Several years ago, I stumbled across the start of a programme called Wainright’s Walks (I think) in which the presenter was about to scale the heights of Blencathra via something called ‘Sharp Edge’. As someone who has, over the years, spent quite some time in the Lake District and had, so I thought, done the worst of the scary bits, I was somewhat shocked to hear that Sharp Edge is considered by most to be the scariest ridge walk in England. I’d never before heard of it and was rather miffed to learn that I’d missed out on such a treat and I determined there and then to rectify the situation as the earliest possibility. As I said, I only caught the start of the programme and only heard the preamble: had I watched long enough to actually see the ridge, I might just not have bothered.
As things turned out I didn’t get the opportunity to embark on the expedition for some years: every time I started to make the arrangements, something would happen or whoever I was intending to go with would pull out. This summer however, Helen agreed that it would be great to combine a trip to visit relatives in the North with a ‘gentle walk in the hills’ and we booked ourselves in with everyone for the bank holiday weekend at the end of August.
As the weekend drew nearer, we realised that we hadn’t done any serious walking in a very long time, and that we were both a bit out of shape after a summer holiday filled with eating, drinking and forgetting to do any exercise. We resolved to get fit by walking every evening and playing a few games of badminton. Unfortunately, some beer and wine ganged up on us and forced us to forget our plans of reaching a state of physical perfection in time for the walk and we parked the car at the bottom of the mountain having been drunk every night for at least a week and nursing slight hangovers from a little session at Helen’s Dad’s.
We were also a few hours later than we’d planned due to my inability to locate my waterproof top and having to stop and buy a new one (and a wee spot of difficulty dragging ourselves out of bed). The weather was looking doubtful – it had been throwing it down for much of the journey up – and all we’d managed to learn from our google searching was that the ridge was dangerous in most weathers but was particularly lethal when wet!
It wouldn’t have taken much to persuade us to give up the idea of the walk and just take a short cut straight to the hotel we’d booked, but the thought of returning home having run away from the challenge and having to admit to everyone that we’d wimped out was too much to contemplate. We decided that we would at least set off up the track and if the weather did happen to worsen and beat us back (fingers crossed), there’d be no shame in that. Unfortunately, as soon as we’d reached this decision the clouds parted, the sun, which hadn’t put in an appearance all day, began to scorch us (with a smugly satisfied look on its face it has to be said) and we had no choice but to launch ourselves up the south face knowing that we probably weren’t going to have any handy excuses up our sleeves.
The first leg of the journey was probably the worst bit in terms of physical effort. We hadn’t had chance to get into our strides before we had to cut through an almost vertical (honest) wall of bracken in order to reach the path we should have been on but were too lazy to walk quarter of a mile to get to. The sun was being rather vicious at this point and I was dripping with sweat. Helen wasn’t: she was lying on her back saying that she wasn’t going any further and that she’d meet me back at the car. I almost believed her, but as she’d warned me that she always spent the whole of any climb moaning and groaning but never really gave up I just stood over her, dripping sweat onto her until she jumped to her feet and ran up in front of me to avoid further saturation.
Once we’d reached to right path, the going became much easier and, for about a mile, we let ourselves believe that Blencathra’s reputation was rather an exaggeration.
Coming round a corner, we set eyes on Sharp Edge for the first time and all thoughts of a ‘walk in the park’ vanished (probably in the mist that was swirling around the summit). Although relatively short, Sharp Edge is very step and largely made of bare slate. Even from a distance I could tell that it wasn’t the kind of ridge you’d want to meet in a dark alley.
We began to climb more steeply again and soon reached Scales Tarn which sits underneath the edge. Helen thought this was the most picturesque part of the whole walk – it may have been the sky reflecting in mirror-smooth surface, or it could have had something to do with the bloke skinny dipping, I’m not sure which.
A short climb up a steep grassy slope above the tarn took us to the edge of the ridge itself. I looked up at the sky, searching in vain for any indication that a torrential downpour was imminent but, although it was clouding over, there was nothing that was likely to provide the excuse we needed not to cross the edge without losing face. I dutifully took a ‘team photo’, hoping that the camera might survive the fall and give my children something to remember me by should the worst happen (which looking across the edge seemed a distinct possibility).
Sharp Edge itself turned out not be too strenuous. It was quite mentally challenging for me though as I’m a bit of a wuss when it comes to anything higher than a kick stool. I was determined not to take the path which runs a little down from the actual ridge, but I have to admit that I did very little standing on the pointy bit, calmly surveying the magnificent vista. In fact I can’t remember much about the view as I was mostly looking straight ahead and avoiding anything which might remind me of the stupid venture I was undertaking! Helen was much better and strode boldly over some sections that had me closing my eyes and clutching the rock with my toes through the soles of my boots.
Once across the edge, we sat in a small hollow to look back and feel all cocky about our achievements. As we congratulated ourselves and told ourselves what wonderful mountaineers we were, we saw two figures appear on the far end of ridge. A man dressed in shorts followed by a woman in tracksuit bottoms practically ran across the very top of the ridge that a few minutes ago I’d had to force myself over one nervous hand hold after another – gits!
They passed us quickly and disappeared up the rock face that lurks at the end of Sharp Edge, waiting to wipe the smile off those who survive the crossing.
As we watched them go, we looked at the climb and, despite the fact we’d just seen two people do it, we couldn’t help but think that there was no way up it! About twenty feet up we could see there were quite a few hand holds and some reassuring corners to nestle in. The start of the climb, however, appeared to be made of large boulders, far too big and smooth to get a grip on. Knowing that there was no way somebody with my climbing ability was ever going to get back down the way I’d come up, I was forced to try and scramble up the first boulder.
Manfully hiding my near panic, I somehow managed to crawl / scramble / slide my way up the first few feet. And found a spot where I could cling on and feel reasonably safe. Helen, whose limbs, whilst being better shaped, are considerably shorter than mine couldn’t get started on the rock and announced that she was going to go back down. I’m not an expert but I have always found that climbing down is more dangerous than climbing up so I shouted down that I thought she should try to follow me. Helen was quite adamant that there was no way that she could come up and it started to look as though we might be spending quite some time sitting on the mountain. I checked my phone to see if there was a signal in case we were going to need rescuing (there was) and tried to work out what to do next. As I sat there looking down, I noticed a wide gully just round a corner from where Helen was sitting. I directed her to this (not an easy walk as there was a lot of loose rock) and she was able to get started on the climb.
After that first slightly trick bit, the rest of the scramble was relatively straightforward. We just kept steadily plodding on (me with my eyes still closed of course) until suddenly the rocks stopped and were replaced by a gentle grassy slope up to the summit. Forgetting how hopeless and pathetic I must have looked just minutes before, the sight of a safe grass path made me feel all macho again and we positively raced to the cairn at the top. The view was as good as any I’ve seen in the Lake District has to offer (which is pretty good) and we had a sense of achievement to match. After all those years, I’d finally made it up Sharp Edge.
