This is the story of a walk I took across the south-west peninsula isthmus in June, 2016.

The south-west peninsula ‘isthmus’ is the neck of land which separates southern England from the Devon/Cornwall peninsula, and it is almost exactly 33 miles across. I fancied walking across the isthmus using a route of my own devising, which, with all the twists and turns would mean a stroll of at least 50 miles.

Having planning the route carefully, I bought my train tickets, and on the 20th of June, off I went. My plan had specific goals:

  • Locate exactly where the ends of the isthmus are.
  • Walk in the night – I’d never done this and wanted to try it, having met someone a few weeks beforehand who was keen on night walking.
  • See how easy it was to travel light – just a few clothes, stuff needed for hygiene, food, water, a camera, and a handful of other essentials.
  • Find out how far could I walk in one day.
  • Discover how practical it is to follow a home-made route like this– a hodgepodge of footpaths, bridleways, permissive paths, farm tracks and minor roads.

20 June 2016 – AXMINSTER TO BEER.

Catching the 09:00 train to Axminster on the 20th of June, I occupied myself by sketching odd things during the journey down. There was no conversation on the train, people being plugged into their mobile phones, buried in books or newspapers or just not being willingly communicative.

Arrived Axminster at 1 p.m., I stepped on to the platform and took the first of what I estimated would be a 150,000 footsteps. I wandered up to the main road through the town to have a look at the scene. Nothing remarkable, but felt good and quietly exciting to have finally got there. Walking back through a small industrial estate by the station and squeezing through a narrow alleyway, I was immediately in the countryside being stared at by farmyard cows. The walk had begun.

The weather was good and there was no rain the first day. From recent indundations, however, there was still plenty of water running off the fields such that some minor roads were running water courses.

My first goal was to reach Beer Youth Hostel, where I would spend the night. Although theoretically an easy day, I kept up a rapid pace, anticipating possinle hold-ups, delays or diversions to my intended route and possible loss of my bed.

Passing Doatshayne Farm (SY280952), I noted a sign by a small cage with eggs in it and an honesty box, reading:

EGGS! We have re-homed 20 ex-caged hens So apologies if you get the odd pale yolk in your box. Hopefully they will be back to full health after some TLC. Thanks.

One of the many styles I encountered. Many were in good repair, like this one above Sellers Wood Farm (SY280939) others were rotten and slippery with moss and algae, or in places where the landowner wasn’t so bothered about their preservation crossed by barbed or electrified wires, hidden away in impenetratable thickets or lying in decayed fragments on the ground.

Higher Bruckland Farm (SY282932).

One never quite knows what is going to be beyond the next gate or style. At a spot called Higher Lane (SY267909), the route turned out to necessiate ploughing through an acre of fern jungle – a machete would have been useful – but then emerged through some ancient but clearly well-to-do metal gates to run beside the grounds of an ancient manor house. In walking a route like this, rather than a recognised long-distance path, one encounters such an entertaining variety of landscapes and challenges. Both kinds of walking have their values, of course. I’m not advocating one over the other.

Green Lane (SY277916). The pools of water turned out to be a sign of things to come.

Came across a relic of the foot-and-mouth outbreak of 2001. The farming community organised something called Green Wellie Support Day. This notice at Parsonage Barn (SY262906) was still readable, amazingly, 15 years after the event.

I could hear the waves crashing half-a-mile inland, but it was only when right above Seaton that the sea came into view.

Spent a very comfortable night at Beer Youth Hostel.

21 June 2016 – BEER TO MONKTON WYLD.

Started out at 3 am the next morning.

Beer village, 3:15 am

Seaton sea front at 4 am. Light already. One has the entire place to oneself walking this early.

Sign by Seaton Gold Course.

The Lyme Regis Undercliffs were beautiful, a winding footpath with curiosities around every corner and orchids growing on the cliff top – I identified a Pyramidal Orchid, a Spotted Orchid and (I think) a Greater Butterfly Orchid. Although a five-mile cliff-top walk, the sea is rarely visible, just occasionally through the dense woodland.

