The Lake District: Eskdale

Eskdale is easily one of my favorite corners of the Lake District. I’d be tempted to say it’s criminally overlooked in favour of Wasdale and Langdale, but that would suggest it’s a tragedy, when in truth, its quiet solitude is one of the things I love most about it. Even in the height of summer, it remains blissfully peaceful. Shhhh, let’s keep it that way.

The drive in is an adventure in itself; rough, winding, and a little hair-raising at times. But the moment you pull into a lay-by near Brotherikeld, step out of the car, and breathe in the warm, grassy aroma carried on the breeze, all of that fades into insignificance. There’s a kind of stillness here that has to be experienced firsthand.

I made my way slowly up the valley, pausing to soak in the ever-present murmur of the River Esk, the wary curiosity of the ubiquitous Herdwick sheep, and the gentle hush of the mountain breeze.

As I reached Lingcove Bridge and turned northeast, the trail became increasingly rough underfoot, sometimes disappearing altogether. With the light beginning to fade, I took an off-piste shortcut up a steep section of ground, climbing high enough to find a decent pitch for the night. You won’t find this in the video, as I was too busy huffing and sweating to stop and set up a camera, which would likely have simply tumbled down into the valley anyway.

In total, I think I saw about ten people all day, most of them swimmers braving the frigid pools around Tongue Pot.

With my tent perched above the valley, I settled in for what promised to be a beautifully quiet night, apart from a brief interlude of high drama over on Crinkle Crags, where a coast guard helicopter circled for nearly an hour. Thankfully, the situation was resolved without injury, as reported by Mountain Rescue the following day.

I regretted not bringing a telephoto lens as a brilliant full moon rose around 8:30PM, and regretted a lack of appropriate gear again when the stars came out in breathtaking clarity—though I suspect even the fastest wide lens wouldn’t have done them justice.

Dawn broke, and following a few cups of strong coffee, as I struck camp and retraced my steps down the valley, the silence was almost tangible. The cloud cover broke here and there, letting shafts of light spill across the fells, and I managed to capture some striking drone footage of Lingcove Beck and across Great Moss to the Scafell range before heading down the road to the Woolpack for an obligatory toastie before the long drive home.

A quiet, solitary escape—exactly as Eskdale should be.