A man is sitting on a train, the sweat is pouring freely down his face, his back, his front, dripping onto his paunch and pooling in the crotch of his pants. It is Nick, he has been waylaid at work leading to a mad dash to the train, which, naturally, has been sent to one end of Euston Station, the wrong end. He is heading for Milton Keynes prior to driving up to the Lake District the next day, his well-insulated frame is failing drastically to radiate the heat that five minutes of frantic activity has produced, people move away from him afraid that he may combust - wetly.
I arrived in Milton Keynes some 40 minutes later, and left the station to be greeted by my bedfellow for the following week - Andrew, and his mother, Sheila. My cousin Julian - absent (ohh -in so many ways) watching daughter Louise graduate in Nottingham. We return to Buckingham in high dudgeon after chatting about Management duplicity, and discover one mutual friend over a baked potato.
The next day the car is loaded by 9.00am, Julian is ready by 10.40. We head North, through torrential rain and a packet of wine gums, stopping only to buy a sandwich at Marks and Spencer (where as I chatted to the shelf stacker, my cousin, wantonly unable to stand me having any sort of congress with the opposite sex intervened), and two balers and a bottle of two-stroke at Bowness. We arrive at Bank Farm at the same time as the man from Tesco who is bringing supplies (as is my parsimonious/thrifty wont I have baulked at paying any money to Booth's in Windermere - who make Harrod's look quite reasonable). Some of the party are already at Coniston, having set off from Farnham (or thereabouts) at an ungodly hour, in fact they have nearly arrived by the time Julian has finished checking that his Tesco clubcard statement is, in fact, correct (about 10.30). These will be the Toases (Chris, Lesley, Heather and Michael), friends newly acquired on Mauritius by Julian and Sheila. There is, of course tea to be drunk (and a Tesco order to be unpacked). More people arrive, more tea is drunk, bathrooms begin to get used, toilet paper is consumed at an alarming rate.
More people: Sarah and Steve and daughter Flora (friends of). Pam and Trevor (family). Joan and Harold (parents of family).
Curry is heated, raita made, wine and beer drunk (my bloody beer too), games are played (and lost), and bed visited (why visited? See wine and beer above).
Saturday: breakfast 1hr 40 mins. The sun is out, and a walk is called for. Trevor casts an experienced eye over the assembled party, and opts for the ascent of a pimple at the end of the lake. So it is that we ascend Howe Fell, have lunch on the top and descend to the tearooms at the bottom. Though there is a moment of drama as another party of perambulators back off the car park, and start to slide down into the stream. We run through the resulting clouds of burning rubber and shouting, and latch on to various portions of the car. The car, formerly full, now only features a driver but is surrounded by former occupants who have apparently screamed themselves to the point of exhaustion, as they have no interest at all in rescuing the car and driver by dint of main force. Rescue is achieved, we hint at the presence of the tea room and gratitude but, like me in a leap year, it is not taken up.
In the afternoon, we rig the boat and discover, upon launching, that the tree which underwent mast pruning the previous year has made a marvellous recovery. After an hour of standing thigh deep in the lake, doing various fending duties, I repair up the hill to the kitchen where Andy and I prepare dinner - a sort of dauphinoise tartiflette. My notes at this point say, "Red Wine" at least I think that's what they say. On Sunday I am due to be picked up to do non-pimple climbing by the alternative team.
The alternative team: Caroline, John and Clunes (see "More Bloody Skiing") plus Chris (a scarily clever mathematical type and his wife and daughter Fran and Emma, respectively).
Monday: Breakfast 2hrs. The alternative team arrive at about 12.30 after having done an involuntary but extensive tour of the lake, and admiring John Ruskin's car park, of which they have done a 360 degree tour. I offer tea, which Caroline leaps at, it takes Clunes less than 3 minutes to stentor the company to silence. Then we move off, to the next mountain on the left of the pimple, Weatherlam, which we ascend by way of Tilberthwaite gorge. The last bit of the ascent is, as my notes oxymoronically tell me, a good scramble, in fact a good scramble in worsening weather but we summit and then head off back down one of Chris' specialities - the longer way back. as we descend it becomes obvious that John (who's birthday it is tomorrow ) is slipping into his dotage as he has become fascinated by sheep, who, recognising fellow-feeling, are equally fascinated by John. This adds a certain longueur to any journey in the mountains.
