- 8/3 Keswick, Derwent waters and Catbells (sort of)
- 9/3 Beatrix Potter and Tarn Hows (from Hawkshead Hill) and Coniston
- 10/3 Buttermere and Haystacks
- 11/3 Rydal Waters and Grasmere (Wordsworth’s Grave)
A thunderous roar shatters our pleasant gravel-paved walk alongside Rydal Waters toward Grasmere and Wordsworth’s final resting place (also the home of Grasmere Gingerbread!) as two RAF jetfighters bank hard 300ft above us, vapourizing up the valley, the juxtaposition of country hamlet and military technology sci-fi like, and a stark reminder of global current affairs (Pete they were either Lockheed Martin F35 Lightnings or McDonald Dougls F15E Strike Eagles, frikking spectacular either way). But I’m getting ahead of myself….about three days.
We drove to Keswick and boarded one of those lovely timber boats to do a round of Derwent Water. In fact, it was a steel-hulled boat, the ticket salesman tells us, after guessing our nationality as South African and lamenting equally Trump’s leadership and Prince Andrew’s shitty behaviour, but painted to look the part, you know, for tourists. It’s a lovely trip skirting the forested shore and a couple of the islands, including St Herbet’s Island, where some of the filming for Swallows and Amazons was filmed. Catbells’ peaks rise sharply from the water and disappear into the clouds above us. At various simple timber boardwalk jetties, the boat pulls up if hailed, and walkers and locals jump on, exhilarated having climbed the fells, or perhaps pensive and about to.
Afterwards, we take a walk along the lake’s edge towards the start of the Catbells climb. After grabbing two roadies from Mike’s (mobile) Bean Machine at the business end of Derwent River bridge, we meet three young boys off, with buckets and trowels, to build mountain bike jumps. The eldest gets lost in his navigatory explanations, closing with “Follow Us!”, the older two on bikes, the third and youngest jogging on foot with all the buckets and spades, ‘come on!’ they admonish him. We note later that the younger boy is permitted to ride one of the bikes up a steep hill. Brotherly love.
Our paths cross again at their mud quarry, ‘it’s horse poo!’ cries the youngest, from where they bucket mud to their bike track. Thanking them for their instruction, we head on through woodland, eventually finding the Cumbria Way to the lake’s edge. Walkers are still descending Catbells, but it’s too late for an ascent, and we resign ourselves to a stroll along the conifer-lined shore where the lake gently laps the pebbled beaches. Thai for dinner back in Ambleside, a pleasant contrast to the belly-filling pub fare, and a nightcap at our local, the Golden Rule.
Beatrix Potter’s house at Hilltop near Hawkshead is delightful. A fire is crackling as we enter the main parlour, and her books, placed open on window sills and desk tops, show illustrations based on the original furniture still lovingly maintained in the house; the dresser, chairs, and clock from “The Tail of Samuel Whiskers”, the coronation teapot from “The Pie and the Pattey Pan”. The doll’s house where the “Two Bad Mice” wreak havoc is stunning in its detail and richness. A six year olds’ school excursion is exploding around us as we wander, and at this point, a young boy clicks the doll’s house interactive lights disco-speed as I try to take a photo. Helen (HBP) wrote the stories as gifts for children originally, and it’s kind of fitting that the mischievous innocence of kids is part of our experience (kind of). We play a picnic table top board game in the garden where the farmers’ children come through the green gate in the “Tale of Jemima Puddle Duck”, and warm up on coffees from the van before heading for Tarn Hows.
The rain and mist descending on Tarn Hows add to its wildness and commence our proper initiation into the Lake District Weather. Beatrix Potter continued to acquire land as her works grew in popularity. She also became deeply involved in the local community, farming and conservation. On her death, she bequeathed 4000 acres to the National Trust, including her home and Hows Tarn. Incredible.
We travel home via Coniston Waters, looking out to Peel (Wild Cat) Island from Swallows and Amazons fame, through the mist and rain. On the East side of the waters, heading north, frightfully narrow, rain-washed and pot-holed lanes skirt the shore. Misty lakeside vistas and stone cottages draw the eye up and out from the road. The radio helpfully advises us that the instance of calls to the Royal Automobile Club due to potholes concealed by puddles has risen by 300% this winter. I focus back on the road to get us home.
