First scaled by a shepherd and eulogised by Wordsworth, Pillar Rock is a mountain cathedral that lured a Victorian vicar to his demise. It holds an enduring allure for climbers, but Wainwright declares it out-of-bounds for walkers. I enlist the help of a mountaineering & climbing instructor to get me to the top.
“You see yon precipice—it almost looks
William Wordsworth
Like some vast building made of many crags,
And in the midst is one particular rock
That rises like a column from the vale,
Whence by our Shepherds it is call’d, the Pillar.”
Mariner’s Mourning
In his poem, The Brothers, William Wordsworth tells the tragic tale of a mariner named Leonard, who returns to his home in Ennerdale to discover his beloved brother, James has died after falling from the top of Pillar Rock. Flushed with the success of his ascent, James had stretched out on the summit heath and fallen asleep, but his tendency to sleepwalk—a habit developed many years before, while pining for his seafaring brother—proved his literal downfall.
The poem was published in 1800, in Vol II of the Lyrical Ballads. In his notes, Wordsworth claims his inspiration came from a story told to him in the valley. If true, it would be the first known ascent of Pillar Rock, the dramatic freestanding outcrop from which Pillar Mountain takes its name. Sadly, Wordsworth’s ballad is the only written record.
Shepherd’s Delight
“An isolated crag on the breast of a mountain flanking one of the most desolate of our Lake District dales. The very remoteness of its surroundings, as well as the apparent inaccessibility of its summit, no doubt fascinated as well as awed the shepherds.” So wrote H. M. Kelly in the 1923 guide to Pillar Rock he produced for the Fell and Rock Climbing Club. The first verified ascent, in 1826, was indeed by a shepherd and cooper, named John Atkinson. Rock climbing had long been a technique used by mountaineers to reach a summit, but during the nineteenth century, it evolved into a sport in its own right. Kelly recognises Atkinson’s feat as “the first seed”.
And that seed bore fruit. The same year, three more shepherds, J. Colebank, W. Tyson, and J. Braithwaite followed in Atkinson’s footsteps, and in 1870, Miss A. Barker became the first woman to make the climb. The second was Mary Westmorland, who climbed the rock in 1873 with her brothers, Thomas and Edward (best known for building the Westmorland Cairn on Great Gable). But Thomas’s subsequent report in the Whitehaven News provoked a sniffy but anonymous rebuttal:
“(I read) With incredulous amazement, the rhythmical account of an alleged ascent of the Pillar by two gentlemen and a lady, that in all probability what the Westmorland party climbed was not the Pillar Rock but Pillar Mountain a route which did not involve rock climbing to the summit”.
The Westmorlands were incensed, but their claim was soon verified when their friend and accomplished climber, George Seatree performed his own ascent. Seatree found a bottle on the summit containing the names of those distinguished individuals who had reached the spot before him. Thomas, Edward, and Mary were on the list.
The Patriarch of The Pillarites
The anonymous correspondent consequently broke cover and retracted his remark. He was a retired clergyman and veteran of the Battle of Waterloo, named James Jackson. Jackson was an enthusiastic fellwalker with a talent was for self-aggrandisement. Some years before, while serving as Vicar of Rivington, he gained a level of local fame (or notoriety) when the weather cock blew off the church. Local steeple jacks refused to make the climb, so Jackson took it on himself to do so, successfully scaling the spire and repairing the weathervane. The act divided his congregation, some applauded his courage while others condemned it as foolhardy. Jackson of course subscribed to the former view and penned a short verse for the local paper:
“Who has not heard of Steeple Jack,
That lion-hearted Saxon,
Though I am not he, he was my sire,
For I am Steeple Jackson”
Jackson had set his heart on Pillar Rock but must have imagined it beyond his abilities. As an incorrigible chauvinist, he clearly took umbrage at being upstaged by Mary, but now saw an opportunity to distinguish himself as the eldest person to conquer the Pillar. He wrote to George Seatree asking him to be his guide, but Seatree refused. Undeterred, Jackson sought the guidance of a climber named John Hodgson, who took the seventy-nine-year-old to the summit via the Slab and Notch route. Jackson duly proclaimed himself, to anyone who would listen, The Patriarch of the Pillarites.
