Not St.Michael’s Well

So, that was a bit more exciting than I anticipated…
I’ll write more after dinner …

… after dinner …
I think someone might have once said that the path of the well hunter rarely runs smoothly … can’t think why ; )

This well has lurked at the back, and occasionally front, of my mind on and off for a long time. 
Although I’d been looking it up in more detail recently, I hadn’t intended to seek it out today because the weather looked iffy. Instead I went to Carlisle to get some bits for my random brief rush of domestic creativity which may not amount to much. As I headed home the weather was much pleasanter than I had expected so I thought I’d do some preliminary scouting.

I think it might have also been said that well hunting can reach the parts that a famous beer can’t reach … It’s a well known fact … 

In spite of having lived here for many years and having trailed back and forth to Carlisle innumerable times this was an entirely unfamiliar area, off the beaten track but no distance from my usual routes. 
The path in was muddy after the recent rain, but, what a surprise… it was a beautiful little hidden gorge alongside a rather magical stream. The sunlight was shimmering on the cascading water, the whole place had a lost in time feel about it and at every turn there were elf cups.

Everything was going well but I was approaching the next bit which required a bit more navigating. Suddenly things were less clear, the fingerposts from the footpath signs had strangely gone walkabout and the terrain began to have that air of Deliverance about it. I went down what should have been the right route and it was full of pheasant feeders and barbed wire and there was no way through. I backtracked keeping a close eye out for man holy well hunter traps. I was about to give up and go back the way I had come when I saw another possible route. Before long I was in a quagmire. I picked my way through a jungle of scrub and, getting increasingly disorientated, I started to think I should have bought string to be able to retrace my steps. I heard the vultures buzzards circling overhead. 

Just as it all seemed hopeless the sunlight shone through, the way became clearer and I was on a path that felt sunken and ancient. There were no footprints; it felt as though no-one had passed this way for hundreds of years. The path led back down to the stream again but the promise of the stepping stones (that I had read about) faded and the stream was running fast and deep. I paced up and down looking for possibilities … hmmm … nope …
Finally, I bit the bullet and took my boots and socks off, rolled my trousers up and took some tentative steps. I quickly realised it was crazy. It was so cold I felt sick, I couldn’t see what I was walking into and I certainly couldn’t keep steady. As I dried off and put my boots back on the sun was still shining through but being in the steep sides of the little gorge I couldn’t see what was heading my way and in a second the skies darkened and there was the most terrific hail storm, followed by heavy snow. I legged it back concerned that wouldn’t be able to drive out along the little lanes. I bowled back through the Quagmire of the Lost Well Hunters and emerged battle weary and blood stained (from a puncture wound from grabbing a thorn tree as I slid). But, it was also rather lovely walking back through the woodland on a pristine snowy path rather than the muddy one I’d walked in on. The blip shows the contrast between heading in and the same path on the way back.
By the time I emerged from this strange portal it wasn’t too bad and I threaded my way back home.

I’ll be back (either another way in, when the river is lower, warmer, or with wellingtons!) … to be continued …