Day 4: I'm a proper hiker now. Onto Patterdale - and just a little bit more.

Grasmere to Angle Tarn.

The problem with solo hiking is that there’s no one to tell you not to choose the alternative high route. I was up at 6:30am — rewarded immediately with the sight of a beautiful fox — and off by 7am. I left Grasmere armed with enough food to feed a small expedition: two packs of cheese and Branston Pickle sandwiches, two bags of crisps, four Snickers, and eight granola bars. Very tricky to pack without squashing the life out of everything.

The weather was perfect, so of course I was going up the high Helvellyn alternative. Nine hundred and fifty metres of ascent. Leaving sleepy Grasmere behind, I immediately got stuck behind a flock of sheep who insisted on walking directly in front of me on the path. I felt like an old drover. There was frantic bleating as mums and lambs — now almost as big as the mums — became separated. No matter what strategy I tried: waiting, skirting through the bracken, waving my poles… nothing worked. Eventually, after herding half the hillside, I reached Grisedale Tarn, where three paths split: one to Helvellyn, one to St Sunday Crag, and one down the Grisedale Valley.

Two ladies were ahead of me, so I followed them. Big mistake. What followed was a terrifying scramble — similar to the Fox Path in Snowdonia — where I genuinely thought I might die. At times I was on my hands and knees on what felt like a 90‑degree slope, seriously doubting my safety and very glad my husband wasn’t witnessing any of it.

The correct mountain - looking back at the wrong one !

At the top, the women were having a break. I asked if they were heading to Helvellyn too. To my utter dismay, they said they weren’t — and if I was, I should be on that mountain, pointing across the valley.

What a total %&*£$!! I almost cried. (Note to self: improve map‑reading skills. You have a geography degree, woman.)

So began the walk of shame down an equally steep descent, followed by my second terrifying ascent — this time up Dollywagon Pike. Eventually the terrain eased, leading me across High Crag, Nethermost Pike, and finally to Helvellyn.

The landscape up here was barren, almost moon‑like (not that I’ve been to the moon), and because it was Saturday, there were hikers everywhere — ramblers, tourists, all shapes, sizes, and questionable attire. None with a pack as big as mine, mind you. I was definitely the most laden down. People stepped aside, some stopped to chat, and many seemed genuinely impressed with my undertaking. It wasn’t just the pack that made me stand out — I think it was the lack of tats, fake eyelashes, and vapes.

Swirrel Edge - see what I mean !

My descent from Helvellyn was the final terrifying moment of the day — Swirrel Edge. The other edge, Striding Edge, is even worse; I’m not sure I’d attempt it without a pack, let alone with one. Two guys went down ahead of me and kindly watched out for me, pointing out which rocks to scramble down, which to avoid, and which route might be safest. It was terribly ungraceful, but I managed it without crying and only bashed my shin slightly.

The remainder of the descent was also difficult — rocks at alarming angles, no clear path — until eventually one began to take shape and led me down to Red Tarn. I didn’t so much stop as collapse with relief. I filtered water, ate, and soaked my feet in the stream. (Note: I filtered my water before soaking my feet.)

Eventually I stumbled into Glenridding. I know — not Patterdale — but it’s only a mile away. Glenridding is another glorious tourist town on Ullswater. The weather brought out the best of it: people pottering around quaint shops, pubs, and cafés. I can’t remember the last time I had a good cuppa, but I got one now — plus a warm sausage roll and a walnut brownie thingy — all for £7.95. I grabbed a picnic table on the village green, spread out my tent to dry, took off my shoes and socks, and enjoyed a blissful break.

I’d arranged to meet the Belgian couple — Margo and Reindert — at Angle Tarn for a wild camp. Angle Tarn is another 3–5 km out of Patterdale, and all of it uphill. When I arrived, it seemed half the world had the same idea — perhaps because it was Saturday night. By around 8pm I counted about fifteen tents. The three of us shared hot food, stories, and route comparisons until the cold air finally drove us into our tents.

I lay down feeling quite smug. What a day. I’d survived terrifying ascents and descents, and ended up wild camping like a true hiker. Gosh, I hoped I’d pegged my tent down enough to withstand the wind. Today was the first day my legs — and arms — truly ached. I turned in around 8:30pm, worried about a restless sleep.

I'm a real hiker now that I have Wild Camped. (Don't tell my hubby - I told him I wouldn't be that reckless).

Strava Stats

• Distance: 23.55 km (14.63 miles)

• Elevation gain: 1,696 m (5,565 ft)

• Total time: 7 hours 4 minutes