Hallowed Ground
By the late 1800’s, rock climbing had gained significant popularity, spearheaded by such notable pioneers as W P Haskett Smith, John Robinson, and Owen Glynne Jones. Jones’s book, Rock-Climbing in the English Lake District became a bestseller. The book was published and illustrated by climbers and photographers, George and Ashley Abraham, who accompanied Jones on many of his exploits. In the W. M. Crook memoir that prefaces the second edition, George Abraham recalls:
“Two climbs with Mr. Jones are most strongly impressed on our memories, and these two would probably rank as the two finest rock climbs made in our district. These are the Scawfell Pinnacle from the second pitch in Deep Ghyll in 1896, and the conquest of the well known Walker’s Gully on the Pillar Rock in January 1899. Both of these were generally considered impossible.”
Scafell Pinnacle and Pillar Rock demand a similar reverence. Jones said of Pillar Rock, “It springs up vertically from the steep fellside like a cathedral-front 500 feet high”. Wainwright described Scafell Pinnacle and its surrounding crags as a great cathedral. Each is buttressed by an easily scrambled rock called Pisgah, which takes the aspiring climber to within spitting distance of the true prize, only to find they are separated from it by a sheer drop, called the Jordan Gap. The common names for these distinct features are inspired by the book of Deuteronomy, where God leads Moses to the top of Mount Pisgah and points across the River Jordan to the Promised Land.
Out of Bounds
Pillar Rock exerts an enduring allure for climbers and scramblers, but Wainwright declares it out-of-bounds for walkers—which presents a problem for anyone hoping to complete the Birketts. Bill Birkett’s guidebook, The Complete Lakeland Fells presents a list of Lakeland peaks over 1000 feet. They include 211 of the Wainwrights and 330 additional smaller summits. But there’s a sting in the tail. Birkett was a mountaineer who thought nothing of including Pillar Rock.
Fortunately, mountaineering & climbing instructors like Graham Uney offer roped and guided scrambles to fellwalkers who are ready to step out of their comfort zone. Last year, I climbed Pinnacle Ridge on St Sunday Crag with Graham, and this year, I signed up for Pillar Rock.
Plans seldom survive contact with the weather, and the persistent threat of thunderstorms has meant we have had to reschedule three times. Sadly, my friend Nikki Knappett, who accompanied us on Pinnacle Ridge, has had to drop out. Finally, with the first week of September heralding the return of warm sunshine, we are able to fix a date for the Wednesday.
Pillar Rock – The Mountain Cathedral
In the meantime, my friend, John Fleetwood gets in touch. John is an accomplished scrambler, who has revised the Cicerone scrambling guides to the Lakes. He is also a brilliant photographer who deeply understands the spiritual rapport we develop with wild places. He has just published a book called Beyond the View, in which he gives full expression to this sense of rapture. It contains a chapter which presents mountains as nature’s cathedrals. John knows I am due to climb Pillar Rock with Graham and asks if I would like to go and have a look at it in advance. To him, like Owen Glynne Jones, it is a mountain cathedral, but to fully appreciate its awe-inspiring countenance, we should approach it the way Jones and Wordsworth describe. From below. From Ennerdale.
We park at Gatesgarth and climb Scarth Gap in early sun, Buttermere a tranquil mirror reflecting the chiselled majesty of Goat Crag. As we start to descend into Ennerdale, we fork right on a well-maintained path to cross the River Liza at a footbridge. As we enter the trees to start our ascent, the upward slope is severe, and the countenance of the walk abruptly changes from an amiable summer ramble to unforgiving slog. Pillar Rock is over 1000 ft above us, and to reach its foot is itself a challenge.
John is a natural mountain hare. His pace doesn’t slacken. I fall behind and the order of the day is established—the hare’s swift legs will carry him far ahead, only to pause periodically to let his tortoise companion catch up.
Beyond the trees are stiff slopes of scree and stone, but with necks craned, the Rock towers into view above, an intimidating and awesome spectacle. Nervous anticipation serves as fuel to twinging calves, and the demanding terrain begins to feel like a quest or a pilgrimage—a test of our commitment.
Eventually, we reach its foot. A low rampart hugs the foot of the sheer northern cliff. Kelly calls it The Green Ledge. Above the ledge, slender plates of jagged slate rise skyward in a vertical array of niches and jutting icons, abstract and organic, vast and awe-inspiring, reinforcing the impression of an immense savage cathedral. It is daunting and humbling, and I feel my pulse quicken. And we can’t even see the top! This is the muscular buttress of Low Man. High Man, the summit, is set further back and not visible from this angle.
