The car park was just as tranquil as the reservoir looked and despite nine cars already parked up it was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. I parked alongside the familiar stone wall, got out, stretched, and opened the boot to start sorting my kit. Using the wall for support, I laced my boots and then removed a long-sleeve base layer, leaving a technical T-shirt underneath, which I'd top up with a softshell to take the edge off.

The car park was still in shade, but the sun was shining on the far side of the valley where I suspected it was a degree or two warmer. After a long gulp from my water bottle I placed it back in the boot, locked the car, and passed through the deer gate at the head of the car park. Harter Fell's lower slopes was under Branstree's shadow, but it wouldn't be for long. The temperature difference between shade and sunlight was instantly noticeable, and by the time I'd crossed Riggindale Beck via the familiar footbridge I was already starting to warm up. Still, I figured I'd keep the softshell on at least until I'd made some progress on Swine Crag.

My time on Kidsty Pike was minimal; I stopped only long enough to take in the view over the Riggindale valley towards Caspel Gate, with hazy views stretching further west. The lower I descended, the hotter it became, to the point where I could feel the backs of my ears burning. Just as I've accustomed myself to the ascent of High Street, my boots now follow the same familiar line of descent down Kidsty and Kidsty Howes. The pace is slowed by the odd rock step where Fix the Fells have been at work, improving the path with stone steps on the steepest sections, great work. With Kidsty Howes behind me, I was left with the steep grassy descent, where I picked up my pace into a jog, letting the gradient dictate my speed but my knees objected, but at least I'd burned through a good section of the slope. The ground began to level before reaching Riggindale Beck. Boggy ground underfoot and no way around it; my once dusty boots were swallowed past the eyelets, each step creating a sucking sound as the ground tried to claim my boots. By the time I reached Bowderthwaite Bridge the backs of my calves were soaked but I waded straight in to the beck to give my boots a swill and lose the half-ton of grass clinging to them.

Back on the bank, I crossed the beck and ascended onto level ground flanked by the Riggindale Standing Stones and the familiar coppice of pines. A place of memories no camera could ever show, and I left it that way. Through the pines I passed a wooden gate which, years ago, closed itself with a heavy rock and chain, but has since been replaced with a new gate and taut springs. The high-level cloud was filling in now, seeming to trap the heat at valley level. As I rounded The Rigg, Mardale Head came into view, along with its car park, where two dozen glaring windscreens shone back at me. It looked busy, though there wasn't a soul in sight to prove it. I began the gentle descent along the shores of Haweswater, the sun glistening on its surface. I crossed Mardale Beck, my soaked boots heavy on the wooden deck, before arriving back at the car park, holding the deer gate for a woman to pass through and being thanked kindly. Today's walk took me back to when Wainwright wrote about how isolated and desolate the Far Eastern Fells were. These days it's hard to take those words seriously, but today I was taken back to a time when I could still relate to what Wainwright meant.