After 3½ hours walking through the Undercliffs, Lyme Regis suddenly appeared. It was 8:30 in the morning but there were people playing bowls already. I remember there being some interesting odds and ends between the boulders along the coast, all sorts of natural and industrial sea debris, but my main interest was finally seeing the inward curve of the coast as I approached the southern point of the isthmus, still one mile away, seeing in reality what I’d studied as a map feature for so long.

Standing at the precise point of the southern end of the isthmus – the low cliff is a soft mudstone, with the coast here being gradually being eroded away.

My last view of the English Channel.

Having spent some time on the beach, at 10:30 a.m. I turned inland.

My home for the second night was the independent hostel accomodation at Monkton Wyld Court. This, I discovered, was a commune. The dozen or so people who live there managing their own water supply, farming organically and recycling as much as possible. Some of the people were temporary volunteers, but for the others it is their permanent home. Their key principles are sustainibility and mutual respect.

They make an income from educating others in their land management methods, running part of the house as a travellers hostel and selling surplus produce. Any surplus income is divided amongst the people as their ‘stipend’. As the only guest, I was invited to eat with them and had a rather luxurious room all to myself.


Started off the next morning at 03:15, walking by torchlight and the light of the moon.

Hawkchurch church porch, 03:45 am, breakfast – an orange.

And then it rained for four hours. I rather enjoyed this, strolling happily along with umbrella deployed.

Shangri La! Stocked upon sandwiches.

Thanks to Sainsburys and the like, never went hungry on the whole walk. Carried water as well, but in reality drank mostly tea and coffee – almost every village shop I passed had a coffee machine.

Arrived, very soggy, in Chard town centre at 9 am. Bought a fresh shirt in a charity shop and felt (and looked) better, and then took a short excursion to a spot called Snowdon Hill, a small prominance just west of Chard – couldn’t resist scaling this little Snowdon, having done the bigger one several times.

My plan for this day was maybe to walk all the way to the Bristol Channel and sit out the short night on the beach, listening to the waves and watching the moon slowly sail across the sky.

The highest point of the walk was a Combe Beacon (ST294122), a small hill outside Chard with a triangulation pillar on top. From there could see the Bristol Channel coastline, now only twenty miles away and the end point of my walk. A bit of a push, I knew, but attainable with no more sleeps, I thought.

The end in sight.

And then I got lost, sort of. Trying to take a shortcut to reach a track called Belcome Drove – it only meant crossing a single, empty grassy field – I found myself in a maze of stoutly barb-wired fences with surprisingly few gateways, and spent what seemed an age going backwards and forwards trying to find my way across what was only a few hundred yards.

Then came Fresh Moor, the valley between Combe Beacon and Buckland St Mary – and it was very fresh indeed! Numerous times I stepped on what looked like a safe clod of grass only to find my leg disappearing into deep, muddy slime. Thankfully I’d packed several thick pairs of socks. Once the water had squidged out of my boots, on went a dry pair.

The woodland at Castle Neroche (ST270162) was a lovely place and especially welcome after the trials of Fresh Moor. I rested on a tree stump realising that I was now feeling pretty much worn out. I slowed my pace, ate something, and gently carried on.

The significance of this photo is that it is the half way point between coasts – the precise point being the cat’s-eye in the foreground (ST 30097 19082).

Reaching Hatch Beachamp I was now on the lookout for accommodation. There was none. This was the case throughout the walk. When I walked across south Wales about twenty years ago, there were bed-and-breakfasts everywhere. Not here. The couple of places I did find said no vacancies, or perhaps they just didn’t want the trouble of a late-evening, bedraggled-looking walker to deal with.

Fortune smiled. In the middle of nowhere I came across a quality hot food van, ‘Layz Rick’s’. They gave me a huge bundle of chips with some delicious chicken strips. I felt I could go on all night with that inside me, and, indeed, that’s exactly what I had to do. I’d have continued without the food, of course – just the few small very snacks in my backpack – but the energy the meal gave was a great boost.

