*It wasn’t quite as pleasant as a hot spring, but it certainly got the blood pumping.*

As waymarkers, National Parks and hot springs are two things we always gravitate towards when planning a trip, but wild swims and mountain passes come a close second, and the Lake District offered bountiful opportunities for both. Except… It was January, and the average temperature of the lakes was around 4-5ºC. Luckily I’d packed my wetsuit.

Missed part I: Peak District and Yorkshire Dales? Click here to read!

We decided to set ourselves the challenge of driving as many passes as we could in our two days in the park, enjoying the bucolic scenes of tarns and mountains from within the warm confines of a car; next time, we promised, we would climb Scafell Pike.

From Ullswater we climbed to the heights of Kirkstone Pass, a steep incline straight up and over the mountain and the highest pass in the Lake District at 454m. The passes of the UK may not compare to those of the Alps in height, but they were every bit as challenging, if not more so. Whereas Alpine passes meander in a zigzag fashion up a peak, UK passes, we noticed, tended to take a more direct route up and over, which made them incredibly steep and challenging for our 1L Peugeot engine.

After the peak we veered right to descend along a road aptly named The Struggle. This was a series of whip snap turns along a quintessentially narrow English country road whose dips and bends offered incredible glimpses of Lake Windermere in all her glory.

Being the largest and most popular lake in the Lake District we swiftly strayed North in search of lesser-known treasures, ascending the gentle yet equally breath-taking Dunmail Raise which afforded craned-neck glances at the most wild of lakes, Thirlmere, edged with pine trees and little else. This little slice of untamed perfection made our hearts sing, and we quickly got lost in daydreams of sailing off in a tiny boat to camp somewhere along its shores.

A short while later we entered the Newlands Pass; devoid of hikers and queueing traffic, it invoked instantly a sense of brooding isolation. Once we were past the sparse scattering of farms we were free to roam along its meandering valley, and did not see a single other car until we arrived at the peak where a half dozen others were parked up. With the thundering heights of Moss Force Waterfall as a backdrop, Ben set about frying sausages and brewing coffee, while I braved the bitter hillside winds to snap a few photos.

Not content with the heights we’d already reached, we set off into the low afternoon sun to reach Honister Pass just to the South. As we ascended its 356m peak, passing the eponymous slate mine, the road dropped off and splayed before us an uninterrupted view over the heart of the Lake District. Winding narrow roads weaving through golden bracken and sharply cresting peaks soaring as far as the eye could see; it was worth the numb fingers and cold noses as we snapped photograph after photograph.

We drove along the perimeter of Derwentwater as the sun began to set, stopping to feed a group of friendly ducks our stale bread, before driving on to find our accommodation for that night. As a birthday treat Ben had booked us a surprise AirBnB; little did I know he’d been listening to my inane ramblings for the past few months and had booked possibly the coolest stay I could’ve imagined: an original restored bow top gypsy wagon, complete with a wood-fire hot tub. The wagon was located in Appleby-in-Westmorland, the home of the annual Appleby Horse Fair, the largest gathering of Gypsies and Travellers in the UK (if you watch Peaky Blinders then you’ll know…) which only added to my excitement. Travelling in a horse-drawn wagon had been somewhat of a fantasy of mine, and our stay here only confirmed that.

Some may prefer to experience the treat of a luxury getaway, but for us van-dwellers we craved simplicity, and this wagon with its cosy bed, curved roof and lack of any modern distractions was an idyll; we spent the night reading our books and of course, soaking in the hot tub under the stars.

The final day of our journey to the North of England also marked my 27th rotation around the sun, and after tea in bed and a cheeky morning soak we headed back to the Lakes for one final day of exploration.

Entering on Dunmail Raise again, a view we’d never get bored of, we headed directly to Blea Tarn, a spot I’d marked as a potential location for a birthday swim. Although it was beautiful and impossibly clear, the sound of nearby chainsaws spurred me on to explore further.

We arrived at the foot of Wrynose Pass, the little brother of the infamous Hardknott Pass but whose views were no less stunning, even on a foggy day. After the first pass we began to ascend again, lulled into a false sense of security by the relative ease of the drive so far. Ben had seen many Facebook posts from people whose LDVs had struggled or even failed to ascend the Hardknott Pass, with a wickedly steep gradient of 33% which made it not only the steepest road in the Lake District, but also in England. Regrettably we didn’t have our LDV with us, but even in a humble Peugeot 206 we could see how the pass’s near-vertical incline and sharp, narrow corners would be a real push for a van; not impossible for an experienced driver, but not far from it.

As was becoming a theme on this trip we were pleasantly surprised by not just the beauty of the landscape, but also the fiendishness of the roads which lived up to their notoriety and erased any doubts from our mind that English roads were gentle and safe. Even some of the sketchiest roads we’d driven in Eastern Europe had some kind of crash barrier, but not here.

Hearts racing and bodies suitably topped up with adrenaline (and with a distinct smell of burning clutch in the air) we pressed on to our final destination: Wast Water. After careful online research I’d determined this as the perfect site for my birthday swim, a tradition I’d started over lockdown in 2021, and I was not disappointed. Steep cliffs of shingle rose sharply from glassy waters, edged by mountains as far as the eye could see in shades of ocher, grey and green.

Ben, in no way trying to get out of an icy winter dip, offered to take some photos as I hesitantly changed into my wetsuit and took a few painful steps over the rocky shore of the beach and into the shallows. It was instantly, numbingly cold, the wetsuit protecting against the threat of hypothermia but the water temperature biting at my fingers and toes. Without giving it too much thought I pushed out and let the water take my weight as I made a few strokes back and forward. I’d done it!

As the blood rushed out of my extremities, a sense of pride and achievement poured in and filled up my chest; there’s no feeling like swimming in cold, wild water, overcoming natural instinct to stay warm and trusting the depths below not to drag you in. The rewards were far greater than the drawbacks, and if I ever found myself doubting that I simply reminded myself to look up and at the awe-inspiring landscape around, and remember that this was the reason I loved wild swimming so much, no matter the season. Was I bloody mental for doing it? Yes.

I later learned that the average temperature of the Lakes in Winter is around 4 - 5ºC, far colder than anything I’d swum in before. I’m surprised the water hadn’t frozen over.

I swam for all of 5 minutes before the cold became almost unbearable and made the sensible decision to get out and dry off. After years of cold water swimming my body had learned to adapt; the shivering didn’t last long, and neither did the afterdrop, but for some deranged reason I quite enjoyed the tingling sensation the cold left on my skin and in my veins as I sat in all my layers warming my hands on the dashboard heater.

“You’re absolutely mental, you know,” Ben said to me, as we left Wast Water behind us.

“I know,” I grinned back happily.

Our drive back to Appleby took us along the coastal edge of the National Park, offering unexpected views over the Isle of Man and across to Scotland. One day… we promised, dreamily admiring its rugged landscape from across the Irish Sea. All that was left to do was pack up the car and enjoy one final night in the vardo, followed by an opportunistic sunrise soak in the hot tub.

Our journey to the North of England was at its end, and although we’d covered some hundreds or thousands of miles over the past week, we realised there was still so much of our home island to explore. Never again would we take the beauty of the UK for granted, not when it sat so close to our doorstep.

We could drive back to Cornwall now properly able to say we’d earned our National Parks badges.