We were in the village of Boot, at the base of the Hardknott Pass, which was hacked through these mountains by the Romans in 110 AD. I was contemplating the warning you see in the photograph above. Unlike the US, where any SUV is a ‘truck’, in England, the Land Rover Defender Octa is termed a car, but what I was mulling over is the word ‘light’. At 2.5 tonnes, the Octa is certainly not a ‘light vehicle’.
But then, the very premise of Land Rover’s creation was to stick its tongue out at warnings like ‘Narrow route, severe bends’, so I accelerated past the stickered signpost.
The Hardknott Pass and successive Wrynose Pass are truly steep and narrow affairs. At some hairpin bends, I needed to cut the apex of the corner, which often had boulders embedded into it. But thanks to the sensors and cameras, I had digital eyes that let me see exactly what was between the two front wheels. Added reassurance was the ground clearance that can be raised to a maximum of 323mm.
While navigating these passes, we came across little hatchbacks and sedans in the opposite direction at incredibly narrow sections with sheer drops on one side. And the eyes of their drivers widened in apocalyptic horror at seeing this beefy and more muscular version of the regular Defender squatly blocking their path. Fortunately, thanks to the knobby 275/60 R20 Goodyear Wrangler DuraTrac RT tyres and the 40.2-degree approach angle, I could confidently put the front left wheel up on the sloped shoulder of the road to let the cars pass.
The 320-mile drive from London to Loweswater in the western part of the Lake District was largely on the motorway, where these knobby tyres sent a bass drum-like hum into the cabin, even audible above the superb Meridian surround sound system. The tread pattern also translated into an ever-so-infinitesimal wobble on the steering wheel at the top end of the speed limit on smooth tarmac. But these are small prices to pay for capable off-road tyres that complete a very capable off-roader.
Additionally, this is also the most powerful Defender ever. The Land Rover website shouts out figures of maximum power and torque – 635hp and 750Nm, respectively. These figures turned emotive when I put my right foot down on the M6 toll motorway skirting Birmingham. Notwithstanding its bulk, the BMW 4.4-litre twin-turbo V8 nestled under the bonnet hustled this handsome car to high speeds in seconds, its AWD drivetrain working in symphonic synchronicity with the ZF 8-speed torque converter auto box.
The eastern part of the Lake District is where tourists pour in, packed in coaches and drawn to its associations with William Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter. The west is the weathered and rugged counterpart, where trails have been etched out by sheep and soles rather than a landscape artist.
I chose the west because we wanted this to be an active holiday where we’d come back with aching thigh muscles and the memory of the cold bite of an icy tarn. This is why into the Defender’s generous boot went sleeping bags, a tent, hiking boots, swimming costumes and a camping stove, among other outdoor paraphernalia.
This trip was certainly not planned to be laid-back luxury. The idea was to pack smart so that we could use the space in the car to sleep when setting up the tent was not an option.
This turned out to be the case on the first evening itself. We arrived at Loweswater, where choppy winds and ominous clouds greeted us. Rather than risking the tent being blown away to Scotland, we decided to sleep in the car.
And since Loweswater is not exactly the bustling tourist hotspot, we staked out a bluff of land that jutted into the lake as our overnight halt.
It was a night with no moon, and thick clouds obscured the stars. Since we were miles away from the nearest town or village, there was no light pollution. That night was movie night as I hooked up my iPad to the sound system and mounted it using a suction holder. Both of us could fine-tune the performance front seats that the Octa features in 14 different directions to arrive at the perfect position to watch the movie: Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom. The speakers gave the entire experience a cinematic touch.
At the part when the Mosasaurus leaps out of the water, both of us momentarily stared at the calm surface of Loweswater with irrational apprehension.
The original plan was to sleep in the back of the car after dropping the rear seats. But the front seats – at full recline and with pillows placed on the integrated headrests – were quite comfortable, like airline business-class seats before the advent of the flat bed. So, we covered the seats with duvets and switched on the seat heaters for a few minutes before slipping into the toasty warmth and sleeping fitfully through the night.