I knew of a farmhouse near a place called North Curry which offered accomodation, but the man there – in spite of a sign declaring vacancies – said he was to busy preparing for a wedding party, so no joy. He offered me a shortcut across his land which was interesting because it passed by some curious remains which I later learned belonged to the Chard Canal, a venture of the mid 19th century which has lain derelict (and waterless) for a century and a half. The bottom end of this short cut was not so great as an overflow of slurry from a cow shed was covering the path. Another changed of socks!

I decided to use the canal path. The walk fortunately coincided with a full moon. With that and a torch for the darker bits, this night-time walking went fine. I’d occasionally have a 15-minute or ½-hour rest, then carry on. It’s an interesting experience – owls hoot, things rattle in the undergrowth, the occasional startled bird sounds a warning as I pass. The eyes can play tricks, with distances being very deceptive – passing through one village I was certain I could see some white ponies shuffling about behind a fence, but when I reached the point there was nothing there. An illusion produced by the beam of my torch and my tired brain trying to interpret the flickering light and shadow. I’d seen them so clearly, even heard them gently snorting in my head. I’ve read since about how some extreme atheletes such as ocean rowers, high altitude climbers and long-distance runners can experience hallucinations, but just accept it part of the experience.

After a long tramp I was back in civilisation, sort of – the motorway services on the M5 by Bridgwater. This was four o’clock in the morning and VERY welcome. While physically reasonably fit – I’d done some long walks around Southam in the weeks beforehand – the soles of my feet were now really painful. After each stop, starting to walk again felt like walking barefoot on pointed cobbles. My plan at this point had been to lounge about in the town for a few hours, have a wash somewhere then do the final stretch to the north coast, but the lure of a shower and a bed was too strong. It was excellent, although ridiculously expensive – £88 – for what I got.


After a few hours sleep felt much refreshed. My camera and phone batteries had recharged. Rifling all the complimentary tea, coffee and sugar packets that I could find, I set off again at eleven in the morning. Getting out of the services was surprisingly challenging – they’re designed for cars, not pedestrians and I started off in the wrong direction. It took me an hour trying first one road then another, eventually finding myself back on track.

The Bridgewater Canal in the town centre (ST300364), a pleasant green spot.

The beams across the impressive Victorian canal-works which run through the town have the following carved on them:


[I later learned that this was part of a community arts project of the ?1990s, and that the lines of the poem were chosen by school children.]

I navigated largely using GPS. When walking years ago all I had were maps and a compass – GPS being non-existent. Some good memories are of conversations with complete strangers, sharing coffee or chocolate bars and discussing what we’d seen and which was the best way to go. Now people are more often than not staring into their phones or shuffling through their music tracks with a frustrated look on their face, managing a mumbled ‘hello’ at most. Modern life.

Close to the end now, and with plenty of daylight had some long rests to ease the feet. Made the mistake of trying to use my umbrella as a walking stick and broke the handle off. Thankfully there was no more rain. Wandering through the grounds of Gurney Manor Mill was passed by a young boy driving a tractor, who kindly gave me permission to take a short cut across the land.

Coombwich village was a friendly place. The woman in the Post Office offered to fill my water bottles without me even asking, and they put their post office stamp in my notebook as a souvenir. An elderly lady in the shop who overheard me talking about my walk – a sponsered affair to benefit a dementia care charity and gave me a £5 donation. I started to decline but she insisted, saying her husband had died with dementia and she thought it was a very good cause. Thank you, Betty of Coombwich.

A short walk out of the village and suddenly there it was – the Steart peninsula with the Bristol Channel just beyond. Fantastic.

I arrived at six o’clock in the evening. It was a good feeling to reach here at last, having stared at the point on the map for so long. I spent a couple of hours exploring and enjoying the sights and sounds of the beach, a mixture of shingle, sand and mud.

At the, the northern end of the isthmus (ST 25150 45180), a small log washed up by the tide happened to point precisely to the point.

The sky then started to do some magic tricks. There was a curious effect as the sun was setting – a sort of ribbon-like cloud high up caused a fan effect above the nearby Hinkley Point Nuclear Power Station. [I have since seen this elsewhere and believe it to be cause by the sun shining through the waves of a high-altitude aircraft vapour trail.]

A little later for a short time there was a sort of rainbow high up in the ice crystal clouds.