On the way back we felt compelled to call in at the Black Bull, if only to allow Clunes to stock up with takeaways, and so it is I have a late supper.
Tuesday: Breakfa..... actually by this point the whole thing had started to have a Harry Potteresque quality about it, in other words, and in my opinion, all that happened for seventy percent of the time, was eating, interspersed with the odd bit of laconic action.
Today's laconic action was to be a "sailing lesson", a remnant of Julian's sixtieth from the previous year that had been precluded by Typhoon Ruskin. Steve had volunteered to risk his body and so we quickly built a boat out of a couple of chairs and improvised a boom out of Sheila and a torch. A word: turning a boat into the wind is a "tack", upon realizing that one has to tack (usually the advent of the shore, another boat, boredom or, potentially, a tsunami) one asks of the crew, "Ready about?", upon receiving the answer, "Ready" or similar ("Wha...." or "Ummm?") one responds with, "Lee-Ho!" and shoves the tiller away from oneself. Steve's "Lee-Ho" emerges querulous with distinct overtones of Julian and Sandy (younger people can check out the clip available here), there is much hilarity.
Donning our suitably-ruinable clothes we depart for the pier at Coniston, where we are met by Phil, who ushers us onto a Hawk, a twenty foot dinghy which "is impossible to capsize", in better weather a glint may have crept into some eyes but in the crepuscular gloom of what was passing for daylight any ideas of putting this claim to the test vanished into the ether of hypothermia. The cockpit was easily big enough for the four of us, Phil lodged himself under a weatherboard and put one on helm, one on main and one on jib. Julian and I steeled ourselves to avoid fits of hysterics when Steve's turn at the tiller came up. "Lee-ho" Sniggering from us and knitting of eyebrows from Phil. Piqued, Steve tries again, "LEE-HO!", "Much better." says Phil. We continue up and down the lake, through three cloudbursts and the odd attendant squall. Steve is now on the main, letting it out on the tacks, I tell him that in my opinion he is being over cautious, so that on the next tack, while being hit by a gust, the boat heals to the point where Julian and I are standing about four feet out of the water. Phil looks at his elbow, now submerged in the lake and comments, "Let a bit of sail out, Steve." As the boat approaches the vertical, Steve looks at me reproachfully, "You said I was being overcautious."
We emerge - soaked
In the afternoon, during a lull, a walk around Tarn Hows is planned, on the way there, Sheila, who is driving, says excitedly, "Look at that bird, what is it, it's gone in there?". It was potentially Hen Harrier, I failed to see it, I was looking at the road (I would become familiar with this situation, in fact it took me back to the latter days of driving with my Father, I would stare fascinated as the white line slipped under the bonnet between the front wheels. Later in the year, with Sheila and Julian we would come to a juddering halt behind a stationary vehicle, the weight of the towed caravan, bouncing the wheels down the road, "What did he do that for? Why on Earth?" For once in my life I employed discretion, particularly acute given my non-driver status, and didn't point out that I thought he'd stopped because of the red light.) We decamped from the cars and set off for our walk, Steve's enjoyment being slightly marred by spending the first twenty minutes talking to the bank explaining that yes, he wasn't in Bristol, that yes, he had his card in his wallet, and that yes, he probably thought that he hadn't and wasn't buying that stuff. It rained, a lot. The morning's crew agreed that they were probably wetter than when they'd been sailing.
We arrive back at the cars - soaked.
Back at the farm, there was a new pond (complete with ducks) in the bottom field, and the lake had risen sufficiently to necessitate moving the boat to higher ground (and potentially to start looking for pairs of animals), as we moved the boat it started to rain. After finishing moving the boat we trudge back up the hill to the barn, we are -soaked.