It rained steadily all night long, and that rendered the grassy knoll I had parked on squelchy and slippery. There was a micro moment of terror when I tried to reverse and the 2.5-tonne Octa started sliding sideways towards where the edge of the knoll sloped steeply down to the water. I had this terrifying vision of the Defender lying on its side, being gently lapped by Loweswater Lake. But in a flash, the Defender’s terrain response system kicked in and stopped the slide.
The terrain response is an automatic system with the option of manually switching to various modes. For some added reassurance, I set it to the ‘Grass/Gravel/Snow’ mode. All I had to do then was gently back up, and the electronic brain trickled torque and traction to the relevant wheels at the correct moment and for the right duration as the car crawled back onto solid tarmac.
To calm my nerves from that first flash of fright, we brewed some coffee using an electric moka pot plugged into the 230-Volt AC outlet in the rear and sipped it, enjoying views of the morning mist rising off the lake.
For the first walk of our trip, we drove to Maggie’s Bridge, which is a National Trust-designated car park about a mile from where we’d spent the night. From here, we set off towards the Holme Force Waterfall. It was a gentle 4-mile walk to the waterfall and back, and though the waterfall wasn’t spectacular, the red squirrels we encountered while walking through the very pretty fell along the route made this walk enjoyable.
The serene trio of Loweswater, Crummock Water and Buttermere lie in a quiet diagonal across the land. Each of these is circled by paths for unhurried walks. After tracing Crummock’s edge, we drove to the village of Buttermere and bought some sandwiches from the Syke Farm Tea Room there.
Past Buttermere Lake, at the base of the Honister Pass, I saw a rough mud track leading to a scenic meadow at the base of a hill. This became our impromptu brunch spot, where we could lay out a picnic rug, sip on freshly brewed coffee and eat our sandwiches surrounded by serenity and some surprised sheep.
The map deems the Honister Pass a ‘bit hairy’, indicating that the drops are dizzying and the traverse dramatic. But for us veterans of road trips in the high Himalaya, Honister Pass was therapeutic with the long views it afforded and the confidence the Defender inspired. We continued on an anti-clockwise route, going past Seatoller and through the verdant Borrowdale valley to arrive at Derwentwater.
This large and scenic lake gave us a glimpse into the touristy part of the Lake District because here, there are sightseeing cruises on offer as well as kayaks and canoes on hire for those who prefer to man their own boat. It is something we’d have liked to do, but the weather that day, with intermittent rain and strong winds, just didn’t cooperate.
What we did do was drive the scenic 9-mile loop around Derwentwater in an anti-clockwise direction and then head back towards Buttermere through Newlands Valley. Along the way, we crossed over Newlands Pass, and at the summit of this pass, the Moss Force waterfall was simply spectacular. The Octa effortlessly hopped over rocks and got us right to where the track narrows and starts ascending in earnest towards the silver streaks of water tumbling down from Robinson Fell. To me, they looked like the silver locks of an ageing Rapunzel whose prince is yet to arrive.
Unlike Scotland, there is no free camping in England. Tents may only be pitched in areas designated as campsites. Fortunately, that evening, a landlord graciously allowed us to pitch our tent near a stone wall of a meadow on his land between Crummock Water and Loweswater. Too lazy to cook after the tent was up, we drove to the nearby Kirkstile Inn for an indulgent dinner of slow-cooked Cumbrian lamb shank. The exertion of the day and the hearty meal meant we slept like logs in the spacious tent.
The next morning, as daylight strengthened over the fells, we found ourselves descending into Eskdale, a valley to the south of Ennerdale Water and dominated by Wast Water. The scenery had subtly shifted from rugged wilderness to textbook English countryside. Eskdale’s storybook charm was matched by the Octa’s ability to switch from beast to butler.
We were in no particular hurry, and I had a gentle foot on the throttle, and the Defender purred past storybook villages of Calder Bridge, Gosforth and Strands with its raucous twin exhausts muted to a murmur. Past Strands, Wast Water started peeking through the windscreen. This is England’s deepest lake, and it lies at the base of Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain.
