I have now finished my first full edit of my book and sent a sample to a publishers.
Here's a sample to (I hope) tickle your interest.
Contents
Dedication
Preface
Chapter One – Meeting the Boys
Chapter Two – From Pavement to Peaks
Chapter Three – Finding My Feet
Chapter Four – The First Wild Camp
Chapter Five – The Berwyn Baptism
Chapter Six – The Gift of Getting It Wrong
Chapter Seven – Back to Where It Began
Chapter Eight – The Call of the Lakes
Chapter Nine – First Steps by the Water
Chapter Ten – Highs and Valleys
Chapter Eleven – Hard Miles, Hidden Gems
Chapter Twelve – Heat, Hills, and One Unforgettable Poodle Adventure to Grasmere
Chapter Thirteen – Back to Where It All Began
Chapter Fourteen – Haystacks, Innominate Tarn, and the View I Once Couldn’t See
Chapter Fifteen – Closing the Lake District Chapter
Chapter Sixteen – The Poodle Packing List
Chapter Seventeen – Training for the Trails
Chapter Eighteen – The Weather Will Not Wait
Chapter Nineteen – The Magic Moments
Chapter Twenty – The Setbacks
Chapter Twenty One – Why We Keep Going
Authors Note
Acknowledgements
Sample Chapter
Chapter Fourteen – Haystacks, Innominate Tarn, and the View I Once Couldn’t See
Ten years ago, I stood on the opposite side of this valley in conditions that bordered on hostile. The weather was foul in the way only the Lake District can manage, cloud clinging so low that the fells simply vanished into it. Rain lashed sideways, stinging against my face, and the path was less a path and more a stream doing its best to drag me back down the slope. I remember trudging along, soaked through, boots squelching with every step, trying to imagine the views I could not see. I was tired, underprepared, and more than a little overwhelmed. At one point I stopped, looked up into the blank grey above me, and thought, people must be mad if they climb these fells for fun.
There was no poetry in it that day. No romance. Just weather, fatigue, and the quiet question of why I had thought this was a good idea.
Fast forward a decade, and here I was again, standing in the same valley, but in a different season of my life. The sky was wide and clear. Sunlight poured down onto the slopes, and the fells stood sharp and defined against a blue that seemed almost theatrical in its generosity. Instead of battling wind and rain alone, I had Teddy and Buddy beside me, tails already in motion, entirely unaware that this place once represented struggle rather than joy.
It felt like returning to a conversation that had been left unfinished.
We set out from Honister Mines, the slate buildings sitting stark and industrial against the softness of the surrounding hills. There is something grounding about beginning a climb in a place shaped so clearly by human effort. It reminds you that the landscape has always demanded work from those who move through it. The boys trotted ahead confidently, paws light on the gravel track, occasionally glancing back as if to make sure I was keeping up.
The climb began steadily, not brutally at first, but with enough incline to remind you that you were leaving the valley behind. I adjusted the pack on my shoulders and settled into rhythm. Teddy found his natural pace beside me, measured and thoughtful as ever. Buddy zigzagged between rocks, nose down, convinced that every scent was a story waiting to be deciphered.
Before long we reached the first of the bothys, Dubs Hut.
Dubs Hut is small and sturdy, tucked quietly into the hillside, almost easy to miss if you are not looking for it. It is not grand or romanticised in any way. It is practical, functional, and wonderfully simple. The kind of place you half expect to find a kettle already boiling on a stove and a stranger ready to offer you a mug of tea. The door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, and the boys slipped inside with immediate curiosity.
Teddy conducted a slow inspection of the interior, nose tracing the edges of the walls, as though assessing whether this structure met his standards. Buddy darted from corner to corner, investigating every shadow and crevice, convinced we had stumbled into something important. Their enthusiasm made me smile. There is something comforting about these mountain shelters. They represent shared understanding, a quiet agreement among walkers that sometimes the hills require refuge rather than bravado.
