Wednesday, May 16, 2007

The Lake District May 2007


A man is standing at the entrance to a railway station, he is staring bemusedly about him, somewhere in the cellar of the car park an idiot is sounding his horn, his backwoodsman senses aroused, Nick , for it is he, homes in on the oaf, and discovers his brother flashing his lights and waving. Moving sluggishly through the cough medicine and anti-congestants, his brain registers this fraternal son-et-lumiere, fires off a few signals to his arm (right) and legs (both), so that he waves and heads towards the vehicle. They, the family Hayes, including pending new edition are going on holiday together to the Lake District, it is apparently the driest month, the weather forecast is such that it is rumoured that the signs that at the moment say, “The Lakes” will be retouched to read, “The Lake”.
The motorway is found and the drive North commenced, Piggly Piglet and the Prickly Problem is unleashed from the Imo goody bag, and the journey commences. By the time it is finished Nick will have discovered that Lester’s Unusual Pet (Osbert Lancaster) is his favourite, and that Maurice Sendak’s rendering of an adult size rabbit leaves him uneasy, he will also be an expert at unilateral I Spy (where guessing is not an issue, in other quarters this is known as “Can you see?”), and tickling (under instruction).
Brother Steve is on a trip down (up -travelling North?) memory lane, so that they zoom off the motorway to Lancaster, which apparently has had its magnetic polarity reversed, at least as far as the driver is concerned. In a queue of traffic Nick points out a sign, it says UK Pub of the Year 2006, Regional Pub of the Year…… and several other positive appellations, the car swerves off the main road at the next turn and lunch is declared. And jolly nice it was too, though the brothers Hayes are slightly fazed by the fact that it is “Morning Advertiser UK Pub of the Year 2006”, neither of them know if the Morning Advertiser is even a national publication. With this in mind, readers of this blog may like to vote for World Wide Web Pub of the Year 2007 by contacting the author via email.
After a pretty good lunch (not enough horseradish) they set forth into town to try and discover the Duke’s Playhouse, Steve’s old workplace, it has apparently been moved, several times, eventually it is discovered lurking down a main road similar, if not identical, to the one it used to be in.
Back in the car and they let Tim the TomTom man guide them out of Lancaster, and on to Windermere, he only gets it wrong twice. Eventually united with the cottage keys they let Tim guide them to Chapel Stile, he takes the shortest route, there was something very Roman about Tim, he guided them straight but with a large degree of up and down, down a road barely wider than the vehicle in parts, it is doubtful that a cohort of Romans could have passed this way without breaking ranks, or at least scraping their gladii on the drystone walls
They arrive, the cottage (Ann’s Cottage) boasts walls two feet thick. Sadly walls two feet thick that have been unheated for a week take a lot of heating before the heat diffuses back into the interior of the building that they are holding up. Consequently, they turn all the heating on, and then sort out the sleeping arrangements, then they sort them out again, so that Nick ends up in the double with a single duvet. The linen was very modern, a waffle pattern with wooden buttons to close them, this left one with a novelty face the next morning, rather like the aftermath of a bad squash accident, eventually Nick discovers the smooth side lurking on the back of the pillow.
They leave the cottage to heat, and set of for the pub and supper, eyeing the eight beer pumps several members of the party felt that they had landed on their feet, one member felt that sinking feeling and the final one felt that a pink straw was the best thing to happen to her all day. An early night was called, due to the fact that one of the party was five months pregnant, one three and a half years old, one with a terminal cough that kept him and the neighbours awake from two ‘til three a.m., the final member of the party fell into the newspaper, a vaguely annoying pastime but one that keeps him out of mischief.


