Peak 11 of 25 Peaks in 2025 Crag Hill - Chasing Dreams, Grouse, Sledging & Jumping Streams. Crag Hill and the Magnificent Seven

After seven long weeks away from the mountains, my boots were restless. The call of the fells had been whispering in my ears, and on Saturday 9th August it finally turned into a shout. Another peak of my 25 Peaks in 2025 awaited, and not just any peak the elusive Crag Hill, tucked away in the northern Lake District and accessed by the legendary Magnificent Seven loop between Buttermere and Braithwaite.

My day began in the darkest hours of the night.
01:15 — alarm rings.
02:00 — I’m pulling out of Worcester, the hum of the tyres the only sound in a sleeping world. The Lake District was four hours away, and so was the next chapter of my challenge.

An Unexpected Audience

The final approach to Braithwaite is a ribbon of narrow, twisting lanes, where stone walls and ferns lean in close. Just as I rounded a bend, headlights swept across a scene straight out of a nature documentary — about sixty grouse strutting up the road like they owned it. No rush, no panic. Even a couple of gentle horn toots couldn’t break their stride. Eventually, with the unhurried confidence of mountain royalty, they slipped into the forest.
A surreal moment, as if the hills themselves had sent an escort to welcome me back.

Setting Off

The car was left in a free lay-by on the roadside, clouds hunkering low over the summits, and a relentless wind whipping at 40–50mph. With no phone signal to stream my live updates, I zipped up my waterproof jacket, slung my pack, and began the climb.

The first forty minutes were brutal my legs protesting after their seven-week rest. But the wind, for once, was my ally, pushing me uphill towards the first summit. A sudden bar of phone signal let me broadcast to my followers before I pressed on. The next two summits passed without drama, though every step demanded focus; one lapse in footing near an exposed edge could turn a hike into a rescue mission.

Into the Valley and Up Again

After the third summit, the trail plunged back down to valley level, crossing slick, sodden ground that tried to pull the boots from my feet. Ahead loomed a 2,700ft climb, steep and unyielding. My saving grace was the rain still holding off, though the sky hinted otherwise.

The zig-zag track into the clouds towards Crag Hill was a punishing grind. Now the wind was in my face, shoving and clawing at every step. The clouds thinned for a moment, revealing Catbells and, in the distance, Helvellyn both old friends from my Easter climbs. But the view was snatched away as quickly as it appeared, and I pressed on.

The Summit of Crag Hill

The trig point emerged from the mist like a ghost. No sweeping panoramas, just a grey wall of cloud and the satisfying thud of achievement in my chest. A few quick photos, fingers stiff from the cold wind and I turned towards the final two peaks. The scenery was otherworldly, stripped of colour, the fells reduced to silhouettes in the shifting mist.

This was my fourth trip to the Lake District this year, and only once had I been gifted clear skies. I’m starting to think the weather here just likes to keep its secrets from me.

Descent and a Chance to Relive my Youth

The final summits were battered by wind so fierce it bordered on dangerous, but I pushed through, knowing each step was closer to the car. Dropping out of the cloud, I spotted Buttermere Lake in the distance, with Haystacks standing proud another peak from earlier in the year. The mountains seemed to say, Here’s a glimpse, just for today’s effort. But the trail wasn’t about to let me off easy.

My GPS said 1.6 miles to go, but from where I stood it looked at least double. The descent began steeply about 1,000ft and with no official or visible trail. Ferns covered the hillside like a green sea, hiding every rock, dip, and hazard. I inched forward, placing each foot carefully. My legs were burning. My patience, thin.

And then I remembered being a kid in Suckley, Worcestershire, sledging down snow-covered hills. The decision came in a flash. I sat down.

The wet ferns, slick from days of rain, became my icy runway. I slid fast. The speed was exhilarating, reckless even, but it was pure joy. Wind in my face, heart hammering, the hillside a blur. In minutes I’d dropped hundreds of feet, grinning like a ten-year-old.
Two lessons learned:

1. Don’t wear shorts my legs were shredded by hidden brambles.

2. Ferns have a way of turning up in places you really don’t want them.

Jumping the Stream

The fun ended at the valley floor, where a stream cut across my path. No bridge. No stepping stones. No shallow ford. And now, of course, the rain decided to join the party. I scouted for a crossing and spotted a rock jammed in the bank. One foot on, push, leap and thankfully I landed safely on the far side without the humiliating splash I’d been half-expecting.

A short climb up the opposite slope and I popped out on the roadside, just around the corner from my car. Relief washed over me but so did a quiet satisfaction. Another piece of the challenge done. Another piece of the dream chased down.

By the time I reached Worcester again, I was exhausted. The wind that day had been the second worst I’ve ever faced, and the trail’s mix of punishing climbs, cloud-shrouded ridges, and unpredictable descents had tested me fully. But it was worth it.

11 peaks down. 14 to go.
The Lake District chapter of my challenge is now complete — every summit in my plan conquered.

The question now is: Which mountain calls my name next?

If you like following my journey, you’ll want to stick around. The next peaks are coming, and who knows what the mountains will throw at me — grouse, gale, snow… or maybe another chance to sledge down a hillside like a kid who never grew up.