I stood for a moment inside Dubs Hut, looking out through the doorway at the sunlit valley beyond. Ten years ago I would have given anything for a roof like this, even briefly. Today, it was simply part of the journey, a welcome pause rather than a necessity. That shift did not feel like arrogance. It felt like growth.
From Dubs Hut we continued upward towards WarnscaleBothy.
Warnscale sits in a position that feels almost theatrical. It is modest in size, but what makes it unforgettable is the famous window that frames Buttermere perfectly. When we reached it and stepped inside, I walked straight to that opening without thinking. The view was everything I had imagined a decade earlier and more. Buttermere shimmered in the distance, cradled by ridges that rolled away in layered greens and blues. The sunlight caught the water just enough to make it sparkle without glare.
I stood there for a long while, silent, letting that view settle properly. Ten years ago this entire scene had been erased by mist. I had walked somewhere out there in blind faith, convinced that the stories of beauty were exaggerated. To finally see it laid out before me felt like uncovering a secret I had been waiting years to glimpse.
Teddy sat beside me, gaze steady, as if appreciating the significance of the moment in his own way. Buddy, less contemplative, attempted to jump up at the window ledge before thinking better of it and returning to investigate the floorboards. His priorities are different, but no less valid.Standing in Warnscale Bothy, I realised that the difference between then and now was not simply the weather. It was the pace at which I moved through the day. Ten years ago I had rushed almost angrily, as if speed might compensate for discomfort. I walked with tension in my shoulders and irritation in my thoughts. I did not stop to absorb anything because stopping felt like weakness.
Now I lingered.
I ran my fingers along the cool stone beside the window. I watched the boys move through the small room as if it were their own discovery. I let the view settle without trying to capture it. There is a quiet maturity in learning that not every beautiful moment needs to be seized. Some simply need to be sat with.
Outside again, the slope rose more steeply, and the path became less defined. The ground underfoot shifted into broken rock and slate. The wind lifted slightly higher up, brushing the grass into soft waves. Buddy forged ahead, scrambling enthusiastically, occasionally glancing back to check I was following his chosen line. Teddy stayed closer now, the gradient enough to warrant careful footing.
I clipped their leads on briefly where the path narrowed along a rocky section. Not because I feared recklessness they have never slipped, never lunged foolishly but because responsibility sits quietly beneath every good day in the hills. I would never forgive myself for a preventable mistake. The small click of a carabiner against my strap is a sound that brings reassurance rather than restriction.
When the ground widened again, I let them free. They flowed forward instantly, tails up, small bodies weaving between rocks and grass.
There is something deeply humbling about watching dogs in terrain like this. They do not intellectualise it. They do not measure achievement. They simply exist within it fully. And in doing so, they quietly teach you how to do the same.
Leaving Warnscale felt like stepping beyond shelter and into something more open. The path from there climbs steadily onto Haystacks itself. Haystacks is not the tallest of fells, nor the most imposing, but it is packed with character. Alfred Wainwright chose this place as his final resting ground, and walking there with that knowledge adds a quiet layer of reverence. This is not a mountain that overwhelms with scale. It draws you in with intricacy.
Crags rise unexpectedly from the slope. Little tarns appear between rocky outcrops. The paths wind and split and rejoin, inviting exploration rather than dictating a single line. It feels less like ascending a peak and more like wandering through a landscape designed to reward curiosity.
Buddy embraced that fully. He scrambled over rocks with cheerful determination, hopping up onto boulders that are far taller than he was. Teddy moved more carefully, picking his way through the uneven ground with the calm assurance of experience. Watching them navigate this terrain filled me with a quiet pride. They were not simply accompanying me. They were part of the landscape, small but confident presences moving through a place that suited them perfectly.
The climb never became punishing, but it asked for attention. Haystacks is not a place for mindless walking. You have to choose your footing, read the ground, and accept that progress will sometimes be slower than expected. I liked that. It kept me present.
By late afternoon we reached Innominate Tarn.