The next day, Nick peels back his eyelids and the bedroom curtains, outside there were mountains, not only that, but mountains with visible tops. “Oh bugger!” he thinks, “Better look at the map then.”. After toast and coffee, things took on a rosier hue, and so, taking Brother Steve in hand they set off for the mountains at the back of the cottage, Nick consults the map and sets off up a footpath that hasn’t existed since the map was printed, quite a long time ago. Eventually they discover another path in totally the wrong place, and covered with people, they eschew it and, taking advantage of the new access laws set about going their own way up.
The day continues, they continue, partaking parsimoniously of the nuts, flapjacks, Granola bars and Pontefract cakes (liquorice), and basking in the warm sunshine. They chat about most things, with the occasional reference to the complete inaccuracy of the weather forecast (a combination of the Flood and Sodom and Gomorrah), this was, of course, their downfall. In the south a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand was busy doing its stuff, multiplying, dragooning its friends to join it, indulging in several orgies with other clouds, generally plumping itself up and filling with moisture. As they approach major peak number one, the cloud sneaks in from the side and bombards them with large amounts of hail, rain and enough bits of itself to hide all the rest of the mountain.
It takes twenty five seconds for Steve and Nick to declare discretion, and peel off down the mountain on the nearest pathway. Here they find a lot of other people with the same idea, but strangely, they all peel off onto a path not marked on Nick’s 1998 map, no matter, they are wrong. Consequently much more adventure is had by the “boys” as they slide down the “traditional” path rather than the wimps' path which resembles a staircase. In the evening we decamp to another pub and another early night, somewhat interrupted for Nick by bouts of coughing at regular intervals throughout.

The next day started with a trip to Coniston to purchase boots as "stout shoes" were determined to be not up to Cumbrian inclement weather, probably by virtue of not being tall enough. Happily, boot buying took sufficient time to allow Opening Time to occur, just before the walk was started, consequently they find themselves in the Black Bull, home of the Coniston Brewery, after a sample pint, they set off for Tarn Hows (a preternaturally [with reason]) pretty lake. At the lake they discover an ice cream van, Steve's guilt lasts a few microseconds and is assuaged with a cinder-toffee cone, Nick's non-guilt isn't assuaged with a wild-cherry cone. Then onward heading for home via some stepping stones (see video when posted), I say "via" as if stepping stones were an everyday run of the mill thing, they were huge, dry and easy, the younger member of the party skipped serenely across, his senior didn't. At one point there was a stick resting on the stone, Steve treated this with the reaction that one normally gets from a spirited but stupid horse - he bridled, the stick became possessed of some innate malevolent quality only perceived by those of inestimable age (and perspicacity - natch), eventually a tentative step, the stick failed to turn and bite, it did not insinuate its round rolliness under his instep, it, in fact, delivered its sticklike qualities in the way that only an inanimate object can. On the other side of the stream (eventually) they were reunited with Tessa, who was serenely motoring up the wrong valley, they chat, a lift is not proffered so they carry on, over the hill and came down via a quarry, and two lost ladies, before crossing a bridge and finding themselves at the pub (quelle horreur!).

Tuesday was deemed a "Family Day" so all decamped to the Country Club and availed themselves of their pool and spa-like features, just as well really as the weather had become a trifle inclement, the afternoon was occupied with a trip to Ambleside to admire the variety of outdoor shops, the variety of rain, Boots the Chemist, and Stockghyll waterfalls. They then failed to admire the Thai restaurant but managed to admire one called Lucy4 a sort of Demonic Tapas Bar. In the UK there is a restaurateur and chef called Rick Stein who seems to own most of Padstow in Cornwall, Lucy appears to be the Cumbrian equivalent. After putting Imo to bed, the boys are turned out to the Pub to win the quiz. They do, and win a meal voucher - Joy!