My plan to sit on the beach listening to the waves as the moon sailed past turned out to be a romantic fantasy. With Stert being so flat, a keen, chilly breeze whipped across it. Plan B had been to shelter in one of the bird hides, but they were all locked and in any case were constructed in such a way that the wind whistled straight through them – perhaps to discourage people from doing what I had been thinking of.

There was a beautiful sunset – I couldn’t have asked for a better finish to the walk.

So, plan C … I said goodbye to the Bristol Channel and started plodding back inland. It was a long slog. Being now very tired and with the soles of my feet aching more than ever, I decided to take the almost vehicle-free roads for simplicity of route-finding, even though the tarmac was extraordinarily uncomfortable to walk on now. The knowledge that there’d probably be some quality food and drink at Bridgewater helped a bit.

24 June 2016 – HOME.

I arrived in Bridgewater town centre at three in the morning and sat on a bench enjoying NOT walking. There was a drunk shouting in the distance. I finished off my sandwiches and found a 24-hour petrol station and ordered a hot drink through the window. Another passer by (not the drunk man) did the same. The attendant disappeared for ages, the man said he was always ‘doing that’, and we joked about what might be going on in the back room.

I’d had ideas of walking to a relative’s house about fifteen miles away that day, but seeing that there was a train departing for Bristol at 6 am, took that, then one to Birmingham, and then one to Leamington Spa and was soon home. My souvenirs were two miniature jam pots with a bit of water and piece of pottery I found in the mud from the English Channel side and water and a patterened pebble from the other.

[I kept the jam pots for a couple of years, but then the water went strangely black, so I discarded it, but still have the bit of pottery and the pebble – it would be nice to return them one day, perhaps repeating the walk with a few minor alterations and completing it in one single, continuous effort.]

The answers to my questions:

  • Isthmus termini? The north and south points of the isthmus are at grid references SY 35723 93090 and ST 25150 45180, and are 33.03 miles (53.12 km) apart.
  • Walking at night? Good. Lovely and quiet, although I did have the advantage of beneficient, mild weather conditions. Might not be so much fun in the cold, wind and rain.
  • Lightpacking? Again, being nice weather, I didn’t need to carry much. Having walked with much heavier packs, it was a pleasent change to have something lighter.
  • How far in a single day? My length of my route between these points was 50 miles long. With other bits of walking I found I’d walked almost exactly 100 miles in 3 days 15 hours, the longest day being Monkton Wyld to Bridgewater, a smidgen under 40 miles.
  • Self-designed routes? The way-finding was largely fine, although the northern third was a little more difficult, some paths poorly maintained.

[I did get blisters under the webs of my big toes, but they were not serious matters. When I got home, I also found I’d picked up what I was later told was probably a deer tick sitting just below by navel. A tiny thing, I thought it was a little scab at first. Googling what to do, I cautiously removed it, a surprisingly difficult thing, and on NHS telephone advice went to A&E. A nurse cleaned the small wound and I was put on antibiotics. While I’d kept myself well covered while walking, this one had got in at the waistline where my T-shirt was flapping open, perhaps while I was cat-napping lying in the grass. Lesson learned!]

June 2016 [minor amendments December 2022].


A piece I wrote for The George Borrow Bulletin (Autumn 2017), with the kind encouragement of the late Dr Ann Soutter [1]. George Borrow (1803-1881) was a farmer and author who went on long walks, sometimes lasting days or weeks, through the British countryside.


EARLIER THIS YEAR [2017] I went for a long walk through southern Wales. Ever since reading Borrow’s description of his three-hundred-mile trek in the book Wild Wales, I have at various times tried copying some of his achievements. This year I happened to be the same age as Borrow when he made his mammoth journey from Llangollen to Chepstow, so I devised a plan to walk the length of Wales using footpaths, bridleways, permissive paths and minor roads. I trained myself physically for the distances involved, asked advice from friends who are experienced walkers, acquired the necessary equipment and on 28 June set off from the southern-most tip of mainland Wales, my intention being to reach the north coast within a fortnight.

