A walk up Orrest Head

I love walking with Hubby and Zack, our Pyrenean. Zack is an old dog, and at one point, we almost lost him for good. Thus, it is such a joy to see him walking well and taking in with gusto the sights, sounds and smells that surround him whenever he goes walkies. The latter aren’t very long nor difficult in deference to his age, but we do try to take him to different and interesting places, where he can explore new surroundings. Sometimes we are successful, and sometimes we are not. Orrest Head was a success.

Orrest Head was the fell responsible for Alfred Wainwright’s love affair with the Lakes. It was the first fell he climbed when he visited the Lake District in 1930. In his book, Ex-Fellwanderer, he writes:

Alighting from the bus, our first objective, according to my itinerary, was Orrest Head, a recommended viewpoint nearby. Our way led up a lane amongst lovely trees, passing large houses that seemed to me like castles, with gardens fragrant with flowers. I thought how wonderful it must be to live in a house with a garden. The sun was shining, the birds singing. We went on, climbing steadily under a canopy of foliage, the path becoming rougher, and then, 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. It was a moment of magic, a revelation so unexpected that I stood transfixed, unable to believe my eyes. I saw mountain ranges, one after another, the nearer starkly etched, those beyond fading into the blue distance. Rich woodlands, emerald pastures and the shimmering waters of the lake below added to a pageant of loveliness, a glorious panorama that held me enthralled. I had seen landscapes of rural beauty pictured in the local art gallery, but here was no painted canvas; this was real. This was truth. God was in his heaven that day and I a humble worshipper.

Our own climb up Orrest Head went past those same houses and gardens, via trails under cover of foliage, and up a rocky path which was muddy in parts. At the top, those same glorious views beckoned in the light of the setting sun. God was indeed in His heaven that day, as Wainwright said, and continues in His heaven today . . . and I, like Wainwright, am His humble worshipper.

‘Blenheim Lodge . . . panoramic Lake views, peace and tranquillity, nestled against acres of beautiful fields and woodlands, in the heart of the English Lake District National Park.’