Flush with their success our fraternal heroes decide to tackle Bow Fell (or Bowfell if you're anyone other than the Ordnance Survey. Tessa very kindly gives them a lift to the start, and after consulting Nick's venerable map they set off up the valley. A short time later they survey the footings for the footbridge, this is all that remains, hmm looks like another stepping stone moment, Steve begins to blanche in anticipation, while Nick is strangely buoyed by the prospect. A dry crossing is achieved further upstream and the ascent commenced. Those nice National Park people have been very busy path laying to avoid further erosion consequently the ascent is up a very long staircase with the odd bit of "living rock", as they used to say in the sort of novels I read as a child, this used to confuse me no end until I realised that it meant rock in-situ. About a third of the way up the first ascent they come across a band of disconsolate youth, and two teachers. The youths were disconsolate at the ascent but also flushed with the excitement of being on the mountain (why is there no escalator?), one announced to us that, "There's fresh water here Mate, if you want a drink!" They eschewed, and Nick eyed the teacher who had presumably volunteered this information, he then eyed the sheep grazing all around, and made a mental note to check up on the Hydatid cyst statistics in London in 6 months time. They move on leaving the gang behind, and revelling in their superior mountainliness compared to callow youth. At the top of the ascent the path goes down again into a corrie - down Goddammit - and then up the other side before a left turn to the final(ish) ascent. Halfway up this ascent Steve has a fit of the collywobbles, he is declared Hypo and plied with nuts and sweets, Nick, however, has ample reserves and has merely embarked on a spell of Ketosis. Sustained, they move on to the higher levels, the temperature drops and hats are produced, well Nick's hats are produced. As they get to the summit they become aware of something unusual, there is no wind and it is clear - a miracle. In the North, Dumfrieshire (Scotland), in the West, the Isle of Man, to the South Pen-y-Ghent and the Wirral, and to the East...hang on....to the East... some more of the Lake District. What there also is, to the Southwest if you were interested, is a large rainstorm, hmm if there was wind, what direction would it be coming from? Ooh the Southwest I should think. They descend, hoping to go down Hell Ghyll, which Nick is pretty sure is the one that he ascended by last time, if it was, then the path has fallen into disrepair, possibly disrepute so they contour round to the path that resembles just that, rather than the loose assemblage of rocks and sheep droppings that they are teetering along. it is at this point that Nick has two things to talk about with Steve - first, has he made a will and what are its terms, and second, does he know the International Distress call on the mountain? The reply to both is in the positive, though Nick is quick to point out that to achieve the latter may involve climbing down to his, Nick's, broken and shattered body. After the stepping stones incident(s) a momentary gleam comes into Steve's eye as he considers the prospect.
As they get back to the road, the prospect of a bus trip back to Chapel Stile, avoiding the three mile tramp, creeps unbidden into their minds, the bus can be seen in the car park, it is due to leave fairly soon, aching muscles are lashed into a frenzy of motion. They reach the bus, waking up the driver, who then apologetically fleeces them of a large wodge of cash for the short journey, they reply that it is worth it just to see the horror-struck expression on motorists travelling in the opposite direction, satisfaction is declared all-round.
It is about this point that Imo's car entertainment takes on a whole new facet, firstly I spy becomes totally gatebound (there are 126 between the cottage and Ambleside) and secondly, tickling takes on a strange new dimension:
"Do round and round the garden - with French!"
"?.... Autour, autour le......"
"No NOT IN FRENCH! Do some French first!"
Gallic shrug.
"Un, deux, trois. Comme les garcons, Pret a manger. Round and round....."
And so it went on, gates and French, French and gates, sais pas.