There’s a good chance we went to the Thai again as it was sooo good last night. And perhaps we went to the Golden Rule again also, and had a pint with old mate and his sodden collies that came in and shook themselves dry over everyone, to nobody’s consternation at all.
On the evening of our arrival in Ambleside, we watched part of a BBC video on Wainwright’s walks. Very much enjoying the videos and his descriptions, and in our innocence, we mused whether there might be some literature in town about Wainwright’s endeavours. Cue chuckling from travelled readers. Wainwright to Ambleside is Wally Lewis to Brisbane, Ken Done to Sydney and Tahlicia Smika to Muswellbrook. Local bookshops have whole sections of the many versions of Wainwright’s seven hand-illustrated guidebooks, pubs are named after him, his name can be found on plaques on church walls (ironically, as he was an atheist), and our own local, the three-hundred-year-old “Golden Rule”, records Wainwright’s visitation as a claim to fame.
One of Wainwright’s favourite fells, and where his ashes are now scattered, is “Haystacks” so I resolve to give that a crack while Di catches up on writing and reading (in hindsight the better bet!). It’s raining when I depart Ambleside, with some patches of sunlight occasionally splashing down onto roadside fells and pikes. The vehicle descent into Buttermere is characteristically spectacular, steep, narrow, barren, shrouded in mist and wet. Just two cars are in the car park by the pub in Buttermere hamlet (church, two hotels, farm/cafe, tearoom, cottage – apart from the ubiquitous national trust carparking meters the town probably looks as it did in Wordworth’s time) and I don my wet weather gear in the rain.
It was bitterly cold and wet (for about five hours). Great columns of rain squalled over the saddle, and down the scree slopes, making it impossible to see (particularly with glasses). All the tracks had turned to waterfalls and the many cascades down the mountainside were deep and swift, soaking socks and boots alike. The wind gusts transformed my ponchoed body into a human windsock, and the subsequent windage knocked me off rocks and into streams. The relative calm of the stone cottage emergency shelter was a trip highlight! Along the ridge top the rain paused for a time, replaced by an icy gale that froze wet fingers and toes, pushing one to ‘keep-on’ just to stay warm. Despite the conditions, the haystacks present a spectacular and somewhat imposing rock mass zig-zagging up the slope beneath them, and the tundras and tarns at the top are truly wild and beautiful – perhaps all the more beneath the low clouds and mist. Spectacular glimpses of Buttermere, beneath the clouds, down through the rocky craggs and waterfalls lift my spirits, but not sufficiently to tarry in the cold (it’s got to be close to zero with the wind chill and my feet feel like solid frozen clumps in my sodden boots), and I make my descent.
Whilst I shivvered my way down the mountain to the lake below, I learn as we share our stories that evening, Di was enjoying a glass of wine, writing postcards and listening to music by the little fire in our cottage. This may have been interspersed with some deep dives into Hello magazine and a stroll to the post office. A smart move, I think. She also cooked a cracking beef bolognese! We may have shared our stories at the Golden Rule, I don’t recall!
It’s an easy and pleasing 14km round trip walking from Ambleside via Rydal to Grasmere, crossing stone bridges over the now swollen River Rothay, rounding the waters past delightful stone manors and cottages and chatting with the many walkers roaming the countryside (there are tracks everywhere). There’s a cave, an old abandoned slate quarry. On approach, there’s a sound like chanting, like they’ve hooked up a sound system to show off the caves’ acoustics, but it’s a young man singing the Dwarves “Misty Mountain” song from “The Hobbit”, and people are stopped in their tracks hearing this deep, rich, lilting lament drift from the cavern and out over the mere.
We lunch at Daffodils, a modern hotel with carpet (lots of carpet), movie celebrity photo-walls, wastecoated waiters and muzak. It’s a surreal experience in this time-warped land of stone villages and wooden punts on the lake, and the acres of patterned cream carpet make us (well me) nervous about our muddy boots. We finish our triple-decker club sandwiches and leave.
Wordsworth described Grasmere as “the loveliest spot that man hath ever found”, a “blended holiness of earth and sky”. It’s certainly pretty, and the pint of on-tap gluten-free Grasmere Gold at the Red Lion Inn was exquisite (a blended holiness of hops and rye). There was no carpet either, wet dogs and muddy boots blended right in.
A lovely walk home via the back lanes by the river in the bracing evening air built solid appetites for dinner at the white lion (Tikka Masala) and a nightcap at The Golden Rule.
