Great Langdale

A valley that shrinks me down and swallows me up. In a good way.

Somewhere near the top of Raven Crag, climbers are shrieking. From the rocky path far below, their brightly-coloured helmets are the heads of drawing pins, their voices carrying hundreds of metres across the valley floor. A Herdwick yow chews late summer grass without a single care. She’s seen it all before.

Today, I’m not walking up Stickle Ghyll to Pavey Ark. I want a smoother journey than that, something thinky and peaceful, more a meditation than a workout. If it was up to me, I’d have stayed in the van and napped while Tom ran in the direction of Esk Pike looking for steep descents and wide views. It’s better if I walk though, so I did, and half a mile in I’m already feeling the sepia tones drain away, replaced by slate, oak, moss, fern, and heather. I take the Cumbria Way from Stickle Barn car park and walk purposefully towards the far end of Great Langdale, with the vague idea to get as far as I can before having to turn back to meet Tom once he’s finished running.

Both Little Langdale and Great Langdale are beautiful places to be, and I’ve been visiting them as long as I’ve known Tom. In Little Langdale there are caverns and sheer rock faces created by dynamite and chisels, and an ideal little swimming pond so deep it’s said a horse and cart fell in some several hundred years ago, never to be found. It spooks me, this pond, and some days I can’t strike out to the middle. On those days I potter around the edge, watching tiny fish dart around the muddy rocks.

Great Langdale is towering. Pavey Ark is the gateway, a dorsal fin of slate 700m tall, looming over Dungeon Ghyll with a serious air. I turn my back on it and keep walking, Loft Crag rising up to my right, casting gravitas over the sheep-softened scenery. A field of Longhorns are completely unbothered by my passing through. I compliment their impressive headgear and get a tail swish in response. A walker in a bright red neckerchief gives me a cheery "good morning”. I ask him if he think’s it’ll brighten up—he says he thinks so. I think so too. I say it’s always good to keep the faith. I can still hear him chuckling to himself as I walk away. Perhaps he was joking.

I’m surprised by my brightness only a mile away from the van. Speaking to strangers, stopping to take photos of beautiful things—a far cry from my mood before I left. That’s the magic of the hills. Not that they appear to be doing any meaningful cheeriness themselves, as clouds continue to slowly drag themselves across the valley roof and Langdale Fell broods darkly in the shadows. I think about erosion, and time. I think about the fallen boulders on the valley bottom, as old as the Ice Age. The hills widen into a perfect scoop, as wide as a village, and soon there will be no other way to go but up. I don’t want to stop, but I have to turn back to make my walk a round hour and a half. The wind no longer at my back, I feel fresher and more awake. The sun tries so hard to break through the thick white Lakeland sky. For a moment it illuminates some far off crags enough to see each individual fascia of the rocks, and then it’s gone. Lost in thought as I reach the end of my trail, Tom runs up behind me. It’s only 11.30am. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.

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On Tuesday 13 August at 6.30pm BST I’m running an online workshop on Self-Editing and Pitching, and writers of all levels and experience are welcome to attend.

It will cover the following:

• Finding great hooks for your story ideas

• Turning rough outlines into smart pitches

• Gaining confidence for writing + pitching

• Honing the skills you need to polish your first draft

• Becoming an editor's dream commission

It is £20 per place.

To book, send me a message to confirm your interest.