In the evening Lesley produces a chicken and bacon pie, much wine is drunk, I go to bed - soaked.
Wednesday. Bre...... I get a lift to Bowness and meet up with the alternative party. We mosey on over the Kirkstone Pass towards Brothers Water and park near the village of Hartsop. Before starting our ascent to High Street we have a few games of Sprint Poohsticks, this is like normal Poohsticks but because of the flood you have to sprint over the bridge to catch any sight of your stick. Then we ascend, splashing our way to the top, which is, amazingly, devoid of rain. As usual the walk extends but on the other hand we descend to Hayeswater, a rotund, but very handsome little tarn, dare I say it, one of the better and most attractive tarns in the lakes. On the way back we call in at the Queens Head in Troutbeck and eat, the meal is declared most satisfactory, especially the chips!
Thursday. Is leftovers day, the majority of the party is dispatched to the copper mines above Coniston. I meanwhile riffle through the fridge and make a hearty soup, a large amount of hearty soup, enough soup to feed a small army. Then Julian, Cap'n Sheila and I go for a sail, scudding up and down the lake. When we return, half the soup has gone, leaving scant remains for the returning horde. We repair back to the boat and fit the outboard to the custom rig, this will remove us from the soupless and render us deaf to shouted threats from the shore. When we return, a frost has settled over the barn, and several gazes are pointedly turned on barely damp soup bowls. At this point Harold, Joan, Pam and Trevor arrive. Harold: "Oh we found some delicious soup, we had two big bowls each! Delicious." The frost shifts from the boaters.
Friday. After packing, we all head off to the Black Bull for lunch, as we leave it is noted that the Bank ground tea rooms have re-opened, so a plan is made to return for dessert. I had forgotten about the toilet with the matt walls and handy felt-tip. While otherwise occupied my eye drifts over the walls and discovers the autograph of Zinnia Bacon, who is immediately fixed into my lexicon of useful names for novels (alongside Tom Landrover). I am informed later that, "You can't go wrong with flower names for girls, I immediately resolve that my firstborn will be Viper's Bugloss Hayes. The last thing I see before heading out to the car and the slightly congested arteries of England is this: "FAB DAY! SCATTERED DAD'S ASHES ON THE LAKE. ALSO - GREAT FOOD!
I arrived in Milton Keynes some 40 minutes later, and left the station to be greeted by my bedfellow for the following week - Andrew, and his mother, Sheila. My cousin Julian - absent (ohh -in so many ways) watching daughter Louise graduate in Nottingham. We return to Buckingham in high dudgeon after chatting about Management duplicity, and discover one mutual friend over a baked potato.
The next day the car is loaded by 9.00am, Julian is ready by 10.40. We head North, through torrential rain and a packet of wine gums, stopping only to buy a sandwich at Marks and Spencer (where as I chatted to the shelf stacker, my cousin, wantonly unable to stand me having any sort of congress with the opposite sex intervened), and two balers and a bottle of two-stroke at Bowness. We arrive at Bank Farm at the same time as the man from Tesco who is bringing supplies (as is my parsimonious/thrifty wont I have baulked at paying any money to Booth's in Windermere - who make Harrod's look quite reasonable). Some of the party are already at Coniston, having set off from Farnham (or thereabouts) at an ungodly hour, in fact they have nearly arrived by the time Julian has finished checking that his Tesco clubcard statement is, in fact, correct (about 10.30). These will be the Toases (Chris, Lesley, Heather and Michael), friends newly acquired on Mauritius by Julian and Sheila. There is, of course tea to be drunk (and a Tesco order to be unpacked). More people arrive, more tea is drunk, bathrooms begin to get used, toilet paper is consumed at an alarming rate.
More people: Sarah and Steve and daughter Flora (friends of). Pam and Trevor (family). Joan and Harold (parents of family).
Curry is heated, raita made, wine and beer drunk (my bloody beer too), games are played (and lost), and bed visited (why visited? See wine and beer above).