At Wasdale Head, the west end of Wast Water, is a National Trust campsite with a car park and information centre. Most visitors arrive here to climb to the summit of Scafell Pike, but we were after a spot of wild swimming, even though it was 9 degrees C and cloudy. We parked and started the 2.5-mile trek to Burnmoor Tarn. Nestled amid wild shrubbery, Burnmoor Tarn looked inviting until I waded into it, and icy reality shot up my spine and shattered all swimming strategies. This was compounded by a sudden pelting of rain that sent us scampering, like soaked spaniels, down the trail towards the dry and leathery embrace of the Defender’s interior.
Just as we were pulling off sodden layers, the sun suddenly peeked out through the sky. It rekindled my friend’s determination to give wild swimming a shot, and so we drove north for a mile to Wasdale Head Inn. Just a 15-minute traipse from there is Ritson’s Force. Here, Mother Nature had arranged a particularly picturesque tableau. Water merrily gurgled down a series of little waterfalls, each with emerald-green plunge pools at its base. The sun was still shining, and we quickly changed into swimming gear and took the plunge. The water was freezing, but after the initial shock, it felt revitalisingly fresh.
This particular waterfall is named after Will Ritson, a 19th-century landlord known for his outrageous fibs. Such was his notoriety that there is an ale – Ritson’s Biggest Lie – christened in his honour. Additionally, the annual ‘World’s Greatest Liar’ contest at the Bridge Inn in Santon Bridge is held in his honour. To give amateurs a sporting chance, the only folk barred from entry are politicians and lawyers.
As we were throwing wet towels and swimming costumes into the boot of the Defender, I realised that my stomach was growling. All we’d had since sunrise was a mug of oats porridge and a plum each, the former hastily cooked over the portable camp stove we were carrying.
Salvation was just 9 miles away, a little past Santon Bridge, in the form of the Bower House Inn, once a coaching stop and now a 3-star hotel featuring a lively pub with a crackling hearth. We dined on a meal of garlic mushrooms, fall-apart pork ribs and sticky toffee pudding, all the while chuckling at the ease with which all our best-laid plans of cooking our own food had been defeated just by the aroma wafting out of the pubs we had driven past during the day. Camping plans, too, went askew that evening because the tent was wet and the car’s interior was now redolent with the aroma of burnt porridge, wet towels and tent, muddy shoes and stale coffee.
Fortunately, Forest How Guest House at Eskdale Green, less than a mile from the Bower House Inn, had a vacancy. We really struck gold with this spur-of-the-moment booking. Run by the mother-daughter pair of Corrine and Kate, this little guest house was cosy and comfortable. The full Cumberland breakfast the next morning, including free-range eggs, bacon and sausages, was supremely satisfying. An added delight was red squirrels scampering about in the garden.
We spent our last day in the Lake District tracing the serpentine paths of Hardknott and Wrynose passes. These are ancient remnants of roads etched into the Cumbrian landscape by the Romans, circa 2 AD. Hardknott, with its switchbacks and slopes that flirted with the vertical, threw down a challenge that the Defender Octa accepted without hesitation. It climbed with poise, its 6D suspension with hydraulically interlinked, triple-valve dampers absorbing the terrain like a seasoned mountaineer’s knees.
At the foot of Wrynose lay Blea Tarn – still, silent and gilded by the late afternoon sun. Not so apprehensive about wild swimming anymore, we slipped into the tarn’s icy embrace. The shock of cold was immediate, but so was the delight. Floating in the middle of that tarn, I felt the heady happiness of getting hooked onto a new adventure activity. Breathless and wide-eyed, we emerged shivering, but with an effervescent tingling that only wild water can deliver.
Back on solid ground, muscles humming with exertion, we brewed our final roadside tea. The stove hissed, gasping at times as the gas in the canister got to the dregs. Enamel mugs clinked softly while clouds settled into the folds of the hills.
The Defender stood nearby, streaked with mud and clumps of clay on its tyres. It had been more than a vehicle – it had been a companion, a cocoon, and a conqueror. We left the Lake District for London, taking along with us blisters, bruises and a quiet sense of belonging. The escape we’d sought had found us.
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