It didn’t quite work out that way. The boots I had chosen could not cope with the water-logged condition of the countryside, the first twenty-four hours of my trip coinciding with the downpour that followed the June heat wave. On top of this, a surprising number of the rights-of-way I’d intended to take were impassable due to poor maintenance, heavy overgrowth or deliberate blocking, adding many miles to my originally planned distances.


By the end of the second day the impossibility of the task I’d set myself was becoming apparent. I sat on the hillside above Merthyr Tydfil looking down at the spot where, 163 years earlier, Borrow had strolled by, and I began thinking about the differences between long-distance walking in his day and now. With all my dedicated clothing, footwear, maps, GPS and other specialised equipment, I came to the conclusion that Borrow benefited from advantages not available to the modern walker, and that I would have to reconsider my plans if I was to attempt another such expedition.

Of greatest significance, it seemed to me, was that apart from some deliberate excursions over hills of special interest to him, Borrow was travelling by road. He was taking the most direct and least gradient-challenged routes between towns and villages. My route wandered all over the place and not infrequently involved steep ascents or descents, sometimes unexpected. One innocent-looking bridleway on the map took me on a seven-hundred-and-fifty-foot climb up a bracken-covered, sixty-degree slope and cost two-and-a-half hours with only one third of a mile distance gained. I thoroughly enjoyable the experience, but from my journey’s point of view it was clearly impractical.


The road surfaces of Borrow’s day would have been relatively foot-friendly, being compacted dirt and gravel and probably well-vegetated in places, not unlike some of today’s National Trails. Excessive distances on modern metalled roads are a different matter, the constant pounding of the feet on the hard surface leading to painfully aching soles and ankles. There is also the matter of the traffic. So many drivers make minimal effort to give pedestrians adequate berth – on one country road I had to bury myself deep in a hedge when a van and lorry chose to pass each other parallel to me with complete disregard for my welfare.

Another advantage enjoyed by Borrow was the availability of accommodation. In that era of travel by foot, horse, carriage and rail, hostelries appear to have been plentiful. I live in a small town in the centre of England which once happened to be a hub of the stage coach network. When I was little there were still nine pubs in the town which had a population of only two thousand, a relic of that former trade. Some premises still retained the wide, arched yard entrances characteristic of such places.

These days accommodation is relatively sparse and often prohibitively expensive, and needs planning and booking well ahead to avoid disappointment. Last year [2016] I walked across part of southern England, assuming I would find places to stay along the way. There were none. I spent two nights walking in the dark and cat-napping in long grass, hoping that no other night-time wanderers or curious livestock would either bother or be bothered by me.


To good roads and accommodation, the evident hardiness of the Victorian foot can be added. Borrow was, after all, a hard-working farmer living in a world of mainly pedestrian travel. No hopping in the car or even on a bicycle to get somewhere. I once met a French farmer’s son who told me how, in the summer, he rarely wore shoes. The consequence was that the soles of his feet would become as thick and as tough as leather and even sharp stones would not bother him too much. When he put shoes on again in the winter this layer would peel off like a snake shedding its skin. I imagine the soles of Borrow’s feet, and possibly pretty much everyone else in Victorian Britain, were of a similarly tough nature, not the soft, pampered appendages of today.

Of great importance, of course, were his boots, hob-nailed leather affairs. Borrow mentions needing them re-soled a couple of times during his Llangollen-to-Chepstow walk and on another occasion how sharp stones on a mountain track were cutting through them and hurting his feet, but little else. There were no alternatives, of course, which may have disinclined him to comment further, assuming his readers would be well-familiar with such issues. Perhaps walking on the relatively well-drained road surfaces and luck with the weather meant that for him moisture problems were not such an issue and his treasured worsted stockings seem to have done their job well.


Not so with me, having to plough through tall, wet, lush vegetation on regular occasions. My boot problems were a mixture of bad luck and bad judgement. Bought especially for the purpose, they had proved comfortable on trial walks, but I realised later that I had never tested them in seriously wet conditions. They were desperately inadequate at minimising water ingress. Blisters or damaged skin in dry boots can be treated or tolerated, but long miles in permanently damp footwear eventually caused my skin to weaken and break. After three days of this, I had a rest day with my feet up and my boots drying, and the next day took a short walk to test things out. The skin, however, was damaged beyond immediate repair and the walk had to terminate.

