was Bonfire Night, and as we ate from steaming bowls rockets lit up the sky above the village.
I was worried about the cold, and put on all of my clothes before I got into my sleeping bag, but in fact that night in Cleator was one of the mildest nights of the trip. As I drifted off to sleep I could hear the river and more rockets going on in the distance.
‘Jols’, whispered Christian, ‘It’s only half past six’. He chuckled quietly and rolled over.