Wainwright's Walking Guide to the Lake District Fells - Book 1 The Eastern Fells

Legend and poetry, a lovely name and a lofty altitude combine to encompass Helvellyn in an aura of romance.

The smooth slopes curving up from the west break abruptly along the ridge, where, in complete contrast, a shattered cliff of crag and scree falls away precipitously eastwards.
Here are the most dramatic scenes Helvellyn has to offer.

From the edge of the declivity on the summit Red Tarn is seen directly below, enclosed between the bony arms of Swirral Edge on the left and Striding Edge on the right.

Erected 1890 on the edge of the summit above the path to Striding Edge to mark the death in 1805 of artist Charles Gough, whose body was found below Striding Edge three months after he went missing. His pet dog Foxie was still alive beside his master which prompted famous lines from Wordsworth and Tennyson.

Alfred Wainwright - The Eastern Fells - Helvellyn

The Eastern Prince

by Inkpotpoet

   The A591 lays a greeting
   as water plays across weathered rock
   as young faces, old hands, pause –
   white water roars
   its anticipation across their smiles;
   these have been in the making over millions
   of years. Squeezing, exploding; heaving themselves
   upwards like these younger adventurers.

   As if to bow in supplication, heads look upon
   the meandering lapilli-tuff. Quiet now, its tear-like
   form gesturing the route to take as the onyx back
   of Thirlmere lays in awe at these trepid young climbers
   mapping out their memories. Each step a footprint laying
   itself to be read like an history, whilst the sky
   closes in, an audience. Breathless.

   Passing onwards. Upwards. Through the memory of Gough
   like a painting waiting to be framed. But Foxie is silent
   now, having laid his master to rest that others will remember
   as they master the landscape in memoriam. Their tribute
   ensures the five ridges converge to this paragon in applause
   echoing through time.

   Still they climb. Dusty paths etched like self-flagellation
   across Helvellyn’s preternatural arching back. A scab
   picked at by each tread, it never heels. Bearing itself
   for all to see amidst the celebratory claps
   sought on one another’s own bent backs at each landmark
   reached. Matgrass whispering on the breeze her own
   homage: ‘Another one. Another one.’
   Ullscarf lays dark in the distance below. Time to pose.
   an eagle’s wing casts its shadow, wrapping
   itself around the Imperial blue of Red Tarn softening
   scarred edges to a blissful rapport not echoed
   by the razored Striding Edge. Its blade threatening the landscape
   to submission. But from the summit’s southern side
   a softer visage in green gently lays itself
   at the feet of Fairfield; a myriad of rounded ululations.

   A daydream.

   A time of reflection.

   Catstye Cam is greeted along Swirral Edge. An aura so vast
   in its beauty that pulls the breath through
   pursed lips: a hymn. A prayer. Then one last look to
   Fairfield’s “desolate combes and deep valleys” says Alfred’s
   voice echoing from the past upon the fluttering
   Mountain Ringlet’s brown-orange wing, a joyous
   acclamation to the feat of joining with the heavens. Though
   each uneven foot quivers its own exultation
   upon the dusty track with every credulous stride.

   Helvellyn’s peak now towers above
   witness to the Browncove Crags
   standing as a guard of honour.
   Its zig-zagging of the way
   prolonging the departing hoards
   with one last look back to the majesty
   in the sky as the meandering lapilli-tuff escorts
   back to the womb of the A591 whence the intrepid were borne.

   (C) A.J Westley 23rd Feb 2022