I should add that I go on such walks knowing there will be difficulties, indeed looking forward to them, and I enjoyed every footstep of my journey. I’ll look back and recall with great pleasure such things as ‘the battle of bracken hill’, the hedgehogs patrolling the woodlands behind Rhoose in the dark, the many trickling streams, helping a farmer lift a ‘weed topper’ on to blocks so he could work on it, the countless bleating sheep, chatting with the occupants of the house at Pont-y-Meibion, and above all the unique, quiet beauty of the Welsh landscape with its subdued greys, greens, browns.


I’d like to say that I had as many interesting human encounters as Borrow did in his book, but this was not really the case. Walking years ago I would find myself sharing chocolate bars and cups of coffee with complete strangers in the middle of nowhere, chatting in depth about paths, the qualities of different brands of backpack, the weather and numerous other subjects, but this is no longer so easily accomplished. So many people wander silently by, earphones firmly inserted and shuffling through the tracks on their iPhones, often with a frustrated look on their face, barely acknowledging others.

Thankfully, at the one Youth Hostel I utilised, people were more sociable – there was a woman who was walking the Beacons Way, another who invited me to join a holiday club, and a vegan, yoga-practising man who was reading a book about aliens secretly taking over the planet. We shared food, studied maps, made cups of tea for each other and chatted about the weather, past adventures and the gradual dissolution of the YHA. It was all very pleasant. Then we said our good-byes and went our respective ways.

After my three days and eighty-six miles, I took a few short walks to look at the scenery around Llandeusant and then made my way back to Warwickshire by public transport, then returned to Wales by car to explore some of the places l’d intended to travel through on foot. The most moving was Huw Morris’s grave at Liansilin. Having been impressed by Wild Wales at a young age, to actually be crouching at the same spot as the author thirty years after first reading the book was surprisingly affecting.


I still have many questions for Borrow. How did he cope with the cold, wind and rain during his late-autumn walk and at a time when the climate had not yet completely recovered from what historians call ‘The Little Ice Age’? Was he just lucky with the weather? Did he really carry nothing other than an umbrella, a spare pair of stockings, a shirt, a razor and a prayer-book? What about food? He mentions hearty meals in some places, but how did he manage the majority of the time? Did he walk all day on last night’s supper? Had I really met him on my descent from the hillside above Merthyr, I would have dearly loved to study his boots and ask him that question most burning in my mind, “Excuse me, Mr Borrow, how are your feet today?” [2]



[1] Dr Ann Soutter FRSA (who authored under the name Dr A. M. Ridler), founder of the George Borrow Society in 1991. She also founded in the Lavengro Press in 2014 to publish rare or previously unpublished writings by Borrow. I had contacted the society regarding my walk and Ann encouraged me to write the article and also sent me a copy of some unpublished notes of Borrow’s she had transcribed. It was with great sadness that I learned of Ann’s death in 2018.

[2] Dr Soutter commented that in other writings Borrow described having generous breakfasts and also occasionally complained of sore feet.


A story I wrote in 1985 and just rediscovered. I rather enjoyed reading it again (I hope that doesn’t sound big-headed) so thought I’d share the piece. I think there may be a bit of self-observation buried here somewhere. Anyway, here it is …

The Mud Lark.

Underneath his fresh brown coat of mud, the Mud Lark is a beautiful blue, grey and white. If you could catch a Mud Lark and scrub it clean, you would see these colours for yourself. This bird is, however, rarely seen in the clean state.

The first thing he does every morning is fall into the first muddy puddle or ditch he can find and roll around, pretending it is an accident. The Mud Lark spends the rest of the day in some thorny thicket or secluded tree top – he is not fussy – and makes an imitation of preening himself. He does not become significantly cleaner.

This is the way his whole life is spent, rolling in mud and pretend to preen. In the evenings he may find a couple of berries to eat, and then rests. With a little effort he could be as beautiful as any of the other birds, but nobody has managed to catch him yet, let alone tell him how fine things could be without all the mud.


