Given the grim weather forecast of strong winds, we opted for a walk that would not risk life and limb. The summit of Latrigg offered a theatrical view: a single beam of sunlight, no doubt feeling very pleased with itself, pierced through dark clouds to spotlight a few houses near Keswick, with Bleaberry Fell lurking in the distance.
Before the Kinder Mass Trespass of 1932 or the Winter Hill Trespass of 1896, there was an earlier rebellion in the Lake District. Naturally, it has been mostly ignored. Enter the Latrigg trespass, the understudy of historical land disputes.
In the 1880s, the Lake District was the latest obsession of middle-class tourists, who descended upon it via the railway that opened in 1865. Guidebooks encouraged walking enthusiasts, but landowners, clutching their deeds, had other ideas. This simmering clash between wanderlust and barbed wire erupted in 1887.
On 1 October of that year, around 2,500 people staged a mass trespass on Latrigg Fell. This was not a pleasant country ramble; it was a deliberate middle finger to the landowner. The prize? A view of Derwentwater and the surrounding peaks that they believed belonged to everyone.
The legal aftermath was not without drama. The landowner dragged them to court, but the judge, to everyone’s surprise, ruled in favour of the public, although softened by an agreement. One footpath was closed and another was declared open to walkers. The judge declared that the fell, being uncultivated and open, should remain accessible forever. This victory was a significant milestone for public access rights, though it remains overshadowed by its flashier successors.
Without this forgotten protest, I would not have been able to take this photograph. Make of that what you will.
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