Stickle Tarn ...

Before we left for the Lake District, Jay posted a breezy face book message - we should climb Dungeon Ghyll, then, by way of Jack's Rake, make the ascent to Pavey Ark -

I thought the names were taken from the pages of some sword and sorcery paperback, perhaps a lost story by Clark Ashton Smith - I could see the foxed volume in my hand - I could smell its spicy, yellowed, pages -

But the names were real - I saw them in Wainwright's Central Fells - we decided, at the least, to climb Dungeon Ghyll -

Driving up Langdale, we listened to some Cape Jazz - we stopped for chocolate in Chapel Stile - the dour houses were built of dark stone - the shop was empty apart from us - the taciturn woman behind the counter pored over her Westmoreland Gazette - I remembered a phrase of Ron Henson's - tea rooms on the edge of the Gobi Desert - 

We moored the red Peugeot opposite the new Dungeon Ghyll Hotel - serious walkers were checking their routes - their keen eyes scanned the sky -

We headed up the Ghyll - I was awed by the icy heartless beauty of the torrent - we climbed upwards, past savage waterfalls - furious glittering masses of water coursed downwards -

At one point, about half way up the fell, we had to cross the torrent - there were three boulders, rising above the foam - we jumped from one boulder to the next -

As we climbed higher and higher, we could see, below us, the bright green ribbon of the valley floor - far beyond, was the silver shard of a lake - clouds swirled above the fells - we were entering a wonderful upper world of crags, hail swept ridges and remote tarns -

Then, there we were - before us stretched the dark waters of Stickle Tarn - suddenly, freezing rain lashed our faces - we sheltered behind a low wall, in front of the tarn - we ate our Snickers bars in triumph -