(First posted .)

Chatting with someone recently, I learned of a Father Francis ‘Frank’ Hughes, born 1915, died 1998, who not only took services in Glenridding and but also helped with mountain rescue. The person I spoke with described him as ‘a lovely man’ and ‘a bit of a character’. With only a few passing references on the web, I though it worth making some enquiries from people who may have known him, and received the following comments. Although only a few snippets, they sketch a picture of someone who seems to have been quite an individual and who is clearly remembered with affection. Thank you to all who provided information.

Report on a walk taken c. 1995, PPRuNe web site (28 Oct 2007):

It was in the days when the late Father Frank Hughes was still alive so we headed round to his home where the door was always open (literally) and we were able to change into the dry things whilst he prepared hot drinks for us. He was a wonderful man who thought nothing of going out at stupid hours to rescue people whose car had had an argument with a wall on Hardknott Pass and bring them back to his home.

He worked for many years with the Patterdale Mountain Rescue team and was also the founder of The Kendal Bowmen. He only ever took one holiday – to visit the Leper Colony for which he raised funds. When asked why he never went away he would simply say “who needs to go away when I can just look out of my window and see all this?”

Comments provided by members of the ACHILLE RATTI CLIMBING CLUB:

He would give out Yorkie bars out at the end of mass, the only reason I agreed to go.

Yep Yorkies after mass. I think he was a keen archer. He really helped his community. There was an article about him in a National newspaper. Great photo of him in the kitchen at Bishop’s Scale serving tea after the charity walk.

Father Hughes used to drive over from Glenridding to say Mass on Saturday evenings. He would come throughout the year, often in challenging weather conditions. There used to be a little church at Glenridding, St. Philip Howard, and Fr. Frank lived there.

[The] father who took Saturday mass at Langdale who was referred to as the late father Hughes because he was always running late.

He wasn’t young in those days, and not very big, but he was fit and active and, indeed, much liked. He had contacts in Liberia, and would preach about the corruption there, and ask us to pray for the people.

We were in Tyn Twr [a club hut in Snowdonia] and were having ‘words’ in the lounge. We didn’t think [he] could hear us, when we went into the kitchen he said he couldn’t concentrate on his prayers. He also told us of a time he was crossing private land when the landowner challenged him, he challenged the landowners right to refuse him access. The landowner explained his ancestors “… fought for this land”. The father replied, “As did mine, shall I fight you for it now?‘”

A long time ago now … in the hall at the Grisedale Horsehoe Fell Race. Father Hughes happily passed the race time by playing the piano beautifully. As I listened and watched him his love of playing the piano was obvious.


[Father Hughes] suffered a stroke earlier in the year and is now home again and convalescing.” [ARCC Bulletin 89, June 1983.]

“The latest news I have is that Fr. Hughes is making good progress and should soon be back with us.” [ARCC Journal 1991.]

… much appreciated [was] the hospitality at Father Hughes’ house at Glenridding. The only complaint was that the abundance of food and drink made the climb up Mires Beck and Catstycam heavy going.” [A walk report in the ARCC Journal, 1994.]

“It is with sadness I that I report on the death of Fr. Frank Hughes, our club chaplain or as he would have rather put it the Late Fr. Hughes, and for those of you who may not understand that phrase, he usually arrived late for Mass here in Langdale, having driven over the Struggle from Glenridding to get here, and would introduce himself as the ‘Late Fr. Hughes’. He was everyone’s idea of a priest, a lovable character, kind and generous but with a very stubborn streak. He had a number of minor accidents whilst travelling over the Struggle to Bishop’s Scale in the ice and snow, but refused to listen to any arguments about not coming at all in the winter months. He was a great friend to all of us and will be sadly missed.” [Derek Price (Chairman), Minutes of the AGM, ARCC Journal 1998.]

“Father Frank Hughes, a former Club Chaplain, I will always remember for his outlook on life and his hospitality. His piano playing will always remain with me.” [Mountaineering Reflections, by John Braybrook. ARCC Journal 2005.]