There are few places in the Lakes that hold such understated significance. Innominate Tarn is not vast or dramatic. It does not shout for attention. It sits quietly near the summit, reflecting whatever sky it is given. That day, it reflected blue.
The water was perfectly still when we arrived, the surface acting like polished glass. The surrounding slopes were mirrored so clearly that it felt as though the world had folded in on itself. I walked to the edge and stood there for a moment, letting the breeze brush lightly across my face. Ten years ago I had been somewhere out there, hidden by cloud. Now I was here, under open sky, with two small dogs weaving around my legs.
I chose a pitch a short distance from the tarn, careful to keep enough space to respect the place. The tent went up smoothly, muscle memory taking over as poles slid into place and pegs found firm ground. Teddy lay down almost immediately once the inner was set, claiming his corner with quiet authority. Buddy circled twice before flopping down dramatically, clearly satisfied with our choice of accommodation.
We then wandered up to the summit of Haystacks, leaving our home for the night behind. Near the summit area, Haystacks becomes almost maze-like. It does not present a single clear peak but rather a collection of high points, ridges, and scattered pools. It feels like a landscape designed by someone who disliked straight lines.
I wandered deliberately.
There is no rush on Haystacks. You can move between rock clusters, sit by unnamed tarns, follow faint tracks that seem to exist purely because someone else once walked there and thought, this feels right.
At one small pool, Buddy leaned forward to peer at his reflection, then barked once at the dog staring back. Teddy ignored the spectacle entirely, choosing instead to settle briefly on a flat rock, chest rising steadily, eyes half-closed in contentment.
It struck me then why Wainwright might have loved this place so deeply. It is not about scale here. It is about intimacy. Every corner offers something small and quietly remarkable. A shift in rock colour. A pocket of unexpected stillness. A tarn that appears only when you step a little further.
Standing there, looking across the intricate folds of land, I felt none of the pressure to reach the “highest point.” The whole fell felt like the point.
Ten years ago I had walked somewhere beneath this ridge, soaked and impatient. I had wanted a summit and a photograph and an end to the rain. Now I wanted none of those things. I wanted time.
The wind moved gently across the rocks. The air smelled faintly of warm grass and distant water. I realised that the hills had not changed in ten years. My expectations had.
As evening approached, the light softened. The orange of the sun began to stretch across the hills, turning the rocks warm and golden. The sky shifted gradually from bright blue to deeper shades, and the surface of the tarn responded in kind, changing colour with every passing minute. I cooked dinner slowly on the stove, the gentle hiss of gas and the smell of warm food mixing with the clean scent of grass and water.
After dinner, I walked slowly to the edge of the tarn while the boys followed. The surface held the last light of day like a secret. When I crouched and dipped my hand into the water, the cold surprised me, sharp and clean. It felt grounding in a way that only mountain water can.
Buddy sniffed at the edge but declined to get his paws wet. Teddy stood a little back, watching both of us as though ensuring we were not about to make foolish decisions.
As the sky deepened into violet, I felt the familiar quiet that comes only with wild camping. There is no background hum. No distant traffic. No low electrical buzz. The world simplifies itself to essentials: breath, wind, water, heartbeat.
I sat back on my small chair outside the tent, the boys jumped onto my lap. Teddy leaned his shoulder gently into my chest. Buddy rested his chin briefly on my knee before curling in tighter.
It is difficult to explain the intimacy of those moments without sounding sentimental. But there is no other word for it. You strip life down to what you can carry. Shelter. Food. Warmth. Company. And suddenly the layers of complication fall away.
Ten years ago I would have measured success by distance covered. Now I measured it by stillness achieved.
The stars appeared gradually. One. Then three. Then a scatter. The sky over Haystacks was clear enough to reveal faint constellations. I lay back briefly on the grass, hands behind my head, and watched them emerge.
I wondered what that younger version of me would think if he could see this. Would he believe that the same valley that drenched him in rain would one day offer this gentleness? Would he recognise himself in the man lying under open sky with two poodles breathing softly beside him?