Walker’s Gully
We track round to the left where dolorous cleft of Walker’s Gully splits Pillar Rock from Shamrock, so named as from the east it appears to be part of the Pillar but is divided from it from it by a hollowed amphitheatre, a wide funnel of scree dropping into this sheer, narrow, dark and dank gully. Walker’s Gully is a highly misleading moniker. Could anywhere be less walker-friendly? Indeed, it is named after an unfortunate young man who fell here in 1883. Jones made this ascent in 1899, deep in winter and after days of torrential rain. His party were obliged to stand under an icy waterfall, and Jones had to remove his boots to climb out of a cave through a narrow hole in the roof. Standing barefoot in the snow nearly gave him frostbite. Despite his immense achievement, Jones’s chief account of Pillar Rock is of seconding John Robinson on an assault of the formidable north face. The Walker’s Gully report is included as an appendix, penned by George Abraham. Jones never got the chance to write it himself. He died some months later in an accident on Dent Blanche in the Swiss Alps. The second edition of his book was published posthumously.
The Old West Route (as a Spectator)
We track beneath the Green Ledge and climb the steep slopes on the western side on a sketchy sheep trod. John perches on a rock and gazes up at the west face, High Man now towering above us like a jagged pyramid.
“Are you going up?” I ask.
“Thinking about it,” he replies. “Do you want to give it a go?”
He points out the line of the Old West Route (the way Atkinson ascended nearly 200 years ago). It looks doable, but it disappears on to Low Man, and John tells me it gets trickier after that. We don’t have a rope, so I would have to be sure I could get down again. Eventually, I decide discretion is the better part of valour and decline. John picks his way up the diagonal rake, and I watch conflicted, my heart desperate to follow, but my legs relishing the rest. I watch climbers on the northern corner of the west face and soak up the astonishing power of this vast natural edifice. Eventually, I hear a shout and look up to see John waving from the top. His descent is more circumspect, and when he reaches the bottom, he tells me I made a good decision. The rock on this side has escaped the morning sun. It’s still very wet and much trickier than anticipated.
Slab and Notch
We work up the stiff scree beside Pisgah and make the comparatively easy scramble to its top. The top feels tantalisingly close to High Man, but a sheer drop to Jordan Gap and the formidable wall beyond bar progress. Down to the east, we watch climbers traversing a crack in a large sloping slab. John tells me this is the slab of the Slab and Notch route and points out the notch some way above it. This is the route I’ll be taking with Graham. It looks dry, and suddenly I can’t wait for Wednesday.
Mountain Memorials
When the day arrives, I meet Graham in the car park at Wasdale Head and we climb the path to Black Sail Pass, deep in conversation. The sky is clear, the sun is beating down, and it feels more like June than September. I’m parched by the time we reach Looking Stead, where we leave the main path to Pillar Summit and descend on to the High Level Traverse. This was the route popularised by John Robinson and his fellow Victorian climbers. Two thirds of the away along stands the Robinson Cairn, built in 1907 as a memorial to the great man by 100 of his comrades and friends.
At the eleventh hour, Jen Hellier has stepped in to take Nikki’s place, and she’s arranged to meet us here. She’s beaten us to it and is waiting when we arrive. After a brief chat, we set off for Great Doup (Pillar Cove on OS maps). Jen and Graham have both served with Mountain Rescue and are soon swapping anecdotes. I listen with deep interest and a burgeoning respect for the dedication involved. With the heat, our water bottles are already half depleted. Fortunately, Graham knows of a half-hidden spring. As he replenishes our supplies, I look around. Somewhere near here, there is an unobtrusive cross carved into the rock with the initials JJ. It was commissioned by John Robinson, Charles Baumgartner and one other in 1906. It commemorates James Jackson, who having succeeded in a second attempt to climb Pillar Rock, tragically fell to his death on a third. A cairn and iron cross erected on the spot where he was found were destroyed by storms, so the cross was conceived as an enduring memorial. The third commissioner was George Seatree, who, despite his initial misgivings, maintained a regular correspondence with Jackson and clearly warmed to him.
Hand to Rock
Ahead the cliffs of Shamrock rise like a wall, as yet indistinguishable from Pillar Rock itself. A broad sloping pavement cuts across, rising diagonally. This is the Shamrock Traverse. When we reach the far end, the sham is revealed. The broad sloping dish of the amphitheatre separates Shamrock from the much larger Pillar, which now looms above.