Saturday: breakfast 1hr 40 mins. The sun is out, and a walk is called for. Trevor casts an experienced eye over the assembled party, and opts for the ascent of a pimple at the end of the lake. So it is that we ascend Howe Fell, have lunch on the top and descend to the tearooms at the bottom. Though there is a moment of drama as another party of perambulators back off the car park, and start to slide down into the stream. We run through the resulting clouds of burning rubber and shouting, and latch on to various portions of the car. The car, formerly full, now only features a driver but is surrounded by former occupants who have apparently screamed themselves to the point of exhaustion, as they have no interest at all in rescuing the car and driver by dint of main force. Rescue is achieved, we hint at the presence of the tea room and gratitude but, like me in a leap year, it is not taken up.
In the afternoon, we rig the boat and discover, upon launching, that the tree which underwent mast pruning the previous year has made a marvellous recovery. After an hour of standing thigh deep in the lake, doing various fending duties, I repair up the hill to the kitchen where Andy and I prepare dinner - a sort of dauphinoise tartiflette. My notes at this point say, "Red Wine" at least I think that's what they say. On Sunday I am due to be picked up to do non-pimple climbing by the alternative team.
The alternative team: Caroline, John and Clunes (see "More Bloody Skiing") plus Chris (a scarily clever mathematical type and his wife and daughter Fran and Emma, respectively).
Monday: Breakfast 2hrs. The alternative team arrive at about 12.30 after having done an involuntary but extensive tour of the lake, and admiring John Ruskin's car park, of which they have done a 360 degree tour. I offer tea, which Caroline leaps at, it takes Clunes less than 3 minutes to stentor the company to silence. Then we move off, to the next mountain on the left of the pimple, Weatherlam, which we ascend by way of Tilberthwaite gorge. The last bit of the ascent is, as my notes oxymoronically tell me, a good scramble, in fact a good scramble in worsening weather but we summit and then head off back down one of Chris' specialities - the longer way back. as we descend it becomes obvious that John (who's birthday it is tomorrow ) is slipping into his dotage as he has become fascinated by sheep, who, recognising fellow-feeling, are equally fascinated by John. This adds a certain longueur to any journey in the mountains.
On the way back we felt compelled to call in at the Black Bull, if only to allow Clunes to stock up with takeaways, and so it is I have a late supper.
Tuesday: Breakfa..... actually by this point the whole thing had started to have a Harry Potteresque quality about it, in other words, and in my opinion, all that happened for seventy percent of the time, was eating, interspersed with the odd bit of laconic action.
Today's laconic action was to be a "sailing lesson", a remnant of Julian's sixtieth from the previous year that had been precluded by Typhoon Ruskin. Steve had volunteered to risk his body and so we quickly built a boat out of a couple of chairs and improvised a boom out of Sheila and a torch. A word: turning a boat into the wind is a "tack", upon realizing that one has to tack (usually the advent of the shore, another boat, boredom or, potentially, a tsunami) one asks of the crew, "Ready about?", upon receiving the answer, "Ready" or similar ("Wha...." or "Ummm?") one responds with, "Lee-Ho!" and shoves the tiller away from oneself. Steve's "Lee-Ho" emerges querulous with distinct overtones of Julian and Sandy (younger people can check out the clip available here), there is much hilarity.
Donning our suitably-ruinable clothes we depart for the pier at Coniston, where we are met by Phil, who ushers us onto a Hawk, a twenty foot dinghy which "is impossible to capsize", in better weather a glint may have crept into some eyes but in the crepuscular gloom of what was passing for daylight any ideas of putting this claim to the test vanished into the ether of hypothermia. The cockpit was easily big enough for the four of us, Phil lodged himself under a weatherboard and put one on helm, one on main and one on jib. Julian and I steeled ourselves to avoid fits of hysterics when Steve's turn at the tiller came up. "Lee-ho" Sniggering from us and knitting of eyebrows from Phil. Piqued, Steve tries again, "LEE-HO!", "Much better." says Phil. We continue up and down the lake, through three cloudbursts and the odd attendant squall. Steve is now on the main, letting it out on the tacks, I tell him that in my opinion he is being over cautious, so that on the next tack, while being hit by a gust, the boat heals to the point where Julian and I are standing about four feet out of the water. Phil looks at his elbow, now submerged in the lake and comments, "Let a bit of sail out, Steve." As the boat approaches the vertical, Steve looks at me reproachfully, "You said I was being overcautious."