Perhaps not.
But that is the point of return. You revisit places not just to see them differently, but to see yourself differently within them.
There is a particular stillness that arrives in the hills at that time of day. Not silence exactly, but a reduction. Movement slows. Sound thins. Even Buddy’s usual restless energy softened into quiet observation. He sat on me, ears alert, as though aware that this moment required less chaos and more attention. I felt something that had nothing to do with achievement and everything to do with belonging. Not ownership, not conquest, just belonging.
Later, as darkness settled fully, the temperature dipped enough to encourage us inside the tent. I lay back in my sleeping bag, listening to the faint lapping of water and the occasional whisper of wind over grass. Teddy curled close to my side, warm and reassuring. Buddy shifted once or twice before finally settling, one paw resting lightly against my ankle.
I thought again of that younger version of myself, trudging through rain, convinced that these hills were something to endure rather than embrace. I wished I could tell him that the weather would not always be hostile, that patience and return visits would change everything. That the Lake District reveals itself slowly, sometimes over years rather than hours.
In the tent, as the temperature dropped and the world quietened fully, I became aware of how safe it felt. Not safe in a dramatic sense, but secure. The tent fabric rustled lightly in the breeze. Teddy’s breathing was slow and steady against my side. Buddy shifted once, a soft sigh escaping him before he settled completely.
The memory of that rain-soaked day flickered through my mind again, but this time it carried no irritation. Only distance.
Back then I thought the hills were unwelcoming.
Now I understood they were simply honest.
They offer what they offer. Mist one day. Clarity the next. It is up to us to meet them often enough to experience both.
Wrapped in a sleeping bag, with two small dogs pressed close, I felt something that had been absent ten years earlier.
Contentment.
Morning came gently. The sky lightened without drama, and when I unzipped the tent the tarn lay calm once more, pale in the early light. There is something deeply satisfying about waking high in the hills and knowing you have nowhere urgent to be. I brewed coffee and sat quietly while the boys stretched and yawned, their fur catching the morning sun.
Packing up felt unhurried. There was no scramble to escape weather, no pressure to descend quickly. The walk back down traced a slightly different line, offering fresh angles on familiar slopes. As we descended, the valley opened again, Buttermere visible in the distance, this time fully understood.
At one point I stopped and looked back toward Haystacks and Innominate Tarn, now small and distant. The memory of the previous day felt solid already, fixed in place. Ten years ago, I had thought people must be mad to climb these fells for fun. Now I understood something different. It is not madness that draws you back. It is the possibility that the hills will show you another version of themselves, and of yourself, each time you return.
On the descent, the path revealed new angles on familiar ground. Sunlight caught the ridges differently. Buttermere shimmered more brightly than it had the day before. The valley no longer felt like a challenge to overcome but a space to move through with ease.
I found myself talking softly to the boys as we walked. Not instructions. Just commentary. “Look at that view.” “Nearly back now.” “Good lads.”
Teddy trotted steadily, occasionally moving a little ahead, occasionally falling back beside me. Buddy zigzagged enthusiastically, pausing only when a scent demanded deeper investigation.
Halfway down, I stopped and turned to look back again.
Haystacks did not dominate the skyline in farewell. It folded gently into the surrounding fells. But I knew something had shifted permanently.
Ten years ago I had walked away thinking I did not belong here.
Now I walked away knowing I did.
The view I once could not see had finally revealed itself, not just in weather, but in perspective.
And sharing that shift with Teddy and Buddy made it warmer than any summit could have.
As we dropped lower and the slate track widened again, Dubs Hut came back into view. This time it was not quiet.
A group of around twelve younger lads were spilling out of the doorway, music playing from a small speaker somewhere inside, the tinny rhythm bouncing off stone walls. Beer cans clattered into rucksacks, laughter echoed down the slope, and the whole hut felt briefly like a festival tent rather than a mountain shelter.
For a split second I smiled at the noise of it all.
