Wainwright's Walking Guide to the Lake District Fells - Book 2 The Far Eastern Fells

... quite suddenly, we emerged from the shadows of the trees and were on a bare headland, and, as though a curtain had dramatically been torn aside, beheld a truly magnificent view. This was truth. God was in heaven that day and I was a humble worshipper.

The summit is barren of scenic interest, and only visitors of lively imagination will fully appreciate their surroundings. Any person so favoured may recline on the turf and witness in his minds eye, a varied pageant of history, for he has been preceded here down the ages, by the ancient Britons who built their villages and forts in the valleys around; by the Roman cohorts marching between their garrisons at Ambleside and Brougham; by the Scots invaders who were repulsed on the Troutbeck slopes; by the shepherds, dalesmen and farmers who, centuries ago, made the summit their playground and feasting place on the occasion of their annual meets; by racing horses . . . and let us not forget Dixon of immortal legend whose great fall over the cliff while fox hunting is an epic in enthusiasm.

A Walk on the High Street

by Inkpotpoet

   The Chorus. Orrest Head. Alfred’s
   lectern echoes across the misty fells,
   his palpitum, on which the words
   of Seneca would too enthral minds
   of travellers to this ancient world
   as Windermere’s silver arc lays
   supplicant at his feet whilst
   new followers lay their own foundations
   across this antique land.

   A shimmering breath a musical
   intro to the main act of
   High Street and Kidsty Pike
   conducted by the wings of
   the golden eagle soaring
   high above the weathered grass
   which sips gently at
   Haweswater’s man-made edge
   her black body stretching
   as far as the eye can see
   on which the awe of the audience
   floats eternally. The spine to
   Wainwright’s tomes not fescennine verse.

   White clouds ceiling nature’s stage
   as blue sky pulls back the curtains
   fresh eyes rapture at the performance
   amidst the ghostly tapestry carrying
   across Rough Crag on route
   to the Roman road a translation
   Livius Andronicus would embrace
   were it not for the passing of years. His
   amphitheatre waits though, still, silent.
   Blea Water, dark blue shimmers
   under the flickering light
   of April’s fool-sun glistening
   on the snow that crawls
   slowly to River Kent with the
   applause of Long Stile
   from its cavea as the performance
   crescendos against the prehistoric
   wall that guides the ghosts along
   High Street, the echoes of hoofs
   galloping across the centuries of
   Racecourse Hill a cacophony of
   whispers from the past as Harter Fell
   sits watching, wondering, adorned
   with the early evening sun. Then,
   like an expectant cry, a myriad of
   peaks stand peeking above the
   amphitheatre’s shoulder to espy
   the orchestra like a bejewelled face
   before Augustus sought to conquer
   that which others now explore
   sitting atop Kidsty Pike’s
   aging scaenae frons the new
   explorers pay homage to this
   grand transaction as primitive shuffles
   of sandals reverberate through the versurae
   of Rampsgill Head with the golden hour
   summoning day’s end in their descent
   to board The Rigg which sets sail
   beneath the reddening night. Seneca
   and Gaius lay down their ink
   as the ancient papyrus dries to dust.
   The only shopping on High Street
   is with the eye and mind of those
   willing to adorn the self with memories.

   (C) A.J Westley 21st April 2022

18.03 Starting the descent