We stash our rucksacks at the base of Pisgah, refuel with a quick snack, and retrieve the rope, climbing racks and harnesses. It’s time to tackle Slab and Notch.
We descend into the amphitheatre. The way is steep and loose, and I accidentally dislodge a stone, prompting a tongue-in-cheek rebuke from Jen. When, to my shame, I do it again, she names me the Phantom Rock Slinger. We scramble up to the start of our climb. There are two ways on to the Slab. The first is easier, but then requires working down the Slab. Graham would find it hard to protect us with a rope this way, so he opts for climbing an 8 ft cleft in the wall. It’s somewhat daunting as to the right is a sheer drop, but we rope up and once on belay, we follow his lead, Jen going second and me last. As soon as we put hand to rock, the sense of exhilaration soars, and we’re already buzzing as we step out on to the Slab and start to traverse the crack, now performing the manoeuvre I watched from Pisgah, four days earlier.
The Notch is high above us, and we watch Graham scale the rocky shoulder that leads up to it. Jen has a little climbing experience, which makes me the out-and-out novice. I relish the opportunity to learn and watch how Jen deftly tackles the same moves. Hand and foot holds are plentiful and soon, we are climbing through the gap to join Graham on the ledge beyond. We traverse around a corner to a smooth rock beneath a vertical wall. Graham walks straight over it, while Jen tracks below for better handholds—it takes her right out on the edge. Lacking Graham’s balance and Jen’s courage, I opt for walking over, my palms pressed against the wall in the hope of staying stable. The next pitch is a rocky ladder. We attach ourselves to the cam Graham has wedged in the rock and watch as he climbs and disappears from view.
A minute or two later, we hear him exclaim, “Oh no, oh no!”
We look at each other in alarm, but Jen is perceptive, and her expression changes to one of recognition.
“That’s not ‘oh no, there’s something wrong’”, she suggests. “It’s ‘oh no, there’s something unpleasant’”.
A minute later, we hear Graham’s voice, “Someone’s had a poo up here!”
I don’t know whether I’m relieved or revulsed. Then I realise it’s both simultaneously. We climb the rocks above with an uneasy sense of anticipation and arrive at a natural alcove, big enough for the three of us to stand in a circle, only there is a tiny cairn in its midst—Graham’s commendable attempt to bury the unwelcome human offering—presumably an involuntary reaction to the significant exposure. I clamber onto a rocky shelf to give us all more room and look up. The contents of the cairn are forgotten instantly as I take in just where we are. Vaulting walls of rock reach skyward, a cavernous gully—the nave of the great savage cathedral.
Our onward route lies along a narrow ledge and up the final craggy staircase to the summit. As Jen seeks out holds for the final climb, she turns to me and says exactly what is going through my own mind, “I don’t want this to end”.
The summit is unexpectedly broad and grassy, and the views are utterly edifying. Wispy strands of cirrus fleck a deep blue sky over the mottled green of High Stile and the darker distant peaks of Newlands and Coledale. While Graham secures a rope to lower us into Jordan Gap before our final scramble up and over Pisgah, Jen and I wander round enrapt, drinking it all in. It would take a lot of bottles to hold the names of all those who’ve made this ascent since Seatree’s time, but it still feels as if we’ve joined a select band; and the experience, though tame by the standards of Atkinson or Jones, or Fleetwood and Uney, is something that will stick with me forever.
Info / Sources / Further Reading
Find Graham Uney on Facebook at:
https://www.facebook.com/grahamuneymountaineering
… or through his website:
https://www.grahamuneymountaineering.co.uk/classic-scrambles
John Fleetwood’s book, Beyond the View is a beautiful and thought-provoking exploration of our spiritual rapport with wild places. It is available here:
H. M. Kelly’s guide to Pillar Rock and Neighbouring Climbs can be found in PDF form here:
Frank Grant on Footless Crow and Raymond Greenhow on Scafell Hike have both written fascinating and detailed pieces on the Reverend James Jackson. Both are well worth a read:
Footless Crow:
http://footlesscrow.blogspot.com/2015/03/the-pillarite-patriarch.html?m=1
Scafell Hike:
https://scafellhike.blogspot.com/2019/06/reverend-james-jackson-memorial-cross.html?m=1
I got a lot done in my years, and I’m proud of having completed the Wainwrights, but I still have my regrets over things not done. Not climbing Pillar Rock isn’t one of them – I know my limitations and what lies beyond them – but not getting to see the Rock up close is. From the top of Pillar, from the floor of Ennerdale, from the fells looking into Ennerdale, yes. But not from the High Level Route, not crossing Shamrock Traverse. For these alone I envy you, let alone the conquest itself.
