Over the Fells and Far Away

Travelling with pack ponies across the Lake District fells

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It is a warm summer's evening when I meet Tom and his Fell ponies in the English Lake District, home to this native mountain breed. Together with four fellow travellers and mountain guide Sue, I am about to spend two days crossing the hills around Haweswater, one of the quieter corners of the north-eastern Lake District. Tom's sturdy pack ponies will carry everything we need for our time in the mountains.

As we settle into camp, the ponies quietly graze the lush meadow beside us while a clear beck flows past the tents and the fells rise gently beyond. Some of my fellow travellers have little or no experience with ponies. "That doesn't matter," Tom says, "this is a hike with ponies, not a riding holiday. You don't need any experience to come along." Not everyone looks entirely convinced. "By the end of the trek," he says reassuringly, "you'll feel completely at ease with your pony."

"With the sound of grazing ponies and the beck flowing gently past the meadow, everyday life feels very far away."

Hardy Ponies

Dinner is cooked over the fire while Tom talks about the ponies that have shaped his life. Nearly thirty years ago he took over his father's herd, but the story began much earlier. "My father
wanted ponies that could live out in the hills and look after themselves. In 1957 he bought two Fell mares. Those two ponies became the foundation of everything we have today."

The Fell pony has been part of these hills for centuries. Hardy, sure-footed and remarkably strong for its size, it once carried everything from wool and slate to dairy produce across the mountains, long before proper roads reached these remote valleys. “This was often the only way to transport goods through the landscape,” Tom explains.

As darkness settles over the valley, the conversation drifts from ponies to the Lake District and tomorrow's way over the fells. One by one everyone disappears into their tents. With the quiet sound of grazing ponies and the beck flowing gently past the meadow, everyday life already feels very far away.

Into the Fells

The next morning begins with hot coffee, breakfast and an introduction to the ponies. One by one, the packs are carefully balanced and secured before we set off.

"They're incredibly strong," Tom says. "Each pony can comfortably carry up to forty-five kilograms of pack. Today they're carrying much less than that."

As we start our trek into the wild the four pack ponies quietly fall into line, led by their new walking companions. We cross the beck before climbing steadily through woodland. Soon the trees give way to open country and the landscape unfolds around us. The sun is already warm as we leave the last narrow lane behind and enter Swindale, a secluded valley framed by fells. Following an old track through tall grasses and wildflowers, it isn't difficult to imagine travellers with pack ponies making this same journey hundreds of years ago.

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The evening before, Tom had shown us an old bell that once belonged to a working pack pony. "Groups of as many as twelve ponies would travel together," he says. "The lead pony wore a bell around its neck. It warned wildlife that the pony-train was approaching, making it less likely that something would suddenly burst from the undergrowth and frighten the ponies." Then Tom suddenly points ahead. "See the waterfalls? That's where we'll stop for lunch."

The packs and boxes are removed from the backs of the ponies before leading them to the beck for a well-earned drink. We sit beside the waterfall, boots kicked off, while the ponies graze nearby. Lunch is simple but generous: crusty bread, English cheeses, fresh fruit, homemade soup and, of course, tea.

Afterwards, everyone helps pack everything away before cooling off in one of the clear pools beneath the waterfall. The water is icy cold, but on a hot summer's day nobody seems to mind. After our dip in the beck, the ponies are loaded once again and we set off into the wild.

“Pack ponies once carried wool, slate and dairy produce, this was the only way to transport goods across these remote hills.”

Into the Wilderness

As the afternoon light softens, we climb higher towards Mosedale, where the landscape becomes wilder and the paths narrower. Long grasses brush against our legs and the ground underfoot grows softer. "Watch where you're walking," Tom says. "Some of these patches can be boggy. If a pony gets stuck, we have to get the packs off as quickly as possible." Fortunately the ground holds, although a few cautious steps suggest we're all imagining what might happen if it didn't.

We walk steadily through the wilderness in the late afternoon sun. Then Tom stops and looks towards the hillside. "There," he says, pointing high above us. "There's a herd of red deer." Tiny against the vast green slopes, at least 50 deer move slowly across the hillside before disappearing beyond the skyline.

By the end of the day, we make camp in the wilderness. There is plenty of grass for the ponies to graze and a clear beck where they can drink. We pitch our tents and the ponies settle down for the night.

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There are still a handful of semi-wild herds living on the fells, but they are disappearing."

A Living Link to History

Dinner is cooked over a small charcoal stove. Tom prepares a Middle Eastern stir-fry, served with warm flatbreads. “Do you enjoy cooking?” I ask him. “I cook exactly the same thing on every trek,” he confesses. After dinner we wash the dishes in the beck. Over one last mug of tea the conversation turns once more to the ponies.

"There are still a handful of semi-wild herds living on the fells," Tom says. "But they're disappearing. Every semi-wild herd belongs to someone, usually a farmer. Most farmers that keep ponies are growing older, and there is no longer a practical need for working ponies. Modern farming has replaced much of what they once did, while changing regulations make it increasingly difficult to keep them living freely on the fells.” He pauses for a moment. "They've always belonged to this landscape," he says. "If they disappear, we lose a living link with the history of these fells.”

Before turning in, I take one last look across the valley. Behind the quietly grazing ponies, a small herd of red deer grazes in the last golden light of the day.

The Journey Back

The following morning, we wake to a very different world. Grey clouds hang low over the fells and the ponies stand with their backs to the wind, sheltering from the rain. The grey weather reveals another side to the mountains, but the low-hanging grey clouds suit the landscape. Hot coffee and blueberry porridge soon lift everyone's spirits. Before long, the tents are packed away and the ponies are loaded once more, patiently waiting while Tom checks that every strap is secure. "It's always nice to see how quickly people build a bond with their pony," he says. "By the end of the trek, they've become a real team."

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"With every climb, another breathtaking view opens up across the fells."

"Three climbs and three descents before we reach easier ground," Tom warns us. "If your pony wants to go faster, or the path becomes too narrow, just let it find its own way." The weather may have changed, but the ponies remain as calm and sure-footed as ever. They pick their way over rocky paths, splash through becks and carefully negotiate the steeper sections, seemingly knowing exactly where to place every hoof.

With every climb, another breathtaking view opens up across the fells until suddenly Haweswater appears below us, stretching out between the fells. The view over the reservoir is spectacular.

We stop for one final picnic lunch before beginning the descent towards Naddle Farm. "My last hour with Boo," Fiona, one of my fellow travelers, says quietly, resting her arm across her pony's neck as they walk side by side with a loose rope between them. It is a simple gesture, but it says everything about the bond that has grown over the past two days.

Back at the farm, the packs come off for the last time. "One to tick off the bucket list," someone says. I smile to myself. That sounds far too final. Some journeys deserve to be made more than once, and wandering the fells and discovering their ponies feels very much like one of them.

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