My first full day in the Lake District was wet. And soggy. Though
relieved to have packed my enormous (and bright) parka, I did not have the
foresight to pack my camera bag – therefore the combination of startling color
and the strange protuberance underneath my parka dispelled any notions I had
about fading into the scenery. (Which, I admit, I don’t tend to do very well on
bright and sunny days)
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| Ambleside in a brief moment of non-precipitation |
We left Ambleside intending to head toward Windermere, and
after carefully inquiring at the information office, we promptly headed the
wrong way. Luckily, England’s perception of pedestrians is much more evolved
than what a hapless walker might find in the Bluegrass, and sidewalks (or more
properly “footpaths”) lined most of the major roads. And who can complain about
getting lost in the Lake District even when the weather is most dismal? The scenery
never disappoints, and for some reason, the 300th sheep I spot is
just as fascinating as the first.
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| A charming house in Rydal |
At the next village a pronouncement concerning peckishness
was made (not by me, as oatmeal is always most fortifying) so we began to look for
the nearest tea room. Love the English – such a delight is never far away! The hamlet
of Rydal includes the last home of Wordsworth (he lived there from 1837 to
1870), Rydal Mount, which is still owned by his descendants.
There was also a big pile, Rydal Hall, (the technical term
for a large house constructed by individuals of means; i.e. rich people),
constructed in several phases (beginning in the 16th century) by the
Le Fleming family. There was some interesting
art incorporating textiles with old CDs, a waterfall, and the tea room. Oh, thank you for tea rooms – caffeine and
sweets.
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| Rydal Hall |
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| Obviously I will be making some of this art for my garden when I return.... |
We left Rydal in a gentle drizzle of rain, directed by the
kind tea room staff to take the coffin trail on the next leg of our journey. This was not a malicious wish of harm upon us,
but rather a fascinating bit of local lore (material culture!).
Coffin trails
or paths, also known as corpse roads or church ways, wound between rural
settlements and their mother churches – the churches in more populated areas
that alone held burial rights. Bodies would often be carried in slings (not
coffins) along these unpaved routes, and
it was bad luck if the dead had to be taken another way. Inevitably, the paths became imbued with otherworldly
associations, thought to harbor ghosts and restless spirits. The “church ways”
are even referenced by Puck in A Midsummer’s Night Dream:
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide
There was no unease or malingering haints to be found on our
path, but it was, as most of our time there, absolutely beautiful.
The Coffin Trail (along the route we chatted with a very nice German lady with a puzzling English accent) ended in Grassmere, home to Dove Cottage, one of the most iconic Wordsworth spots in the the Lake District. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy lived here for eight years, during which time he produced the poem known to almost everyone, especially the scads of tourists crowding the tiny house and museum on a rainy day.
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| Dove Cottage - originally an inn. |
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
The day ended in the small town of Troutbeck, at a pub known
as the Mortal Man. A pub, first known as The White House, has been on the site since
1689. It apparently served as a watering hole for all of the famous Lake
District writers and artists, including Wordsworth, Coleridge and Hogarth.
The only honorable thing to do was to sample
all five beers on tap, and then take the suggestion of a wandering Swedish man
from Manchester on a good walk up the nearby fell (Wansfell). I don’t normally go for a
hike after a pint, but the sky had cleared, and it seemed like an excellent
idea.
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| A stone barn in Troutbeck, built in 1890. |
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Ascending the Wansfell
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| Descending the Wansfell |
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| Stone barn and attached outbuilding on the trail up the Wansfell |
All the fresh air inspired us to return to the Mortal Man and have a very carnivorous feast: leg of lamb, a steak and potato pie, and local Cumberland sausage (this was split between three people, so don't judge me).
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| The peas were really, really good. As was the meat explosion. |
