Finally, the Lake District, page 2

     Then I walked down to the busy highway junction. I crossed and entered the small lane where Dove Cottage sits. The small lane was once the main road from the south, and Dove Cottage was once a Tavern. The Wordsworth Museum is next door, and in the entryway were many paintings of Grasmere and Grasmere Lake, all glorifying, or interpreting, the town and lake in different ways. Upstairs there were manuscripts of the Wordsworth family: letters, their Bibles, copies of William’s poems hand-copied by Dorothy and Mary. There were portraits on loan from the National Gallery— stunning portraits of Wordsworth & Coleridge, originals of the ones you see replicated in books. I saw Dorothy’s Diary! There was a superb young woman taking tickets. We talked about the head-on oil portrait of William Hazlitt that was on special loan to the museum. We agreed that the portrait clearly showed one of Hazlitt’s traits, that, as the young lady said, “it was best not to get on his bad side.” Indeed that leading eye looked right at you, ready to evaluate, judge, and, inevitably, condemn. I said, “Yes, that evil eye…!”

     Then I toured Dove Cottage. The hearth room was downstairs with its dark stained pine—selected to hide the stains of smoke in the former tavern, the coal fire smoke, and the smoke of mutton-tallow candles. Dove Cottage was not a cottage per se. It was luxurious enough to have a rent that most local folk could not afford. Wordsworth had a behest that helped him meet the rent. We saw William and Mary’s bedroom (originally Dorothy’s) with its short, twin-sized marriage bed. They probably slept propped up on pillows in the old way. A canopy over the bed protected against ceiling droppings. One fascinating thing: William’s passport, paper-sheet sized with inscriptions and stamps on both sides. There was a cooling room with a creek running underneath it. It kept meat from spoiling for two weeks. The children slept in a chilly room above the cooling room. Two of them died in 1812. It is thought that the chilly room might have contributed to their illness. Upstairs was a nicer and lighter sitting room. Behind the house they had a garden running up a small hillside, good for terracing plants and flowers. I was struck by the chirping birds in the bushes--the sound of a typical day unaffected by time.

     Our guide was a another young woman whom I instantly recognized as the perfect 19th Century beauty alive and well in the 20th: dark, falling curls, pudgy, cherubic cheeks, pale white skin, babyish cleft chin, and plump lips around a small mouth. She would have stopped Lord Byron in his tracks. I walked back to Grasmere and ate one of my rudimentary cheese sandwiches at the car park. Then I found the local TI (Tourist Information) and found directions for a climb to the top of Silver How. The climb begins with a walk up a narrow road lined with ancient Oaks. It passes by Allan Bank, notable literary landmark, and then goes up past a farmstead on a stony pass. These areas just at the very foot of the

Fells are very beautiful.

     From the summit of Silver How the view was down to Grasmere Lake with classic Lourigg behind, and further on, Rydal Water. You could see chimney smoke wisping up from the group of structures that included Dove Cottage. The perfect beauty living up to its reputation. Behind, in the distance, were some lonely, icy-looking peaks. I conversed with a nice, older man about them and he said they were the Langdale Pikes.

    Eventually I descended down to Grasmere and caught the bus back to Keswick. I rode on the upper deck this time. The views of St. John's in the Vale were wonderful up there, but it was like riding on a bucking horse (I suppose, seems reasonable anyway) as we jerked along the narrow roads.

DAY THREE: CATBELLS AND BEYOND.

    It was the weekend and the launch was finally running. I rode it to Hawes End, where I had some trouble finding the Catbells route, so when I reached steep ground I simply climbed straight up to the ridge line and intersected the main track there. The last section to the summit of Catbells was a rocky scramble. There were many walkers on this route, as it is close to town and very popular. I descended the other side of Catbells somewhat and began the climb to Maiden Moor.

   On Maiden Moor the weather became breezy and squally. Ice pellets were falling from the sky. My fingers got bone cold when I removed my gloves to adjust gear. This was a small demonstration of how fast weather can change on the Fells. English walkers in the Lakes go out well geared-up. They wear storm-shedding coats and trousers and carry sumptuous rucksacks. This tells me that they know what kinds of moods the weather is capable of up on the high Fells. I turned around before the next peak, High Spy. There were beautiful, constantly-changing views of Derwentwater whenever it was visible through the unpredictable weather. But I could also see the views to the north, particularly down into the beautiful Newlands valley with its farmsteads and walled fences and deep green fields. From the col between Catbells and Maiden Moor, I descended steeply down shaley steps to the lake. At the bottom, I was passing through a gate when I heard crunching gravel behind me and turned to see some boys on mountain bikes coming down a path. I hurried to hold the gate open for them. They said thank you. Lagging behind was a boy younger than the others, and as he came through he said “cheers” in a small voice.

    At the lake shore I found that I was quite a bit early to catch the next launch, so I began walking the lakeshore path back to Hawes End. I hurried because I did not want the next scheduled launch to pass me by when I was between stops. I sat out on the open deck during the return trip, sucking in lungfuls of cold, breezy lake air with the taste of the ocean in it.

Newlands Valley

Newlands Valley

    Home