A hazy account of a week in the Lakes.

A man is standing on the top of a mountain, the wind is blowing through his tight blonde crop and running across the Gallic pout produced by his quizzical stare back down the path. It is Ben Louvet, he has just summited Wetherlam and is now looking for the rest of the party somewhere in the middle distance. The party that is being led by the Captain from the rear. The Captain will summit in about five minutes by which time everyone will have had their fill of the view and be planning their accidental visit to the pub on the way back.
"Where's the way down?"
I fumble in my pack for the map, cover for the puce face to descend to scarlet, and gesture at the only obvious path I can see.
"Ack!"
They start and begin their descent, I, Nick, the Captain, watch them disappear out of sight, and then reconsult the map, just to check, then consults the compass, amazingly he has guessed right and sent them in the correct direction. Tightening girths and lengthening sticks they set off behind.

It is the annual trip to the Lakes, the time when they bring blessed rain to the drought-riddled farms of the North-West, at the time of writing they are being particularly successful. They had arrived on Friday to coincide with the Tesco delivery (a melange of too many crisps, too many yoghurts and too much lettuce according to his detractors. In reality - it is Tuesday today- there is a dearth of wine), and to juxtapose some scones, jam and cream between their upper and lower mandibles. The evening is spent in the Black Bull, boosting the local economy.

Saturday sees the tops visible, a walk is declared and the majority ascend Wetherlam, and come back to Cottage Pie with a selection  of wine, and Summer Pudding with a selection of wine. Various games are played (with a selection of wine) and the to bed, with snoring, due to a selection of wine.

Sunday is a rather glum day meteorologically, the morning is spent eating (brunch extends from 7.30 until 13.30), and the afternoon is spent at the Coniston Country Show for the Countryside Alliance Party Political Broadcast* followed by Cumberland and Westmorland Wrestling where men in their underwear try and throw each other to the ground, something that seems to fascinate Helen, leading to unkind remarks about how much she likes Cumberland sausage.

*As the announcer rambles on about the foxhunting ban (though at one point admits that the population of rural foxes has dropped since the ban - apparently this is a reason to re-instigate hunting with dogs) I become aware of one of the hazards of the countryside, namely Sheila, who begins to fulminate as the announcer drones on:
"Blah blah blah ridiculous curtailment of traditional pursuits....."
"BOLLOCKS!"
My gaze travels to the tweed-clad man next door, and comes to rest, with a sigh of relief, on the deaf-aid lodged in his ear.

In the evening Andy and I cook risotto, such is the complexity of the culinary science that we end up with the usual bevy of sous chefs, and a wine selection.  Here endeth the live portion of the blog.

Here beginneth the stretched memory portion of the blog.
Monday, the weather is execrable, after several hours some of us break and say that we will sail with Sheila. I squeeze into my wetsuit ending up looking like a sausage about to burst, and follow Julian and Sheila to the boat, as I faff, I become aware that something is not right between the two, there has been some sort of rift during last night's games. Tight-lipped the boat is launched and floated round to the jetty, people climb aboard and the sails are raised. The boat streaks like a scalded cat across the lake, plunging and yawing, we turn round and plunge back, round up to the quay and get out. At this moment Julian decides to apologise, I point out that perhaps the apology could have come before his wife took him out to drown him, and by extension, his cousin.

The young people decamp into town to watch Batman, the Captain goes for a stroll up to Tarn Hows through the woods I go with him to keep him company. A first; Tarn Hows is (nearly) deserted, so we came back.  Later, my cousin Simon will arrive, fresh from driving various steam trains around short, narrow Welsh tracks, he will bring his treasured possessions of  guitar and wife Nia, however it is anyone's guess as to what order they come in. The Captain is always nervous around Simon, their growing up being slightly one-sided (see comment about the lake on Tuesday, and extrapolate). Lasagne is eaten (with a selection of wine), followed by a vanilla cheesecake with profligate raspberries and more wine. Day three and no more red!
Tuesday, the weather is vaguely less execrable than the day before, so much so that a further attempt at sailing takes place, it is so successful that Tom nearly misses his student account appointment
with the bank, however the bank (Barclays BTW) assure the assembled Louvet family that they can come later, sadly they fail to inform the student account lady that the Louvet family will be coming later, so she's buggered off by the time they get there, my Barclays shares suffer a small dip. Gallic temperament flares, so we shelter in a game of crib.
In the evening we dive into chicken and leek pie (with a new selection of wine), we also dive into the lake, Ben, testosterone aroused by Catherine's nubility, shows off in the only way a large teenage boy knows how; he bullies the weak and helpless. The view from under the lake is green, cool and tinged with bubbles - mine.
After the meal Peter and I decide that enough wine has been drunk, so we go to the honesty bar and drink beer.

Wednesday, people get up early, climb into cars  and head off for Haystacks (burial, well, scattering place of Wainwright). It's a long drive but a pretty one. Andy makes it seven eighths of the way up, and is suitably thrilled. People are declared satisfied, apart from Catherine whose sense of danger has not been piqued sufficiently, she ought to have been in the boat on Monday!
It is the Louvets turn to cook, they have squandered Tom's tuition fees and a large portion of his inheritance on a leg of local lamb.

Thursday - sunny!  Some boating is done, young people hire kayaks, so that they can be tipped off. The Captain and I take Trenchfoot for a row, rescuing the odd bumblebee, whilst waiting for Julian and Sheila to turn up with petrol. When they arrive, the motor is shipped and a wave of pollution placed in the lake as they motor to Wildcat Island (aka Peel island). Trenchfoot is parked in the secret harbour and the island suitably explored. The lake is re-polluted, people (who should know better) who have been waiting on the quay for a lift back across the lake are picked up and returned to Bank Ground. The boat is packed away. Tomorrow we will leave.....

But before we do, the Captain has insisted that I share a couple of Andyisms with you:

Sheila is a good Christian woman, and as such thinks that one should not take the Lord's name in vain, Michael: "Oh for God's sake!"
Nick: "Umm Mike, try not to do that in front of Sheila, she's a bit twitchy about that sort of thing."
Michael: "Really?"
Nick: "Yeah. Andy your Mum's a Godfearing lady isn't she?"
Andy:  "........................?"
Nick: " Your Mum loves Jesus doesn't she?"
Andy: "................. Ye-es? We brought some up with us out of the fridge."
Slight collapse of other parties.

On driving past Cockermouth, much was made of its potential rudity... followed by:
Andy: "It would be much funnier if it was just called Cock."


Andy: "Molly [the cat] loves Nick, before we came up she shoved her head right in his... ... .... .. hand!"
it was actually my groin but this would have been going too far.