Thursday dawns, grey, moist, low cloud scuds overhead, trees drip, the boys (boys!) are still bundled out of the house to go walking. This time they find the right path up behind the cottage and trudge over the shoulder of the ridge to Grasmere. Grasmere, that occasionally appears through the breaks in the cloud they are tramping through, and that looks quite nice in a bleary sort of way. Similarly, the Irish couple they meet panting up in the opposite direction who stop for an oxygen break. At the lakeside, the Faeryland Tea Garden is sadly shut, so they walk to the town carpark where Steve gets a signal and leaps into his mobile. Nick peruses the car park for the car of the Irish couple, he strolls round the defunct craft shop looking through the windows at the leftovers, he admires the church tower, he returns to the car park. Steve has disappeared behind a tree (better reception, presumably) so Nick starts to document the species of birds he can see (Pied Wagtail, Grey Wagtail, Chaffinch), count the bricks in the wall (12,985), do a bit of cloud watching (camel, weasel, whale), contemplates swimming the lak....
"Oh! Hello."
"My broker."
"Oh."
They go to Ye Olde Famouse Gingerbread Shoppe where Steve spends a pittance of his hard-invested cash on something that they both agree isn't gingerbread, though they may have to try it again to make sure. At the town green they find a baguette shop and about 80 school children, of the two, the baguettes are warm and well-behaved. Then - disaster, the ice-cream shop is shut! After a consultation with the map, and a venturing into the Outdoor Shop by Steve to buy a whistle (no connection), they set off round the lake to go back a different way. The Faeryland Tea Gardens are now open but they eschew, and carry on round the lake to ascend Loughrigg Fell. but first the side of the hill is contoured to take advantage of the "official" viewpoint marked on the map. there are numerous benches to the Dear Departed marking various viewpoints (one ex-gentleman at least appears to have been passionately fond of the backside of a hawthorn) but after much wrangling and backsiting with the compass the official one is declared, then argued over. The ascent continues, at the summit, there is a thud and a duck lands heavily by Steve, in the duck world this girl is obviously an entrepreneur, she has cut out the competition entirely, not for her the jostling and hurly burly with the drakes at the lakeside, no she has judged her market perfectly, "Look there's a duck! What's it doing all the way up here? Where's my lunch?" "Quack." Nick is put in mind of the grey squirrel found on the top of Cadair Idris, so he tells Steve about it, Steve is more interested in photographing the duck, the duck is, to be frank, disgusted and flaps off to find folk more sandwich-laden.
The descent, somewhat accelerated by the prospect of a pub, (it's shut) is down a path that is in the process of being ballasted, the rocks being brought up by helicopter, if you trawl through the photos you will see that all bags have a useful set of pictograms including one that carries the message, "Do not land this bag full of very heavy stuff on top of anybody." Thus depressed (the pub) they tramp along the riverbank and fail to find the path on the first two attempts. Finally success and a nice riverine walk, and a chat with some others about Utah, medical students, and multiple sclerosis, like you do.
The evening is spent using up the food voucher and upsetting the other pub clientele, Nick at one point indulges in an accidental stage whisper, both stentorian and vulgar, having overheard a conversation on the next table about having rings stretched, Imo makes a loud and pointed comment about ice-cream as it arrives on their table. there is much giggling but only by them.

Friday, ugh, back to the country club and a somewhat damp sybaritic experience (though I daresay most sybaritic experiences are). In the afternoon things brighten up, so they decamp to Tarn Hows to show it off, have an ice-cream (legally) and to fly Imo's kite ( a somewhat sporadic demonstration of the verb - to fly, implying that it also means to plunge like a falling raptor at the heads of anyone frail or young). The evening will be taken up at the, now successfully booked, Thai restaurant, but what is this? They are too early. Oh dear. A quick trip to Coniston and the Bull conveniently gets rid of the spare time. The meal is good, once again Imo excels herself, beams at the appropriate moments, handles her chopsticks and rice with aplomb and seduces the restaurant manager who gives her a lucky dip into the toy box, from where she withdraws a frog. This is the only point where she is going wrong, once again Steve and Nick take her to one side and try to get her to realise that asking for a "cute" discount benefits the greater number, She ignores them, concentrating on hurling the frog at Nick in the back of the car, interspersed with imperious demands of French Tickling (don't look at me like that) and keeping a weather eye open for any passing gates (there are a few).

Saturday. Vacuum, tidy, lose frog, find frog, pack the car, leave. We were on our way to Otley, via Ingleton. At Ingleton we walked into the first pub (the Wheatsheaf I think), where, mercifully, they weren't serving food. Consequently we ended up at Bernie's cafe where Tessa finally managed the luxury of a cooked breakfast. Then on to Whitescar caves for a quick underground ramble before heading off to Tess' family at Otley.
"I'm NOT doing a gate or French Tickling 'til you've seen a yellow car!"
At Otley the boys are dragged kicking and screaming to the pub, 'tis a minor paradise, so much so that they are recalled, kicking and screaming to the house and dinner. The next day Nick awakes to a screaming pain, reminiscent of being kicked in the head, this diminishes after an onslaught of Ibuprofen and fresh air. On the way home they stop off at Sherwood Forest visitor centre, and marvel at how little fibreglass and plaster seven million pounds of Lottery money can buy. Then, disaster, Steve proves to be more toxophilogically accurate than Nick. The journey back to Cambridge is dark and gloomy, punctuated tersely by mutters of, "Gate, haha I saw it first" and "Apres moi - la deluge! Round and round...." .
They arrive - the holiday ends.