George, I don’t know how that’s come out as Anonymous, but it’s Martin (mbc1955).
Thank you, Martin. I’m sorry you never got to see if from the Shamrock, then make the grade 1 scramble on to Pisgah (which I’m sure would have been well within your limitations). It does look magnificent from there, but you are only seeing the top 1/3 or 1/4.
Walking up from Ennerdale is a tough slog but seeing it’s full height towering above you is a spectacle worth the muscle-strain.
Glad you made it George, congratulations. A proper mountain day, well described. You were blessed with the weather considering what we are experiencing now. The rock on pillar takes on a soapy feel after rain which makes it feel very insecure.
Its a long haul to Pillar whichever way you take, I’ve only been up there half a dozen times.
John Fleetwood’s book sounds interesting will put it on my Xmas list.
Thank you. Yes, Graham was very insistent that we needed dry rock, but we were blessed with the perfect day in the end. John’s book is a thing of beauty.
Fantastic! Man, you (and your climbing partners) have courage to spare.
Thank you, Neil. Expert guidance and the reassurance of a rope made it less scary for me.
What a great read this is, George.
The first thing I thought when I saw the pictures was that with such challenging mountains, you were very lucky with the weather.
However, it had nothing to do with luck, I realized later, after reading your post.
I’ve read several stories about people from the mountain rescue service and they are doing a great job.
I have never been climbing, but the feeling must be outstanding when you reach the top in clear weather.
It would be great to take a bottle off the shelves on a winter’s evening and experience a unique view, joy and the rush of victory 😀😎❤️
Hannah, what a lovely comment. Thank you so much. Honestly, listening to Graham and Jen talk about mountain rescue was very humbling. And they looked after me brilliantly. This was an easy route in climbers’ terms but it was a big step up for me. You’re right, it is a memory I will revisit time and again.
goodness that looks joyous; terrifying but exhilarating; I’m pretty sure I envy you, George, but sitting at my desk on a window-rattling evening I’m none too sure. Thank you for the tour, though.
Thank you, Geoff. And you’re very welcome. Not something I would ever have undertaken on my own, but it’s tremendously reassuring to known you’re under expert guidance.
Another riveting account, George. These mountaineering stories do seem to be pretty well sprinkled with a steady procession of memorials and posthumous accounts, but it also seems like you’re blessed with innate good sense and an openness to absorbing the lessons from these expert guides.
Enjoyed this entry a great deal!
Thank you, that’s very kind. Good sense on this occasion was putting myself in the hands of an expert mountaineering and climbing instructor. Reading about those early pioneers who had none of our modern kit or know-how, just bags of dash and daring, is breathtaking even for the experts, though.
I was reading a bit about Jim Thorpe, a Native American athlete, who won some gold medals in the 1912 Olympics in Sweden. (Visiting a great-uncle, we stopped by a little village in Pennsylvania named for Thorpe). If you look at the 1912 photos, you’ll see he was competing while wearing mismatched shoes and extra socks on one foot, for the over-large shoe he found in a trash can, after his running shoes were stolen. That reminded me of reading about Victorian-era explorers and climbers with their leather or hobnailed boots and wondering how any of them survived on slippery rocks with such gear. I guess pitons didn’t come into use until the 1890’s?
I’m not sure when Pitons came into use (and I’m no climbing expert). They certainly had ways of anchoring and belaying but lacked things like modern climbing harnesses to attach ropes to. They just tied them round their waists, so if they did fall, the rope might save their lives, but would likely break ribs. They lacked sticky climbing shoes, making do (as you say) with nailed boots. But they did have “grippy tweeds”. Apparently different types of tweed were auditioned and their tailors instructed to fashion suits from the “grippiest” material!
That’s wonderful! even though “the grippy tweeds” sounds a bit like a digestive issue with cramps. The last week before I graduated high school, the district threw a sort of party, which included suiting up in a Velcro outfit and bouncing off a mini-trampoline to see how high you could stick onto a Velcro wall. I bet those tweed suits would’ve worked very well!
Haha. I bet they would!