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It is said that the Herdwick sheep that are always outside our window or on or by the footpath originally arrived via a stranded Norse boat, were found among the wreckage of the Armada or – less gloriously – they are indigenous.  No matter.   Twice a year they are brought down the mountains by herding dogs to be shorn or sold.  The sheep – and their lambs -  know their  territory, and, although they appear to be milling about aimlessly, they never leave their area.  We later learned from veteran “walkers” (the average age of a walking group in the Settle area is 70 years old) that they are often called upon to rescue sheep whose coats have gotten so besotted with rain water that they can’t get up.  It sometimes takes 4 men to roll the sheep back to standing.  I’ve grown quite fond of these creatures and even accustomed to being awakened by their bleating at 4 in the morning when the sun comes up.  Today on our walk it was remarkably sad to see a small lamb that had recently died.  This is rugged country.

 

The variety of our walks has been remarkable  and this was no exception.  We were in open moorland for much of our walk, and although the ascent was not remarkable, it made navigation essential.  The trail was often tenuous and the compass and map were critical, but it was a beautiful day in the mountains.  We walked past old huts where they used to cut and dry peat for fires.  Several of them had fortified roofs to serve as shelter for the sheep; others were crumbled and caved in.  

 

 

 

 We hunted for stone circles and finally found them in the grass – prehistoric markings for what is thought were burial grounds.  It took longer than we thought it would to reach the Burnwood Tarn (lake) and there were moments when we realized we weren’t sure we knew where we were. 

 

 

 

 

  It was a relief when we reached the top of the ridge and there it was to the north, just as it should have been. 

 

Walking toward the tarn, we were challenged by a black bullock who was not interested in moving away from the path and watched us every step as we carefully walked around him.  What we found farther from the path may have explained it:  a recently stillborn calf.  It is easy to look at the fetches of green and gold and wax romantic, but today was marked by a sense of mortality, from the stillborn, the newborn and the buried.  And our moments of feeling lost in the fields, far from the tarn were somehow a fitting re-adjustment to our place here.  We are not guests; we are as much a part of this as any living thing.

 

Farther past the tarn we could see our Inn at the head of the inky Wasdale lake  The Wordsworths, Coleridge, Lewis Carroll had all passed this way before us.  The sense of impermanence was palpable.

 

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