Eventually I reached the top - and the tow truck! The car in front had a flat tyre and a wheel with a locking nut - but no key! It took a while to get down the hill, following a tow truck around hairpin bends, but I'd soon reached the camp site at Boot.
The next morning, I set off on my first walk up Boot Bank. The sun was out and the going was hot up the steep incline that leads to the abandoned peat-burning houses. The path was lined with Gorse and everywhere was ablaze with yellow. Up on the top I decided to cut across Burnmoor towards Miterdale, a valley I'd been told about last year. It had been described to me as being like Eden, so I thought I had to see this one.
Walking across the moor, slightly boggy in places but mostly firm underfoot, there wasn't a soul around until I reached Blea Tarn, where I met a couple and another man with his dog; I had reached the main path from Eskdale Green to Boot. Continuing on past a couple of smaller tarns, I could now see the plantations at the upper end of Miterdale and took a route between the two. The weather was scorching and the only sound, once again, was that of the birds.
Once in Miterdale I was greeted by an amazing sight. A crystal clear beck flowed between Gorse covered banks as the dale opened out between the trees. This was a perfect place to stop for a bite to eat.
About a mile down dale from here, having left the river briefly, I rejoined it for a short way before setting off through the forest towards Eskdale Green. By about noon, I was back on the moor again in the blazing sun; I hoped it wasn't far to the road, now. Once across the road and then the river, the path led through meadows seemingly surrounded on all sides by mountains. Just round the corner was the couple I'd passed at Blea Tarn - it's a small world! The uneventful but idyllic walk along the river to Boot didn't take long and was soon rewarded by a pint of Cumberland in the Burnmoor.
The beck which runs behind the campsite is a series of small cascades & pools beside the old watermill and afforded a welcoming bath, but the temperature of the water took some getting used to!
The next day, being unable to believe that a place like Miterdale could exist, I decided to return to have a look at the top end of the valley. Once past the point where I'd previously entered the valley the day before, the dale opened up into a huge amphitheatre which appeared to be enclosed by trees.
A path through the trees led steeply up onto the moor, heading out towards Burnmoor Tarn. Up on the moor it was scorching and there wasn't a sign of anyone, except for the occasional RAF jet. The view was fantastic, with Illgill Head - my intended route back - rising to my left, a deep valley to my right and the Scafell range rising majestically in front; and all I had for company were the sheep.
When I reached the path which leads from the Tarn to Wasdale Head, the sweat was pouring off me. I didn't fancy climbing another couple of thousand feet in this heat, so I decided to head off to the tarn and pick up the lower track that runs through the valley to the right. I took a slight detour first, to have a look at the imposing mass of Yewbarrow - actually the lowest of the group - and Wastwater, below.
Lunch was spent on the bank of Burnmoor Tarn, the water crystal clear and pretty warm. Apart from a Land Rover parked on the moor - the nearest road must be 4 or 5 miles away - there were only the birds here; still no people. Across the lake was an impressive-looking V-shaped valley; this was the route I would take back to Miterdale.
Leaving, to avoid the growing number of flies, I walked past the tarn house and into the valley. What a sight; the sides sloped steeply down to a narrow floor along which flowed a crystal clear beck, fed by several small cascades entering from the right. The going was boggy in places; the map showed the path to be somewhere up the left hand bank but I couldn't find it, so I followed at stream level.
Soon small cliffs appeared on the right and it wasn't long before the stream dried up completely; all that remained was a meandering cobble path. This valley was totally devoid of other human life; because it was so enclosed it really did seem that I had the place to myself.
All too soon, I was in view of the trees which mark Miterdale Head and after a short walk down to the car, there was little left to do but settle down by the riverside.
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