A note from the WWW.JOURNEYING.CO.UK (a Christian walking club) web site:

A wonderful man who was to become a good friend of Pilgrim Adventure and who, until he was too old and ill, loved nothing more than to climb the great hills.” [19 Jan 2021.]

Comment from B… R… (the person who first told me about Fr. Hughes, inspiring this blog post):

Thank you so much for taking the time for this research and article. I remember Father Hughes so fondly from my childhood holidays. Yes! He was a keen archer! I’d forgotten that part. He gave me a lesson one day. He was all of these things that people describe him as. Mostly, he was kind. It was lovely to read all of these memories.


Fr. Frank Hughes was a full [Patterdale Mountain Rescue Team] member and is now deceased. He passed away some years ago in care of the nuns at [a Catholic retreat in the southern Lake District]. He had moved to Glenridding to a bungalow and chapel that was built on the lowest row of new houses behind the garage. The chapel had been built by some catholic charity possibly linked to the Achille Ratti catholic climbing club, and Father Frank used to celebrate the only mass between Penrith and Windermere.

He was a very generous man and regularly took gifts and presents out to leaper colonies for the affected children.

He was a team member in his sixties, but in a very ‘pedestrian’ way – never a climber, but he did turn out on call outs and searches. I remember one overnight missing peron search on the side of Kirkstone/Red Screes, in thick snow [we] lost contact with Father Frank. As we approached Caiston Glen, we had to get the team to turn around begin to search for Frank. He turned up about a hour later at Brotherswater Hotel from who knows where. When we tried to argue with him about wandering off in a whiteout, his only answer was ‘Never worry about me, I will be alright because God will look after me, have you found the misper yet!

On another call-out he frightened the casualty by leaning over him in his dog collar, telling the poor bloke that he was doing “last rights” today. I do remember him taking some very wet and ill equipped folk back to dry off and sleep at the cottage more than once. His other forte was to bring either soup and a bowl of chips, or coffee and cake across to us when we used go collecting with the Landrovers on the village green at Easter.

Sincere thanks to members of the Achille Ratti Climing Club and Patterdale Mountain Rescue for their help with this article..


I have wandered around the slopes of Cwmffynnon and Moel Berfedd, Snowdonia, many times over the past twenty five years. The slopes are dotted with boulders deposited by retreating Ice Age glaciers 10,000 years ago. I see it as a kind of sculpture garden and have given a number of the boulders names.

There’s a path to the lake via a little gate by the side of the hostel at Pen-y-Pass.
Sunrise over Cwmffynnon from Crib Goch, with the eastern Glyderau (left) and Moel Siabod (right) in the background. The patch of water towards the horizon on the right is Llynau Mymbyr.
The gateway to the mountainside.
The Carp, with Crib Goch behind.
The Whale (with a tail).
The Jumble.
The Elephant Hide Rock.
The Tripartate Stone – Llyn Cwnffynnon side.
The Tripartate Stone – Pen-y-Pass side.
The Bison.
The Laughing Whale.
The Ball of Twine.
The Row. After having stood there for something like 10,000 years, the central stone of this little collection fell (or was it pushed?) sometime between my visits in 2015 and 2018 and is now broken in two.
The Quadripartate Stone.
The Brioche. (It just reminds me of those little chocolate brioche rolls that I’ve bought many times at the local petrol station.)
Wave Rock.
The Sliding Stone.
The (broken) Bowling Ball.
Adam and Eve.
The Perched Stone.
The Eye – a feature in the wall of an old shepherding enclosure.
The Perched Pyramid. It also reminds me of the Sphinx.
The Island.
The Bench.
The Hammer.
The Waterfall. There’s a video HERE.
The summit of Moel Berfedd. The collection of lichens at the very highest point has barely changed in the few years I’ve been photographing them.
The Cave.
The view from inside The Cave. The main peak to the left is Crib Goch, with Snowdon just visible to the left (it appears lower, but is actually 532 feet higher).
Llyn Cwmffynnon.
Llyn Cwmffynnon with the Cwmffynnon valley beyond. Mole Berfedd is the hill on the right, with Moel Siabod in the centre at the back. The hills of the Glyderau range are out-of-picture to the left.