We emerge - soaked
In the afternoon, during a lull, a walk around Tarn Hows is planned, on the way there, Sheila, who is driving, says excitedly, "Look at that bird, what is it, it's gone in there?". It was potentially Hen Harrier, I failed to see it, I was looking at the road (I would become familiar with this situation, in fact it took me back to the latter days of driving with my Father, I would stare fascinated as the white line slipped under the bonnet between the front wheels. Later in the year, with Sheila and Julian we would come to a juddering halt behind a stationary vehicle, the weight of the towed caravan, bouncing the wheels down the road, "What did he do that for? Why on Earth?" For once in my life I employed discretion, particularly acute given my non-driver status, and didn't point out that I thought he'd stopped because of the red light.) We decamped from the cars and set off for our walk, Steve's enjoyment being slightly marred by spending the first twenty minutes talking to the bank explaining that yes, he wasn't in Bristol, that yes, he had his card in his wallet, and that yes, he probably thought that he hadn't and wasn't buying that stuff. It rained, a lot. The morning's crew agreed that they were probably wetter than when they'd been sailing.
We arrive back at the cars - soaked.
Back at the farm, there was a new pond (complete with ducks) in the bottom field, and the lake had risen sufficiently to necessitate moving the boat to higher ground (and potentially to start looking for pairs of animals), as we moved the boat it started to rain. After finishing moving the boat we trudge back up the hill to the barn, we are -soaked.
In the evening Lesley produces a chicken and bacon pie, much wine is drunk, I go to bed - soaked.
Wednesday. Bre...... I get a lift to Bowness and meet up with the alternative party. We mosey on over the Kirkstone Pass towards Brothers Water and park near the village of Hartsop. Before starting our ascent to High Street we have a few games of Sprint Poohsticks, this is like normal Poohsticks but because of the flood you have to sprint over the bridge to catch any sight of your stick. Then we ascend, splashing our way to the top, which is, amazingly, devoid of rain. As usual the walk extends but on the other hand we descend to Hayeswater, a rotund, but very handsome little tarn, dare I say it, one of the better and most attractive tarns in the lakes. On the way back we call in at the Queens Head in Troutbeck and eat, the meal is declared most satisfactory, especially the chips!
Thursday. Is leftovers day, the majority of the party is dispatched to the copper mines above Coniston. I meanwhile riffle through the fridge and make a hearty soup, a large amount of hearty soup, enough soup to feed a small army. Then Julian, Cap'n Sheila and I go for a sail, scudding up and down the lake. When we return, half the soup has gone, leaving scant remains for the returning horde. We repair back to the boat and fit the outboard to the custom rig, this will remove us from the soupless and render us deaf to shouted threats from the shore. When we return, a frost has settled over the barn, and several gazes are pointedly turned on barely damp soup bowls. At this point Harold, Joan, Pam and Trevor arrive. Harold: "Oh we found some delicious soup, we had two big bowls each! Delicious." The frost shifts from the boaters.
Friday. After packing, we all head off to the Black Bull for lunch, as we leave it is noted that the Bank ground tea rooms have re-opened, so a plan is made to return for dessert. I had forgotten about the toilet with the matt walls and handy felt-tip. While otherwise occupied my eye drifts over the walls and discovers the autograph of Zinnia Bacon, who is immediately fixed into my lexicon of useful names for novels (alongside Tom Landrover). I am informed later that, "You can't go wrong with flower names for girls, I immediately resolve that my firstborn will be Viper's Bugloss Hayes. The last thing I see before heading out to the car and the slightly congested arteries of England is this: "FAB DAY! SCATTERED DAD'S ASHES ON THE LAKE. ALSO - GREAT FOOD!