Twenty years ago, perhaps even fifteen, that might have been exactly my kind of thing. Loud company. Shared cans. The easy camaraderie of being young enough to treat the hills as backdrop rather than sanctuary. There is nothing wrong with that stage. It has its own energy, its own joy.
But standing there now, with Teddy steady at my side and Buddy weaving between my boots, I felt something different.
Relief.
Relief that we had gone higher. Relief that our night had been quiet, held only by wind and water and stars. Relief that the music I had fallen asleep to was the soft ripple of Innominate Tarn rather than a bassline bouncing off stone.
The lads clocked the pack immediately.
“Where’ve you come from?” one of them asked, eyeing the rolled mat and tent straps.
“We camped up by Innominate Tarn,” I replied pointing and gesturing upwards and further along.
There was a moment of surprised silence, then a ripple of impressed whistles and raised eyebrows.
“On your own?”
“With these two,” I said, nodding toward Teddy and Buddy.
They looked genuinely impressed. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Curious.
“Was it good?”
“It was brilliant,” I said honestly. “You should try it sometime. Head a bit further up. It’s worth it.”
They nodded, half serious, half amused, but something in their expressions suggested the idea had landed.
As we moved past them and continued down toward Honister, I found myself thinking about how quietly life shifts. There was no judgement in me, only recognition. I have been in loud rooms. I have chased noise. I have mistaken volume for connection.
These days, I prefer the quiet.
Not because I have grown old, but because I have grown certain.
The hills are big enough to hold both kinds of nights. But I am grateful that, this time, I chose the one with stars.
Haystacks and Innominate Tarn gave me one of the best wild camps I have had so far. Not because it was extreme or dramatic, but because it felt like a quiet reconciliation. The view I once could not see had finally revealed itself. And sharing it with Teddy and Buddy made it not just memorable, but meaningful.
Some days the Lake District gives you mist and rain and asks you to imagine what lies beyond. Other days it opens fully, offering clarity and light as if in reward for patience. The trick, I am learning, is to return often enough to experience both.
Buddy Says
“So, we climbed rocks. Then more rocks. Then even more rocks. There were puddles that looked like the sky. There were smells that were at least three hundred years old. Dad kept stopping and staring at the view like it might run away. I checked all the rocks personally to make sure they were safe. Also the bothys. Also the tarn. Very thorough inspection work from me. Ten out of ten adventure. Would camp again. Maybe bring more chicken next time.”
Teddy Says
“The hut was acceptable. The second hut had a good window. I approved of that. The higher we went, the quieter it became, which I prefer. Dad seemed thoughtful at the tarn. I stayed close. It is important to supervise humans when they become reflective. Overall, solid performance. Good pace. Good stillness. Very little nonsense.”
🐾 Pawprints on the Path – Haystacks & Innominate Tarn
Start Point: Honister Mines
Parking available at Honister Slate Mine. The climb begins almost immediately from the car park.
Route: Honister → Dubs Hut → Warnscale Bothy → Haystacks summit area → Innominate Tarn (wild camp) → return via same route
Distance: Approximately 6–7 miles depending on how much you wander around the summit plateau
Terrain: Rocky, uneven ground with steady ascent from Honister. Some narrow sections and light scrambling near the summit area. Multiple small tarns and boggier patches after rain.
Highlights:
• Dubs Hut – small, simple, atmospheric mountain shelter
• Warnscale Bothy – the famous window framing Buttermere
• Haystacks summit area – intricate, characterful terrain
• Innominate Tarn – one of the most peaceful wild camp spots in the Lakes
Dog Notes:
Open ground for confident dogs, but use leads where paths narrow or near steeper drops. Watch for sheep. Carry water in warm weather as streams higher up can be unreliable in dry spells.
Why We Loved It:
Not the highest fell. Not the hardest climb. But one of the most meaningful. A return to a place once walked in frustration, now experienced in stillness
Please do leave a comment below, I would love to know your thoughts.
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